Omertà Anthology - A Very Merry Mafioso Christmas

by V. Domino

  “Ah,” she says at the realization. “Is that why you were there that night?”

  Even though it was years ago, she doesn’t need to explain what night she’s referring to, we’re both well aware.

  “Yes, I came with him.” My chest is tightening at this line of questioning. For one reason, I’m not supposed to talk business with women. For another, I’m not made, I’m barely allowed to know about business, I’m still proving myself to these men and fraternizing with the princess isn’t going to bode well for me.

  But what was I supposed to do? Leave her here crying and just walk past her? I couldn’t have done that.

  But she’s not crying anymore. So I know I should get up and excuse myself, but for some reason, I can’t. I’m glued to this chair, feet anchored to the ground. I’m addicted to this conversation, to hearing her voice, watching her face. I can’t fucking move.

  “So you know then?” she asks, her pink lips purse at the question and her hazel eyes watch me, waiting for a response.

  “Yes.” I whisper. I know what she means. I know that her family sucks for what they’re doing to her. I know, and yet I stand by. Because even though I think it’s terrible, and even though I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy—there’s nothing I can do.

  She nods her head sadly, using her fingertips to push a stray piece of hair from her face. “Is he bad?” Her eyes are pleading with me, begging me to give her something. Some amount of hope.

  But I can’t give her what she wants.

  “Lana,” I whisper, “I can’t—”

  “I know.” She waves a hand. “I’m sorry.” She looks defeated as her eyes lower to her lap. “I had to try though.” She shrugs, and I can’t blame her for that. If it were me I’d probably be running.

  “Hey.” Before I know what I’m doing, I reach across the space between us and set a hand on her knee in a reassuring gesture. There’s a million lines running through my head, thought after thought of things I could say to her. But none of them would bring her comfort, none of them would change her situation or bring her loved ones back from the dead. “I’m sorry.”

  There's a pounding in my head that matches the pounding on the front door.

  I drank too much last night. After the funeral I snuck a bottle of expensive vodka from my father's office and drank myself into oblivion in the privacy of my bedroom. A rare act of defiance from me.

  Rule breaking was Lily’s department. I was the good daughter. The one who listened, wore pretty dresses, and only spoke when spoken to. Lily was wild, wore bright colors and weird prints. She had a habit of asking questions at the most inopportune times leaving my parents angry with her more often than not.

  My heart aches thinking about Lily. Missing her fills me to the brim, leaving my mind with no room for anything other than sadness. There’s too much pain in my head and my heart, and no matter how I try to fill my days it lingers there, making me feel it all.

  There’s a saying thrown at me anytime I voice my sadness, that time will heal it. But it’s been three years and I still wake up thinking she’ll be in the room next to mine. I don’t believe any amount of time will heal me. Heal this.

  My parents' grief seemed to end quicker than mine. A week after Lily’s death my mother was pulling all reminders of her from the house and packing them up in unmarked containers cast away to the basement. Pictures, momentos, anything that reeked of Lily was gone. We went from a four person family to three in the blink of an eye.

  Just as quickly, all mentions of her vanished with the photos. Her name became a sinful word in the house. No one mentioned her. As if eliminating her name from our vocabulary would somehow make her loss easier on us, more palatable.

  I wish I would have spoken up, aired my grievances, but that was Lily’s department. Instead, I packed myself away in my room, not coming out for days on end. Decidedly, if Lily was dead then I would hole myself up until I was too.

  The person to bring me out of my self-induced coma was the next to die, my grandfather.

  Only this time, I can’t fade away. For one, I knew this was coming, we all did. Five months ago he called us all over to his estate to tell us he was dying. He hid his cancer from us for six months before that, privately consulting doctors and weighing his odds before he finally sat us down and broke the news.

  He didn’t want chemo. Didn’t want to die weak and sick. It was my cousin Madi who finally talked him into it, but one round, no results and he was done.

  And still, when the call came, it felt like a knife through my heart.

  My mother finally answers the door, I hear her muffled greeting slither up the stairs, the sound piercing to my ears. “Lana!” she calls and without thinking, I audibly groan.

  The ibuprofen has yet to kick in and the constant pounding of my head refuses to dull. I showered and dressed an hour ago, but then I curled back up on my bed and stewed in my hangover.

