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  SINCERELY, THE BOSS!

  A Novel By

  Wahida Clark & Amy Morford

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Wahida Clark Presents Publishing, LLC

  60 Evergreen Place

  Suite 904

  East Orange, New Jersey 07018

  973-678-9982

  www.wclarkpublishing.com

  Copyright 2012 © by Amy Morford & Wahida Clark

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  ISBN 13-digit 978-1-944992-20-0

  ISBN 10-digit 9781944992200

  eBook ISBN 978-1-936649-11-2

  Audio ISBN: 978-1-936649-08-02

  Library of Congress Catalog Number

  1. Urban, Romance, Suspense, Mafia, Italian, New York City, Crime, Street Lit – Fiction

  Cover design and layout by Nuance Art, LLC

  Book interior design by www.aCreativeNuance.com

  Contributing Editors: Linda Wilson and R. Hamilton

  Printed in United States

  SINCERELY, THE BOSS!

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Wahida’s

  A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T S

  All Praises is Due to the Creator. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to work with the Team of New York Times Best-Selling Partners. But this one goes to Amy Morford who was the first author to finish the race against herself. She remained focused, exhibiting great discipline and kept to all of the deadlines given her. She was a pleasure to collaborate with.

  Big-Big-Big, Special shout-out to the WCP Street and Home Team.

  Wahida Clark

  The Official Queen of

  Street Literature

  Wahida’s

  D E D I C A T I O N

  This book is dedicated to all of the

  mystery/thriller/suspense/romance and more. . .

  readers across the globe.

  Amy’s

  D E D I C A T I O N

  This book is dedicated to my mother, Peggy-Jo Morford, who encouraged my love of reading at a young age and took me regularly to the El Dorado County Library to feed my habit.

  Amy’s

  A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T

  I would like to thank my sister, Dana Morford, who through the years has always been my sounding board and editor on my many projects.

  To everyone at W. Clark Publishing who assisted in the editing, proofreading, title and other miscellaneous things to make this book happen.

  Thank You Nuance Art for designing a kick ass cover!

  Last and not least: A big heartfelt thanks to the one and only, Wahida Clark, who encouraged, coached, and believed in me throughout the creative process of this project.

  PROLOGUE

  M

  argo’s phone rang, and she shrugged at Carol, as if to apologize for cutting her off. Secretly grateful to have an excuse this time, she saw it was Abby again and wondered if this was an apology.

  “Hello, sweetie,” she started but Abigail cut her off.

  “Did you tell Dad that I wasn’t in school?”

  Margo could tell she was fuming. It seemed to be her daughter’s normal state of emotion where Margo was concerned.

  “I did,” Margo confirmed. Abigail had been skipping school, and now she would blame her mother for whatever punishment David might dole out.

  “I’m sorry, but I was worried about you.” She had a million questions for Abby, none of which were going to get answered.

  “I hate you!” Abigail screamed into the phone. “I hate you, and I wish you had just stayed in prison.”

  The line went dead. Margo let out a defeated sigh. She put the phone back in her bag and shrugged her shoulders at Carol.

  “Kids!” she muttered to herself.

  CHAPTER 1

  T

  he alarm clock blared and Margo groaned as she felt for the off button. She glared at the time, a whole four hours of sleep and it was time to start all over again. After a year of working three jobs, sleep was what she longed for. The dreams, however, were a different story. She rolled out of bed, and her feet hit the floor. There was no point in letting herself wallow in her current situation. She might not be an optimist, but if the last seven years had taught her anything, it was that she was as tough as nails.

  Margo wrapped the towel around herself after getting out of the shower. Damn, if there was one thing she missed about her house it was taking a long, hot bath in her whirlpool tub after a long day at the office. Living at the motel sucked, even though she didn’t spend a lot of time here. The plumbing was old, and showers were either scalding hot or ice cold. This morning, she had chosen frigid over third-degree burns and she was covered in goose bumps. She scowled at her reflection. The worry lines had become permanent recently. She checked her face for any other disconcerting developments. At forty-three, Margo knew that she still turned heads, tall and curvy, with long, auburn hair, and intense, green eyes that were still a distraction for men.

  She rolled her eyes; she was a distraction for all the wrong kind of men. How long had it been now? No, she didn’t have time for fantasy. Reality occupied all of her time, and there was little chance that Prince Charming was going to walk into the diner this morning and, between coffee and the check, offer to whisk her away.

  Margo checked her uniform and her backpack before heading out. She would return sometime around midnight, almost comatose, and she would barely get undressed before falling quickly to sleep again. At first when she started this routine, she had told herself that working long hours would help her stay sane. Lately, she wasn’t so sure.

