In last month’s newsletter, I promised I’d share a deleted scene from THE GARBAGE MAN. Here it is. I hope you like it. I hope it gives you insight into the story, even if you don’t (yet!!) know the characters well. Enjoy & thank you for reading!

 

EX-CHAPTER TEN

Setting

NYC and Rikers Island Prison, present day.

Cast

• Kayla Mousavi, 28 – New analyst at General Recycling, in the job “a million MBAs would kill for.”

• Kayvan Mousavi, 63 – Her once-charismatic, win-at-any-cost father; now a felon awaiting sentencing for insider trading.

Conflicts

• External: Kayvan has decided to drop all appeals of his sentence; Kayla fights to change his mind.

• Internal: Their relationship is wreckage. Kayla still clings to the fantasy of repair; this scene strongly suggest that hope is delusional.

Backstory

Kayvan’s crimes detonated everything:

• Triggered Kayla’s mother’s cancer relapse and death.

• Vaporized the family fortune, dumping his legal debt on Kayla and killing her dream of professional poker.

• Shattered the father-daughter bond forged over art collecting, travel, and poker nights.

Kayvan remains what he’s always been—magnetic, amoral, addicted to winning—and, as the reader will soon learn, already working a fresh angle. The man always has a plan.

Why cut?

It’s “two people in a room talking.” Too many of those suffocate pacing, so this one got the axe.

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CHAPTER TEN

She woke to the insistent buzz of her phone.

Rikers Island

Oh, crap. Today was the day.

Kayvan’s insider-trading and conspiracy spree unfolded in what should have been their bright season—Mom’s cancer in remission, all of them nursing the desperate hope that everything would turn out fine. Her father claimed he intended to use his ill-gotten gains for a beach house, because the shore was Mom’s sanctuary. But that story was Kayvan Masouvi spin. The reality was that he loved money—or, more precisely, he loved winning. That made him an amazing poker coach. He taught her how to read tells, to read people, how to pick her battles, how to pick her opponents. Especially that.

“You are never as smart as you think you are, Kay-Kay.” The Tao of Kayvan Masouvi. He said it over and over—and then proved himself the dumbest genius in the room. And now she was going to Rikers. Located in the East River directly adjacent to La Guardia Airport, Rikers housed thousands of inmates awaiting court dates or serving short sentences. Her trip on this dreary day first involved the Rikers-only bus, a dark, cold rattler with pools of sloshing water in the corners. Next, she disembarked into a lifeless queue with other visitors, who winced in unison as jets roared mere feet away. A CO barked the contraband list—weapons, tools, drugs, alcohol, cellphones—pointing at gigantic red mailboxes labeled AMNESTY at the top and CONTRABAND at the bottom. This was their only opportunity to dump anything “problematic.”

No one used them.

Police dogs. Pat-downs. Three sets of metal detectors. Photographs. Fingerprints. Finally, after an endless wait, the guards called her visiting block and ushered her into a mustardy room with a hard wooden bench running down the middle and a low plexiglass divider. The hum of low-grade panic and indifferent misery made Kayla’s skin crawl.

Kayvan’s face lit up when he saw her. Rikers allowed a brief hug and kiss at the beginning and end of a visit, but her father didn’t move. They stared at each other like wary, battered boxers at the end of a match.

“I don’t want to presume,” he said.

Kayla offered a mechanical hug that went down like two mannequins colliding and dropped onto the bench, examining him. He looked well, given the circumstances: still had all his hair, which was indeed fabulous and thick; his skin lacked that pasty prison pallor; his teeth remained decently white, though they were veneers.

“You don’t look terrible,” she said. “You look okay.”

He broke into a smile—the Kayvan Masouvi smile. The bedrock of the man’s charm. The cause of all their problems. The reason they were sitting here, because people let that smile get away with whatever. “You know your dad, Kay-Kay. Wherever I go, I’ll make friends. I’ll make the best of it.” Exactly how a sixty-something Persian guy “made friends” in a place like Rikers, she didn’t want to know.

“I’m… glad to hear that.” Silence stretched between them. Finally, she spoke. “They’re feeding you? Uh, being, um… nice to you?” Wow, this was so awkward.

“I’m fine, Kay-Kay. Don’t worry about me. How is the job?”

She stared at him. “The hardest I’ve ever worked, and that’s saying something.”

“Have you made it to the felt? Got to enjoy yourself at all?”

She raised both eyebrows. “What do you think?”

His smile faded. “I know you miss it. And Sameer.”

She looked away. “Can’t have it all, Daddy. Gotta make choices.” She glanced at the baby–throw-up walls. “Trade-offs…”

Another maw of silence opened between them.

“Thank you for coming. I know it’s not a fun trip.” He leaned forward. “I have something to share with you.”

Words evaporated in her throat. “What…” She trailed off, swallowed, gathered herself, hissed out a breath. “What is it?”

His face grew serious. “I’m stopping the appeals.”

“What?” The word barely emerged. “Why?”

“Because I’m not going to let you spend your life paying off my debts—paying for me.” His chin tightened. “I want you to live free from”—he swept a hand around the cell—“filth and darkness.”

She clenched her teeth. The tears spilled anyway. “No,” she said. “No.”

“Kayla,” he said gently, pressing his hand against the glass, “it’s done.”

“We’ll see about that.” She shook her head and stepped back. “I’m not letting you rot away in this—this…” She almost blurted shithole. “…this place,” she finished.

He just watched her, expression flat.

Her pulse hammered. The world shrank to a pinpoint. “But—but why?” Her voice rang tinny and small in her ears.

“The judge wants my scalp,” he said quietly. “Let him have it. But listen. I’ll find a way. I always do.”

And so it went, back and forth, until an announcement over the loudspeaker ended the argument. Visiting time was over.

He stared down at his hands for a moment. “I’ll fix all of this. I will. You know I always do.”

“No way.” Her jaw clenched so hard it creaked. “No fucking—”

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, VISITOR HOURS ARE OVER. PLEASE EXIT TO THE DOOR ON YOUR LEFT!”

Guards stepped forward. They both stood. This time she hugged him for real. “I’m not letting you do this, Daddy,” she whispered.

“I’m your father.” He kissed the top of her head. “Don’t argue with me.”

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© 2025 Tessa Pacelli

All rights reserved. No part of this writing may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.