by V. F. Mason
My mouth waters at the smell of pepperoni pizza, and I spin the box, quickly grabbing a piece and munching on it.
Sorcha joins me, hopping on the barstool, and probes, “So, it’s not a date?”
“Can’t hear you over the angels singing in my head,” I reply, pouring some ketchup on the slice and adding extra pepper on it.
Sorcha groans. “Would you stop that? It’s not healthy. And spill, woman!”
“Yeah, no.” After the day I had, I deserve to have a good meal without being judged for it.
She exhales heavily in defeat. The fights about healthy food never end with her winning, and she greedily takes a bite herself. “I had no clue you guys were friends.”
“Well, we aren’t.”
She blinks and then frowns. “I’m confused here.” She finishes her mouthful and then takes the pizza box away before I can snatch another slice. “Hey!” She ignores that once again and then drums her fingers on the counter. “Spill, sister, if you wanna eat.”
Huffing in exasperation, I decide to come clean; otherwise, her imagination will form wild images in her head, and she will blow this out of proportion. “He’s opening a gallery and wants me to participate. I said no. But he insists, so he sort of told me we are having dinner. Tomorrow night, he will probably try one more time to convince me to attend.”
She puts the box back on the counter and chews on her pizza, staying silent, and relief skirts over me, because it means she finds nothing weird about it. So it must be my paranoid mind playing tricks on me, implying something is off with Eugene.
Or I simply need an excuse to justify my desire for him, or rather for the man hiding beneath the suit. Just hours ago, he was Eugene, good friend; now, he is Eugene who evokes a hot flush in my body.
Kill. Me.
“Okay,” she finally says, wipes her hands with a napkin, and hops down. “In short, he went all alpha on you, and you want him.”
“Yeah, corre—wait, what?”
She covers her mouth with a hand and laughs. “Totally got you. But, oh my God, you have a thing for Eugene!”
“I don’t have a thing for him.” I’m ready to defend myself until the sun comes up, when I see a red stain on her neck. I scrunch my eyes to examine it better. “Is that a hickey?” I point with my finger, and Sorcha gasps, covering it quickly with her hand.
“No,” she replies, retreating into the room.
But I follow her, saying, “It so is.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She runs toward the couch, but I manage to grab her, and we fall on it, laughing while I tickle her, fishing for the truth.
“Admit it.”
“You bitch,” she croaks between laughs when she can’t tolerate the tickles, and finally she raises her hands. “Okay, okay, it’s a hickey. Just stop!” she screams in my face.
I let go, wiggling my brows. “Who’s the guy?” She sits up and looks to the side, which only sparks my interest more. “Oh, so it’s like that.”
“It’s complicated.” She tugs on her shirt and exhales heavily. “He doesn’t fit the mold of… well, us.”
“More like you. I’ve been disowned, remember?” I remind her, and she chuckles, dropping next to me while we both pant for breath. “Tell me about the guy.”
She clears her throat, clasping her hands together. “He is…. He is…. He’s—” I glance at her lost face and notice how even though she tries to search for the words to describe him, she can’t find anything, since she repeats the same phrase over and over.
In all our years of friendship, I’ve never seen Sorcha this gone for a man. She usually dates, and I use the term loosely, because she mostly goes on first dates and then drops them like hot potatoes. They are usually suit guys who are heirs to empires or are on their way to the top. They are all kind, polite, and safe.
Did she stray from the norm, and it’s only now dawned on her?
“He is what?” I probe, encouraging her to speak by squeezing her hand. She shouldn’t be afraid of my judgment, if that’s her fear. “Is he a bad boy?” I tease, but instead of sharing a laugh with me, she gets up and starts pacing the room in front of me.
Finally, she stops, puts her hands on her hips, and starts talking, shocking the freaking soul out of me. “His name is Emmanuelle Emilio Giovanni.” She waits for some kind of reaction, but when it’s not there, she continues. “He’s an heir to an empire. He is rich. He is handsome. He is everything.”
“Okay.” She still drills me with her stare, and I rack my mind for the name, but nothing comes up. Is he famous for something bad? Or we encountered him somewhere, and people hate him? Maybe he had a famous affair, and now no one likes him because of that? “That sounds good.”
“It’s serious.” She fidgets with her fingers, sighing. “We need to tell my parents.”
I wrap my hands around the pillow and rest my chin on it, still watching her as she hops nervously, and for the life of me, I don’t understand why. “That’s great, babe! And I’m sure your parents will love him.”
She chuckles, although it lacks any humor. “I doubt it.”
“Why would they object if he is—” But then it’s like a light bulb flashes in my head and the name rings a bell, reminding me of an event two years ago: the grand opening and the rumors that followed. “When you say Emilio Giovanni, do you mean the future don of the Cosa Nostra?” I ask carefully, dread coating my voice, because I pray inwardly it’s not the case and he just has the same name.
Because if it’s true, then…
“Yes,” she replies, and then we both silently stare at one another, because I have no clue what to say to that.
Emilio Giovanni is an heir all right. An heir to the mafia Cosa Nostra throne, to be exact, and his family holds the city—and State, really—in an iron fist, ruling the underground with a total lack of concern for the police.