  She didn’t have time to second-guess herself, and that was a blessing. It was three hours into the breakfast shift and the diner was slammed. Margo had waited tables on and off when she was a teenager, but had gone to college so these kinds of menial jobs would be forever in the past. If she could give her own children one piece of advice now, it would be to never say never.

  Margo knew it was after nine, but not before ten, because she saw Sal walk in. He strode through the diner like he owned the place, and for all Margo knew, he might have. His dark hair was slicked back neatly; the touches of gray made him look even more distinguished. His suit was impeccable as always. He was the only man that she’d seen in the year she worked here who wore cuff links. She had realized shortly after meeting him though that it wouldn’t have mattered what he wore; he exuded a quiet power, and he knew it. The other customers were quiet when he passed by, a
nd he took his usual seat. He always sat in her section.

  Her cheeks flushed this morning when she picked up the coffeepot and headed in his direction. She blamed it on the fact that he flirted with her; sometimes she blamed it on the fact that she couldn’t remember the last time she had sex, but Sal’s attention lately had made her long for a little romance.

  “Good morning, Sunshine. How’s my favorite customer today?”

  She smiled when she saw him. She couldn’t help it; he was contagious and had that kind of effect on her with that twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

  “Wonderful, Cookie, and how’s my favorite waitress faring today?”

  His voice was gruff, and if Margo was honest, she imagined him calling her “Cookie” during some intimate moments.

  “Great, you want the usual?”

  He gave her those smoldering eyes and the look that kept her simmering lately. “If I can’t get anything else . . .”

  Their banter went back to the day they met, but the flirtation had become more heated lately, and Margo went in the back and eyed him from the kitchen. She had heard the stories; according to Vinnie, the line cook with a lazy eye, Sal was powerful businessman with ties to the Mafia. From her past dealings with the criminal element, she believed it. He was definitely a man who knew how to get what he wanted.

  When she returned with Sal’s usual, a glass of orange juice, two eggs over easy, and a slice of dry wheat toast, he stopped her. “Hey, Cookie, you’re a smart girl, let me ask you something.”

  “Sure, Sal, anything.” It was a lie; Margo was very good at dodging answers.

  “What are you doing working here?” He looked around to indicate that the diner might not be a career choice for someone with ambition and half a brain.

  Margo shrugged. “I needed a job. Help wanted sign in the window, five-question interview, I fit in the uniform, and voilà. Hired on the spot. Do you need more coffee?”

  She was quick to change the subject. No matter how attractive Sal might be and how much they flirted, there were certain subjects that were off-limits.

  Her section filled up again quickly, and Margo must have been in the kitchen when Sal left. When she went back to his table and found it empty, she couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. Sometimes conversation with Sal was just about the only thing that made her smile all day. Under his coffee cup, he had left his usual ten-dollar tip and she folded the money and slid it into her pocket.

  At noon, it was time to change and get to her second job. Thankfully, the Laundromat didn’t require that she wear a uniform as ridiculous as the getup she wore at the diner. It was far too low-cut and showed way too much leg. Margo had complained to Vinnie.

  “I’m not making enough money here to flash cleavage.”

  “Hey, think about how much less you’d make if you didn’t.” He had winked at her with his good eye, and she knew that the case was closed.

  Jeans and a tee shirt were all she needed for her second job and the peace and quiet there gave her time to work on her third job.

  Margo walked the ten blocks from the diner to the Laundromat. This was her only real free time of the day, and she would stop, grab a quick bite from the deli and one more cup of coffee. She had to remind herself to eat lately; she had lost enough weight over the last few years, and there was no point in getting sick. The cell phone in her backpack rang as she was chewing. Margo swallowed quickly. She didn’t get many calls.

  “Hello?” she answered, clearing her throat. “Hello?” she repeated.

  “Hey, Mom.” It was Abigail, her daughter who should be in school right now. Margo immediately wondered why she was calling her, what was wrong.

  “Honey, are you okay? Are you at school?” Her sweet little girl had grown up way too fast and Margo would never forgive herself for the role she had played in all of that.

  “No, I stayed home today.” Abigail had just turned fifteen and had started lying a lot lately. Rather than call her on it, Margo decided to let it slide. The kids hated her enough right now.

  “I kind of need some money.” There it was, the reason for the call.

  “Sure, Abby.” It was her daughter’s nickname from a long time ago, and Margo didn’t seem to be able to stop using it, even though her daughter hated it now.

  “Sorry, Abigail,” she corrected herself. “How much do you need?”

  “Like five hundred would be good.”

  It seemed like an awful lot of cash for someone her age and Margo’s pulse beat faster as she thought of the possibilities.

  “Can you tell me what you need the money for, honey?”

