Wicked Whoopie Pies by Addison Moore (english novels to improve english TXT) 📕

My head twitches to the side, but I don’t dare take my eyes off of him.

“Her?”

He nods. “Charlie.”

I close my eyes a moment too long.

Charlie was messing around with Manny for who knows how long once she came to Vermont. In fact, I spotted her with him before I ever knew her name.

“Look, I can’t play Cupid. Go after her yourself. Turn up the charm.”

What the heck am I saying? That’s Lemon’s sister. I’m not feeding her to the wolves. Although, Charlie is sort of a wolf herself. She can handle anything he dishes out. But I’m not about to play matchmaker with my new sister-in-law and the mob.

He shakes his head. If I’m not mistaken, he looks a touch forlorn. In fact, he looks downright miserable.

“She won’t take my calls. I tried swinging by that haunted B&B she’s locked herself up in and she threw a shoe at my head—she said the ghosts made her do it.”

“It’s possible that it’s true.”

“Look, she’s feisty as they come, she really knows how to hand a man his cookies, and yet she makes me want more.” He chokes for a moment as if he were even astounded that he wanted another round in the ring with her. “I think I met my soulmate.”

A hard sigh comes from me. “I think I know Charlie well enough now to say she’s pretty content being a free agent. I’ll pay the ten grand.” I rap my knuckles over the table. “We got a deal?”

Those dark caves he calls eyes harden over mine. “No deal. Until you land that honey trap back in my lap, you’re not just Jimmy Canelli’s enemy”—he stands to his feet—“you’re my enemy, too. Watch out for my men, Judge Baxter. They’re twice as lethal as the clowns Canelli sends out. He’s got a couple of kids with cap guns working for him. I’ve got sharpshooters. Deliver the girl to me and this goes away.”

He takes off and I tip my head back, stunned at the horror show my life has devolved into under the span of a few short hours.

What to do now? What in the heck to do.

I glance to the counter where I see an employee putting together an Italian hero and a thought hits me.

That old adage, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, swims through my mind.

An Italian hero—that’s exactly what I need.

There’s just one mob family left. The stakes are high, and I might have to pay with pounds of flesh in addition to ten grand a week.

One thing is for sure. Things are about to get expensive and dangerous at the very same time.

I jump back into my truck and shoot a text off to Luke Lazzari.

In less than a half an hour I find myself seated in a warehouse down in Leeds known as the Butcher Shop staring at Luke Lazzari himself.

Luke is bald, baby blue eyes, and outfitted with a well-tailored Italian suit. And if he can wipe the grim off my life, it might as well be a cape.

“So that’s everything?” he asks and I nod his way. I just spent the last fifteen minutes detailing my afternoon right down to double homicidal intentions of his mob rivals.

“That’s everything.”

He leans back in his enormous leather chair. Other than the desk in front of him and the chair I’m sitting on, this cavernous tin can is empty, save for a few of his henchmen. The scent of too much cologne mingles with something sickly, and if I’d venture to guess, I’d say it was the rancid smell of blood. I doubt it came from an animal.

“Okay”—he rests his elbows onto his desk as he nods my way—“this is what I’m going to do. Canelli and Moretti won’t hurt you or your family. I still think Carlotta Junior is my kid.” He winks my way, but I think we both know he had an honest shot at it. Carlotta was just as loose of a cannon in her teens as she is now. “But I don’t work for free.” He folds his hands as he pins those baby blues on me.

“I didn’t think you worked for free. What’s the going rate for protection these days?” I can feel my wallet wanting to clam up already.

His lips curve and Luke Lazzari looks like the devil himself.

“All it’s going to cost you is a little time. We’ll work out the details as we get to them.”

I hear myself agreeing to it before heading back to my truck.

Something tells me I should have opted for a shiny new tombstone.

And to think, I thought Noah was the moron of the day.

Lottie

It’s late afternoon and the bakery just hit a lull.

I’ve got Lyla Nell strapped to me, contentedly drooling away, oblivious to the fact her mama is wiping down the counters after a certain starved specter made quick work of a few cranberry orange scones that were left out.

Binky is here with me—and I’m glad about it, too, considering the fact both Clementine Greenbaum and Olive St. James are sitting at a small table by the entry chatting away in hushed whispers while noshing on my whoopie pies.

It’s practically eerie, considering the fact those whoopie pies were the last thing poor Terri Norris ate before she quite literally bit the big one. Noah told me that it was actually Terri’s coffee that was tainted, but it doesn’t seem to matter to the world because most of Honey Hollow has taken to calling my whoopie pies poison pies—they’ve taken a liking to them, too.

And Binky has taken quite the liking to Lyla Nell, and suffice it to say, Lyla Nell has taken quite the liking to him.

Lily comes up and peers into the carrier at the baby. Lily’s long dark hair is slipping out of a ponytail and she has flour on her nose and cheek. I’ve already told her that’s a mark of a good baker.

“This afternoon was