Although most of what we hear are rumors and speculations, as we’ve never interacted with them much, they have an unlimited amount of power, and if the Cosa Nostra wants you dead… you will be dead.
Even Dad has to take into consideration Don’s approval of his campaign, or he can forget about his political career in the city. And while no one goes against them, Sorcha’s father is the head judge. And he has been trying to put Emilio’s father behind bars for years now.
In short, this relationship is doomed one way or another. Modern Romeo and Juliet fits the description well. “Say something.”
“I think I need wine.” I saunter to the fridge, taking out a cold bottle. Sorcha already has the glasses ready on the counter.
Once again, we stay silent as I pour the wine, and then we pick up the glasses, wait a beat, and click them together, the dziing sound solidifying our paths for good. “Good luck, babe.” That’s all I can muster, given the circumstances.
“You too,” she replies, and I nod, because good luck to both of us, indeed.
It seems tonight I receive one shocking bit of news after another.
My best friend is dating a mafia man, and I’m going out with Eugene.
Well, they don’t call the year 1980 in New York brutal for nothing.
* * *
Him
He picks up on the second ring, his deep voice filling the media room. “Is it snowing? Because you never call me first.”
Ignoring his sarcastic remark, I pour myself whiskey and then ask, “Sorcha, really?”
Dead silence greets my statement, and finally he speaks up again. “Don’t even think about touching a hair on her head,” he warns me, as if his threats could ever stop me.
We both know no one can control me, even the powerful don. “I’m not interested in her.”
“How do you know about us?”
“A little bird told me.”
“Cut the fucking crap. Sorcha is off limits. If she is guilty—”
“Relax, Emilio. I do need a favor though,” I say, pacing back and forth. “I heard Ben owes Cosa Nostra.”<
br />
I hear the sound of a lighter, and then he exhales loudly, probably smoking. “Yeah, so?”
“Bring him to me.”
His laughter echoes in my ear. “Since when do you think I’m your bitch?” Anger skirts the edge of his voice even though he doesn’t raise it. That’s not his style; he’ll never prepare you for his rage or attack. His revenge comes silently, creeps up on you when you least expect it, but it always has deadly consequences.
One of the reasons I respect the man and keep him in my life. “He is one of the five,” I explain, and he grows silent again, musing over my request even though his father is supposed to have the final say.
But we both know the old don doesn’t have much more time to live, and soon every decision will belong to Emilio. Why now of all times he has chosen to claim a woman is beyond me.
She’ll have danger trailing her for the rest of her life, and Sorcha doesn’t look like a woman who can stand it.
But then again, we can experience a lot of pain and pressure under different circumstances, pain we never expect to live through, and something holds us afloat.
In most cases, it’s hope.
In my case, it’s revenge, always fucking revenge for the wrongs done in this life.
“If you continue this shit, eventually you’ll get caught.”
“Will you bring him or not?” I’m not about to get into our never-ending argument, especially today when I need to hunt. “We can do it the hard way or the easy way.”
“I’m not one of your victims. You don’t get to call the shots here.”
“I’m your friend though,” I remind him, because that’s the basis of our relationship. I despise any kind of terminology that puts labels on people, but Emilio sort of insists, and since I owe him one, I never correct him.
“You have a strange definition for the word friendship, Jake.” He calls me by my first name, knowing full well how I despise it. “First, Ben needs to answer to me.” Steel graces his voice, and I hear another exhale. “Then on Monday, I will drop him by the side of the road. Whatever happens to him after that is none of my concern.” A wide grin spreads on my lips when I imagine the various ways my victim can suffer, especially after Emilio’s brand of torture.
The man never draws blood, finding it too disgusting to deal with, but his methods… they impress even me, and considering my experience, that speaks volumes.
“Until next time,” I say, and slam the receiver back in the cradle. Pouring myself one more glass of whiskey, I sit in the chair and lean back, sipping my drink and watching the surveillance camera in Lila’s apartment as the two girls laugh about something even though the tension can be practically felt through the screen.
In an hour, she’ll go to bed, and I’ll have a perfect view of the woman who belongs to me, yet has no idea about it.
Soon, she will though, because no matter how much she wants to run from her fate, some things in this life are inevitable.
Like her being mine.
Because in her case, it’s a curse.
Chapter Five
New York, New York
Fall, 1979
* * *
Lila
“No, no, no. Please don’t,” I beg, but no one listens to me as the man drops me on the surgical-like table—although it reminds me more of an OB-GYN setup—and secures me to it with a leather strap across my middle. “Stop this!”
They only laugh, while Sam orders, “Cover her mouth with tape. I have no patience in listening to another sob story.” Ben proceeds to do that, harshly sticking it to my skin, which will for sure hurt a lot when removed.
If ever.
After they finished “playing,” as they called it, with the girl, they took out another garbage bag and then sat on the couch, watching a sports channel and drinking themselves into oblivion. Finally, at some point, they all fell asleep, and I tried to get free, but it was useless. I had no hair pin or anything nearby to pick the lock, and I didn’t dare shout, in fear of them waking up.