  “Lana!” she shouts again when I don’t immediately leap from my bed and head to the stairs. With another groan, I swing my legs off the mattress and head toward her calls. The cotton fabric of the charcoal colored t-shirt dress clings to my back as I make my way downstairs. Despite my mother telling me to look nice, I pile my hair into a bun atop my head and only put on mascara, leaving the remainder of my face bare. This isn’t what she meant, nor will it reach her standards but I’d argue that I’ve looked worse.

  When I meet her downstairs, my father is standing next to her and behind them is a tall, lean man, wearing a tan coat with silver eyes focused on me.

  I pause on the steps, taking in his smooth skin leading to his ash brown hair and lightly stubbled jaw. He brings a hand to meet his mouth, running over the full lips and over his jawline. What’s left in its wake is a sinister smirk.

  “Darling,” my father says, his hand rising to me, reaching to hold mine as I descend the last few steps. “This is Congressman Lafontaine.” He says, gesturing with his head toward the previously unknown man in our foyer.

  “Please,” the congressman interjects, extending his hand to take mine. “Call me Davis.”

  Those pink lips curl again, rising back into their smirk. I’m sure other women would lose their panties seeing him in their house, knowing their parents are vying to marry them off. Considering the looks and ages of other eligible bachelors in Louisiana that would give my parents the clout they’re looking for, Congressman Lafontaine is a good option.

  But the sight of him there, looking at me as if I'm a meal to be devoured, makes my stomach uneasy.

  “Davis,” I repeat, letting him wrap his smooth hand around mine. Instead of shaking it he pulls me to him, wrapping the other arm around my waist and hugging me. His hold feels suffocating, and my hand begins to get clammy within his grip.

  “Pleased to meet you.” He tells me as he releases his hold on me.

  The transaction feels slimy knowing what he’s here for. I wonder what it’s like for him, a man ten years my senior conspiring with my parents to marry me. I wonder if he thinks I’m willing, what would he say if he heard me voice my true feelings?

  “Let’s head to the dining room.” My mother says in a chipper tone, sending another wave of nausea to my gut. My mother is generally not a chipper person, sly and cunning are more suited descriptions for Carlotta Romano. Anything else is an act, and that means she has an angle. “I made brunch.”

  My stomach growls in response to the mention of food and Davis snorts a soft laugh next to me. I haven’t eaten since before Grandpapa’s funeral yesterday, long before all of the liquor I swallowed. My stomach is protesting, begging for something with more substance.

  “Sorry,” I mutter as we head for the table. Davis bringing a hand to the small of my back to lead me there, like this isn’t the home I’ve lived in for twenty years.

  Once we’re seated, his gaze turns to my father, a smile growing on his handsome face. He looks pleased, which only means that this transaction is moving to the next phase.


  That heaviness returns to my gut, making my starving stomach too sick to eat. Davis piles my mother’s southern brunch onto his plate. Fried chicken, biscuits, and gravy—a morning meal fit for southern royalty. I skip the chicken and gravy, opting for half a biscuit and a small scoop of eggs. He looks pleased when he eyes the food on my plate.

  The problem with men in my family, in this town even, is that they see women as objects to own.

  Little dolls that dress nicely, and look good on your arm. They require upkeep, sure, healthy diets, plenty of exercise. Like a dog that needs caring for. But if you give them enough shiny objects and green money they’ll shut up and be quiet.

  I’ve never much cared for shiny things.

  “So, Davis, tell us about your work.” There's a large forced grin spread across my mother’s cheeks. She doesn’t care much for small talk and seeing as I’m not contributing to the conversation, she’s forcing practiced topics to try and make Davis and I bond.

  The more excitable I am, the easier this whole ordeal will be.

  Using my fork, I push the eggs around on my plate and pretend to listen to Davis talk. He sounds like every other southern politician. A slight Louisiana drawl to his voice, using large words and pretty phrases to distract from what's underneath.

  I spare a glance at his pretty face, he’s charming enough, but underneath the surface there's something dangerous, I’m sure of it because three years ago Lily had dinner with him and then proceeded to throw herself off the balcony.

  Beyond his silver eyes and well-made exterior, there’s something shady about Davis Lafontaine.

  Davis pats his stomach after he eats, grinning widely at my mother and complimenting her food. My mother didn’t cook a thing on the table, but she takes the compliments anyway.

  “Can I have a moment with Lana before we make things official?” Davis asks with a smile, his words aren’t directed at me, instead he looks to my father for permission.

  The whole thing makes me feel like there’s an invisible leash wrapped around my neck and my father is handing the reins over to the new owner. Dad smiles at Davis, clapping a hand on his shoulder in a show of solidarity.