  She was trying so hard to make up for the past, but it didn’t seem to matter what she did. Her words and actions were always wrong. She hoped Abigail didn’t catch on to her try-hard sickly sweet voice.

  Abigail sighed loudly, and Margo knew that she had lost. Whatever the game was, she wasn’t playing it right.

  “Never mind. Forget it. I’ll just ask Dad.”

  Margo had to calm herself every time the kids brought up David, and she held her breath before answering.

  “No, I can help—” she started, but her daughter had already hung up on her. Margo looked at the time and shoved the last two bites of her sandwich in her mouth, drained the coffee, and decided that she would walk and talk.

  She pressed David’s name on her phone and waited for him to pick up. Her ex-husband was probably having a leisurely lunch somewhere with clients, drinking espresso and enjoying an overpriced meal in a trendy place with five-star food and service. The good life. The life they used to have together. Margo missed it. It had all slipped away so quickly.

  Her call went to voice mail and Margo wanted to scream. Of course he would screen his calls, especially hers. “Hey, asshole,” she started her message, “what the fuck does my daughter need five hundred dollars for? Do you even know what our children are doing all day? Do you know that Abigail isn’t in school right now? Get your worthless ass home and check on the kids, damn it!”

  She pressed end call and stood outside the Laundromat for a moment. Her heart was pounding, and her blood seemed to boil in her veins. No matter what she did, it wasn’t enough for Abigail and Thomas, and it seemed like David could do no wrong. Margo had lost them long ago and sometimes she felt like it would have been kinder if she had simply died instead of having her heart broken again and again.

  She went inside and waved at Carol, the heavyset woman who worked the mornings.

  “You’re not going to believe what happened,” Carol began.

  She always wanted to give Margo the blow-by-blow account of the people that had been in, the minutia of what had happened. Margo had learned long ago to just set up her laptop in the back and start typing. Carol seemed to have less to say to the back of her head.

  “Uh-huh,” Margo said. She barely pretended to be interested but that was enough for Carol. She was oblivious to whether Margo listened or not.

  She waved good-bye as her coworker walked out the door. It was time to start her third job.

  Margo had been writing as a freelancer over the last year, and it was the most lucrative job that she could find. In college, she always had her assignments written well ahead of their due dates. Writing had always come easy to her; she had a knack for it. Now she wrote term papers for spoiled college kids who would pass off her work as their own, that and anything else people wanted to pay her for. How could she blame people for a little plagiarism when she was a convicted felon?

  CHAPTER 2

  S

  undays were the one day when she had a little spare time. It was her day off at the Laundromat. When Margo finished her shift at the diner, she headed to the nearest Starbucks to write. On her way out of the diner she glanced over at Sal’s table and smiled to herself. He was a man who was predictable; he was always there at almost the same time Monday through Friday and never came in on weekends. She imagined that he and his wife had taken their brood to church.


  He’s married, Margo kept reminding herself, especially lately when his eyes had lingered on her décolletage and his look had suggested that he had continued to undress her from there. In fact, he’d been married to the same woman for almost thirty years; it was a matter of pride and nothing that he had tried to conceal.

  “It’s important for families to stay together, to have continuity and values,” Sal had told her early on when Margo had asked. His expression had been serious and seemed to reiterate how committed he was. “Regardless of our difference my wife is important; she’s the mother of my children.”

  “How many kids do you have?” Margo could picture Sal as many things but a father wasn’t one of them.

  “Five.” He couldn’t have looked prouder.

  “Wow!” Her mouth opened unconsciously in disbelief. How could anyone afford a family that size anymore? Then again, Sal seemed to be quite enterprising.

  “Well, I know what you do in your spare time,” she had teased.

  As she walked to the nearest Starbucks, she could clearly remember the look he had flashed her then. Sal hadn’t said a word and none were needed. They both knew exactly what he was thinking.

  Margo ordered coffee and found her usual table in the corner; she would sit here and block out the hustle and bustle until closing time. She had an article to finish and a new project to start, but her mind was still otherwise occupied, and she knew that her curiosity was going to get the best of her.

  Just twenty minutes, she promised herself, twenty minutes online. She’d do a little reading; it wasn’t spying, it was all public information. She typed “Salvatore Alonso Mazzillo” into Google and the screen came to life. Her eyes widened as she scrolled through the results; Sal was a man of many faces.

  One of the articles was dated almost a decade ago. “Local Businessman Has Ties to Organized Crime.” That looked promising. The picture was a profile of Sal, leaving the courthouse, smiling confidently, still dressed to impress. He had less gray in the picture, but he was every bit as handsome as he was now. Margo read the column quickly. Sal had been charged with racketeering and fraud, but the district attorney’s case had been dismissed.