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pay the mortgage.
    It wasn’t going to be Mom.
    “Don’t wait up,” I said. I didn’t bother to acknowledge the disappointment on her face. God knew she’d never bothered to acknowledge mine.

Chapter Four
    A few nights after he’d gone to Emilio’s, Vince called his sister Rachel. She answered on the third ring.
    “Vinnie. I thought you’d forgotten my phone number.”
    “Hey, Rach. Sorry. Been busy.” He rubbed hard against the back of his neck. “What about you? Are you busy? Right now, I mean?”
    Rachel went immediately serious. “I knew it. Something’s wrong, isn’t it. You never call unless something’s wrong.”
    “Nothing’s wrong,” Vince lied. “I just wondered if I could stop by and talk to you, that’s all.”
    “Sure, hon. Where are you?”
    That was a good question. Vince looked around to get his bearings. “Rush and Wabash.”
    “Okay. See you soon.”
    It was past ten when Vinnie finally got to Rachel’s apartment. She lived in the Marina Towers, three floors from the top, which Vinnie hated because he always felt like he was going to puke from the wind-resistant design. The term was a not-so-humorous oxymoron, because while the building might be safer from damage, “wind resistant” for the residents meant a great deal of swaying back and forth. Normally he got used to it once he’d been in the building for awhile, or once he’d had a few drinks, but when the wind was up like it was tonight, the motion never seemed to subside, which was why he had to stop halfway down her hallway and let the wall prop him up for a minute before he continued on to her door.
    She answered wearing what he would have sworn was a bright blue kimono over a soft peach lacy number with spaghetti straps. Vince staggered back a few steps and held up his hands. “What the hell, Rach?”
    “What?” Frowning, she glanced down at herself before rolling her eyes. “Jesus, Vinnie. You think I’m supposed to get dressed because my big lunk of a brother is coming over?”
    “You trying to tell me you were sitting around the house wearing that?” he demanded.
    Now she was mad. “If I’d known you were coming over to play Italian Big Brother, I would have told you to stay home. I was getting ready for bed, if you must know. Are you coming in or what?”
    Vince grunted and shoved his hands in his pockets, keeping them there as she pulled the door open wider and he shuffled inside.
    Rachel’s apartment was the same as it ever was: like an ad out of some luxury-living magazine. Like the ones, in fact, that she’d pored over as a kid when she’d hid out in his bedroom. Everything was sleek and white and minimal and arranged to take in the amazing view of Lake Michigan through the open curtains. Vince hated it, because he always felt like he was going to get something dirty. Which was why he didn’t sit down on the couch but sat on one of the chrome barstools and watched Rachel pull down the bottle of Oban and pour him three fingers into a tumbler.
    “You should be nicer to me, considering what I picked up this afternoon.” She slid the glass toward Vince, then opened a cupboard as he took the first sip of scotch. The woodsy smoke taste exploded over his tongue, making him wish he’d brought a cigar—and then he saw she’d produced a box of Havana Ovals and a lighter.
    Groaning, Vince sagged against the bar and held out his hand. When she only lifted her eyebrows and smirked at him, he said, “Please, Rach. I’m sorry I freaked out that you met me at the door like a streetwalker.”
    She snorted, but she smiled too, and most importantly she passed the cigarettes over. Vince was a bit of a snob when it came to cigarettes—he only smoked Nat Shermans, usually settling for the naturals. Havana Ovals weren’t made with Havana tobacco anymore, but they were the Cadillacs of the Nat Sherman line: rich, unfiltered 100s wrapped in brown paper. Vince drew the box to his nose, shut his eyes and inhaled. It