They did though a few hours later. One of them harshly slapped me on the cheek, reminding me once again about this nightmare, and then they brought me in here.
“You are monsters!” I pant through the tape, although it comes out a muffled sound, and Ben tsks his tongue.
“Lila, you already know who we are.” They all removed their masks earlier, not giving a shit about secrecy, since I’d recognized one of them. That’s when I understood they would never let me go. “Do you really think we’ll spare you? All this is different once you’ve seen our faces. And it’s you,” he says in wonder, swirling his finger over the space, and I scrunch my eyes several times, adjusting to the bright light. Then my horrified gasp echoes through the room.
The space has nothing but walls of weapons, from knives to drills to pliers, reminding me more of a blue-collar worker’s tools. Blood stains the walls, floor, and the chair, while the smell of urine and something unrecognizable fills the air.
“Bitches always piss themselves, believe it or not.” Ben winces, tapping on his nose. “You behave better, princess.”
I grew up with all these guys; we attended the same schools. We always mingled in the same circles, but how had I not noticed their evilness? Their desire to hurt people? Their ego that must have dictated to them that they could do whatever they wanted to human lives, because no one would ever do anything to them?
These guys have everything, and yet they’ve grown up to be monsters who steal lives.
I shake my head, muttering muffled names at them, but they just chuckle. Then Tim, Roger, and Ken focus their attention on Sam, and it doesn’t surprise me. He has always been their leader, barking orders at them as if they belonged to him. Maybe because his father can always save their asses. Or because he has always had a house and car ready to cater to their every little desire. Not to mention girls who have loved his blond, darkish, sophisticated look.
“How do you want to start?” Roger licks his lips, trailing his gaze over my body. “You can have the honor of fucking her first,” he proposes, while I still, afraid to even breathe when the meaning of his words register.
Fuck her first?
They are going to rape me one after another and then inflict damage before killing me? What inspires this kind of cruelty?
How can you do that to other people, to a girl you’ve known forever?
“Ah, you scared our princess.” Sam frowns and rubs my forehead gently, but then presses his thumb harshly into my cheekbone when I try to evade his touch. “Careful or you’ll make me angry. I’m willing to be more patient with you, because it’s you.” Reading my confusion, he elaborates, “We’ve watched you for years, strutting around school like some kind of princess who’s too good for everyone else. You never attended birthdays, parties, or anything else. Elusive,” he whispers, leaning closer, and his thumb resumes rubbing, overwhelming me with so much disgust I can barely control my gag reflex. “No matter how much I tried to get your attention, it was never mine.” His hold tightens around my neck, for sure leaving bruises, as he cuts the oxygen for a second and I can’t breathe, but then he lets go, allowing me to inhale. “But now you’re mine, and sure as fuck, I finally have your attention.”
I vaguely remember all the things he refers to, the stupid invitations that usually came with his friends’ catcalls and the uncomfortable feeling whenever his blue eyes stared at me. No wonder I said no. I must have felt the vibes coming from him.
“And your professor was so easy to persuade, with the right pressure of course.” I moan through the tape, and he taps my nose. “She has debts to pay and a son who is a drug addict. All is well for her now though.” He leans even closer, speaking right into my ear, barely audible to anyone else. “Maybe if you are a good girl, you can be my girl, and I won’t have to kill you.” He watches my reaction, but I stubbornly glare at him, ready to fight for my life.
Something dark flashes in his eyes, and he barks, “Very well.” He clicks his
fingers, and at once, his men change positions.
Roger and Ken stand by my side, Tim shifts to the tool table, and Ben stands next to Sam, who forcibly separates my legs, stepping between them. “Don’t worry, love. First, we bring pain, and only then will we savor you,” he says, and then orders, “Number ten blade.” Before I understand what’s going on, Roger holds my shoulders steady, and Ken tears my shirt, exposing my belly button.
Sam presses the tip of the blade over it, and informs me, “This is going to be fun, darling. Enjoy the night.” And with that, he cuts me open as a cry of pain tears out of my throat.
It’s only the first of their many tortures. For the next several hours, they cut my hair, cut my nails with pliers, and with a knife create various incisions all over my body… all while allowing the blood to drip. Tim is a med student and knows how to control everything so their victim stays alive.
My tears, my whimpers, my pain only highlight their pleasure as they groan and laugh and continue to drink, all while doing horrific things.
At some point, one of them even jacks off, finding sick pleasure in my state.
And slowly, it all becomes too much; I can’t breathe or feel my body. All I want to do is sink into oblivion and never come back, so I won’t have to face this reality.
Reality where colleagues and professors and friends become monsters who are ready to sacrifice you like a lamb.
Slowly, darkness takes me, lullabied by the unexpected siren screeching through the entire building and creating panic among my captors.
* * *
New York, New York
Fall, 1980
* * *
Him
Skimming my fingers over the knives displayed on my table, a slight smile curves my lips as I pick up a razor-sharp one and spin around to face the man with his hands and feet nailed to the wall, blood slowly dripping from his wounds.
He wears nothing but a small towel wrapped around his waist. His eyes widen when he notices the weapon in my hands, and he shakes his head, his green eyes almost pleading with me to change my mind.