Forced Out by Stephen Frey

Anything?"
    "Nah."
    A young woman balancing a toddler on her hip walked through the doorway on the other side of the kitchen, over by the refrigerator. If she was Treviso's wife, she was prettier than Johnny had expected. Much prettier. A prize, for Christ's sake. The goddamn trophy wife of a Fortune 500 executive. Not the wife of some two-bit Queens hustler. She was petite and exotic with beautiful olive skin and stark, jet-black hair that fell to her bare shoulders. The toddler had a clump of her hair in his cute, tiny fist and he was looking at it inquisitively as he babbled incoherent syllables.
    Johnny caught the young woman's gaze for a moment, looked away, then quickly looked back again. "I'm fine," he said, his throat suddenly as dry as a perfect martini.
    "Deuce, this is my wife, Karen."
    Karen. Somehow he'd known that was going to be her name even before Treviso said it. God sure played some nasty jokes on his flock every once in a while, and this morning it was his turn to be the wool in the crosshairs. Karen. Jesus. Why couldn't it have been anything but Karen?
    "Karen, this is Johnny Bondano. But we all call him Deuce. He's a business associate of mine."
    She held out her hand. "Hi, Johnny."
    For some reason he liked that she called him Johnny, not Deuce. Reluctantly, he took her slim fingers in his, summoning up his courage to gaze into those big brown eyes again. They were surrounded by long, curved lashes, and inside those lashes he saw the same intense curiosity he knew was in his eyes. Sometimes it happened this way. Sometimes two people were attracted to each other right off the bat and there was nothing either of them could do about it. Something nature had predestined, and that was that.
    "It's nice to meet you."
    Her soft voice was mesmerizing and her beautiful eyes expressive. "Nice to meet you, too."
    "Why do they call you Deuce?" she asked, seeming to hold on to his fingers a moment longer than she should have.
    "He carries a two of hearts in his pocket all the time," Treviso explained.
    "Why?"
    "Don't bother asking, honey," Treviso cautioned, easing into one of the kitchen chairs.
    "He won't answer. He's never told anyone. And I doubt today's gonna be the day he breaks his silence."
    Johnny's shoulders sagged slightly, glad Treviso had laid out the ground rules. Even if the explanation had been laced with sarcasm. He hadn't wanted to seem rude.
    "Maybe he'll tell me," she said, finally letting go.
    Johnny's jaw clenched involuntarily, and he touched the card in his shirt pocket again. He didn't want to disappoint her, but he couldn't tell her. He couldn't break the bond.
    "Sorry."
    "Maybe someday."
    Johnny glanced at the toddler, then back at Karen, gazing into those mahogany eyes once more. She was talking to him through them; he could feel it. "Maybe."
    "I doubt it," Treviso said loudly. "Johnny doesn't get this far out into Brooklyn very often. Do you, Deuce?"
    It was a warning, plain and simple. Don't ever come near my wife when I'm not around. And it irritated Johnny. Treviso was in no position to threaten, even if it did have to do with his wife. "You never know," he said evenly. It was a stupid thing to say. There was no reason to get Treviso suspicious, but he couldn't help himself. The machismo had popped up out of nowhere, and he'd been unable to control it.
    "Give us some privacy, will you, sweetie?" Treviso lit up a Camel no-filter he'd pulled from a half-full pack lying on the table beside the napkin holder. "We gotta talk business."
    Karen moved to the refrigerator, leaned down, and pulled a jar of baby food off the shelf above the fruit drawer, then headed out the same doorway she'd come through. When she was far enough down the hallway that Treviso couldn't see her, she hesitated and looked back over her shoulder, locking eyes with Johnny for several seconds. Johnny stared back, admiring the outline of her slim frame beneath the thin material of the strapless sundress. Unable to pry