Heartless Read Online Free Page A

conversation.
    “What is it, buddy?” she asks.
    Enzo seems trapped in a rare instance of speechlessness, his eyes focused on something behind me, clear across the crowded restaurant.
    “It’s . . . it’s . . .” Enzo’s jaw hangs and then the corners of his mouth inch up. His maple brown eyes are lit, glowing. “That’s . . . Alessio Amato, one of the greatest starting pitchers in the history of major league baseball.”
    He speaks slowly, as if he’s entranced, and he hasn’t removed his gaze from that corner of the room for one second.
    “Can I get his autograph, Mom?” His hands meet in prayer position and he bounces in his seat.
    “Who is this again?” Wren speaks my mind. She and I have never cared much for sports, and the first time we’d ever been to a ball game was when she and Lorenzo first started dating. He was a huge Yankees fan and dragged her to every home game for an entire season one year. I tagged along once. To be nice. But Enzo definitely gets his baseball-loving genes from Lorenzo’s side of the family.
    “Alessio Amato,” Enzo says, slight impatience in his tone. “Everybody calls him Ace.”
    “Are you speaking English?” I tease.
    “Sorry, buddy, I haven’t heard of him,” Wren says, amused twinkle in her eye. “What team is he on?”
    “He used to play for the Baltimore Firebirds,” Enzo says, his little body fidgeting. “He retired last year.”
    Wren leans closer to Enzo, peeking outside of our booth and trying to catch a good look at him.
    “Definitely never seen him before,” she says. “Think I’d remember a face like that.”
    In the seconds before I think about stealing a look myself, a waitress squeezes through some tables, a tray of drinks in her hand, and my attention is completely intercepted by the Irish cocktail with my name on it.
    “Can I go get his autograph, Mom?” Enzo asks, eyes squinted and pleading. “Please, please, please?”
    “What’s he going to sign? Your arm?” she asks, slipping the straw of her ice water between her thumb and forefinger.
    Enzo scans the table, “Aunt Aidy, do you have any paper in your purse?”
    I pull out my bag and rifle through it. “Nothing but a stack of business cards, buddy. Sorry.”
    “Are they blank on the back?” he asks.
    I pull one out and flip it over. “Yep.”
    “Can I have a pen, too?” he asks.
    Wren laughs.
    “Sure thing.” I hand them over and he slides out of the booth, darting across the busy pub.
    My sister keeps a hawk-like eye on her son as he scampers away, and I focus on the deliciousness before me, sucking in sip after sip until I feel my nerves evaporating into thin air by the second.
    “Uh oh.” Wren’s face falls, and I recognize her grief-stricken look. Twisting my head and peeking out from our booth, I see the front door slam shut and hear the jingle of the bells on the door, and then my gaze falls to a sobbing, empty-handed Enzo. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him close. “What happened, buddy?”
    “He . . . he said,” Enzo sobs. “He said he doesn’t sign autographs anymore. He said to check eBay. Mom, what’s eBay?”
    My jaw hangs as Wren consoles her son, and I waste little time yanking my phone out of my purse.
    “Enzo, what’d you say his name was again?” I ask, mind feverish and fingers twitching as I pull up Google.
    “Ales . . . Alessio . . .” he heaves, shoulders rising and falling with each strained breath. The kid’s going to hyperventilate if he doesn’t calm down. “Ace . . . Amato.”
    I tap his name into the search engine and click on “images.”
    There are tons of them, only the man in these photos is clean-shaven. Devilishly attractive. There’s no beard, but there’s no doubt in my mind.
    It’s him .
    The Lexington Avenue Asshole.
    I recognize that piercing stare and my hands begin to shake.
    “Son of a bitch,” I mutter under my breath.
    Nobody makes my nephew cry, especially not some retired, past-his-prime