Son of the Mob by Gordon Korman Read Free Book Online

of friends. They’re—” She gestures at the crush all around us. “They love this. Is it just me?”
    I catch sight of Alex, stalking around the crowd, examining the goods like a kid in a candy store. “It’s not just you,” I say kindly.
    â€œSeriously, are these the choices for a social life? Be a hermit or this ?”
    â€œMy brother Tommy suggested a third way,” I put in sardonically. “I won’t bore you with the details.”
    Strange as it may seem, I feel an oblique connection with Kendra. She’s as out of place at this party as I am in the Luca family. Take tonight. In a million years, you could never explain to Tommy that setting up a seventeen-year-old with a hooker isn’t the world’s most thoughtful present.
    That’s part and parcel of the Mob. Lawyers go home at night and stop being lawyers. But the vending-machine business is twenty-four/seven. They even call it The Life. Dad and Tommy don’t work at their jobs; they live them. No wonder they can’t keep me out of it.
    And it doesn’t help that they don’t even see what they’re doing to me. Once, just once, I’d like to hand it back to them in spades.
    Yeah, right. I sigh and have another swig. Kendra stares at me with open distaste. My first thought is, Who cares what she thinks? But there’s another part of me—the part trained by Mom about not being rude.
    â€œCan I get you something? There’s beer and”—I glance around—“beer.”
    She looks twice as uncomfortable as before. “That would be perfect. I can just see the headline: FBI Agent’s Daughter Snagged in Underage-Drinking Sting Operation.”
    There’s an attention getter. “Your dad works for the FBI?”
    She nods, and I realize that it’s hanging right out there in front of me. The only way I could ever give my family the equivalent of a vending-machine moment.
    It’s as if an unseen force takes over, and I have absolutely no say in the matter. I grab Kendra by the shoulders and kiss her.
    I don’t know—I still can’t explain it. But I’m really not expecting what happens next. She’s rigid for a second, and then she relaxes and kisses me back. I reflect that the history of my love life is pretty pathetic. I wasted my first make-out worrying about the body in my trunk, and here’s number two coming off a near miss with a call girl, when the only thought in my head is “In your face, Dad, I’m kissing the FBI!” Dancers jostle us, full-to-overflowing beers whiz by our heads, but we don’t come up for air for a long time.
    Somewhere, a fight breaks out. Fists fly. I feel rather than hear the impact of knuckles on somebody’s chin. The victim hurtles through the crush, bursting right between Kendra and me. The guy hits the floor in a shower of beer slop and bounces right up again, eager for battle. Instantly, three peacemakers materialize. The kid’s so mad that, in order to keep him from charging, the three have to drive him back, plowing through the crowd. Somehow, I get caught up in this wedge, stuck between the fighter and his buddies. The string of curses he spews right into my face would make Tommy blush, and, trust me, Dad’s business isn’t exactly high tea at Buckingham Palace. There are angry shouts and screams as we bull right through a pack of dancers.
    It all fizzles out soon enough, but when I make my way back to Kendra, she’s gone. Frowning, I look around, navigating by the posters on the walls. She was definitely at the intersection of the Notre Dame football pennant and Miss February 1999. What happened?
    Searching for a five-foot-two girl at a packed frat party is like trying to track down a lost Chihuahua in a mature cornfield. For the next hour, I push through every square inch of that loft, becoming more desperate with each passing minute. This is worse than the Angela