  With a hand pressed to my lower back Davis leads me into the formal living room. The space is already decorated for Christmas, a large ten foot tree stands in front of the picture windows, decorated with gold ornaments and red ribbons. Growing up Lily and I loved Christmas. The house was always decorated perfectly, presents sat under the tree, and the entire family came together. Now, I feel a chill run over my skin at the thought. No Lily. No Grandpapa. No family. I rub the goose bumps away with the palms of my hands. If Davis notices, he doesn’t comment on it.

  “So, Lana,” he says my name with a chilling smirk plastered to his face. “It feels like you're not interested in me, hmm?” It’s a weirdly phrased question, paired with his silver eyes throwing daggers at me.

  In an attempt to gain some space between us, my feet step back, but Davis is quicker than me. He captures my arm in his hand and pulls my body closer to him, holding me hostage in his grip.

  “Tell me,” he sneers, his lips curving around the words. “Are you going to be a pain in my ass like your older sister?” His grip on my arm tightens to a punishing pain as the threatening words leave his lips with droplets of saliva.

  “I-” I choke on the words, taken aback by his sudden forcefulness. Gone is the man who just ate a plateful of fried chicken and biscuits at my dining room table. “I don’t know what you're talking about!” I nearly shout at him, tugging on my arm in a feeble attempt to free myself from his grip.

  “Stupid girl,” he mocks. “I require very little from you. Be quiet, behave, and walk down the aisle in a pretty little dress. If you do as I say I’ll reward you, if you fail… well…” in perfect timing he squeezes my arm with punishing forcefulness as if making a promise for future pain if I disobey.

  Tears begin to well in my eyes as I look up at his sinister face. I’m not sure what I’ve ever done to make this man so hateful other than be born with a vagina in place of dick.

  “Don’t cry, baby,” he taunts, lifting his finger to delicately wipe my tears away, a confusing gesture in comparison to the pain he just inflicted on me. “Just behave. Do I make myself clear?” he asks, those silver eyes digging deep into my soul, waiting for my answer, my commitment to him.

  I nod, if only to get him off of me, to gain space between us so I can breathe and think again. With my agreement he drops his grip on my arm and instinctively I reach for it with my opposite hand, running it over the reddened flesh.

  I want to cry, to scream, to do anything other than stand here and take the abuse. But the southern belle inside of me, the girl I was raised to be can’t move from this spot standing in front of the Christmas tree. My hatred for this man and love for this holiday begin to mix, swirling around and staining everything with bitterness. I don’t have words to express myself, no vocabulary to tell him to leave me alone or fuck off. I stand there like a scared child waiting for the burst of abuse and love, the two emotions so entangled together.

  Davis flexes his hand, as if causing me pain has hurt him. He reaches into his suit pocket withdrawing a black velvet box and popping it open. Inside sits a diamond, far too large for my finger, with no words he plucks the ring from its cozy home and grabs my hand. He doesn’t say a word as he slides the gold band with the heavy diamond onto my finger. Afterward, he snaps the box shut and deposits it back into his suit jacket, walking away leaving me flushed and empty.

  Merry Christmas to me.

  "You want some?” Jason, one of my regulars, extends his rolled up dollar bill to me and gestures to the white lines that lay on top of the coffee table with a flick of his eyes.

  In my weaker moments, I’ve dropped to my knees, stuffed the dirty dollar into my nostrils and snorted deeply. Letting the white powder ease my nerves and erase my mind was not the best coping mechanism of mine. Ditching the powder was no easy feat, but luckily, unlike Jason, I stopped before the addiction got too bad. My motivation came from looking in the mirror and only seeing a younger version of my father.

  His paper thin hand shakes while he extends it to me, the loose skin from all the weight he’s lost jiggling with the motion. Once upon a time he was probably a bright kid, now he’s an addict.

  As long as he places the stack of bills in my hand, it’s not my place to judge. I hand over the product and leave him to his vices.

  “Nah,” I shake my head. He bumps it, tipping his head back after snorting the powder and moaning in pleasure.

  “That’s good.” He tells me, his hand fishing in his pocket for the pile of money he owes me. Pulling the wrinkled bills out, he slaps them into my outstretched palm. I shove the cash in my pocket. Somewhere in the background I can hear a baby cry and I shudder. Weeks from Christmas and this man is spending money on coke rather than providing for his baby.

  Without commenting, I leave the house and head back out into the Lower Ninth Ward. I keep my eyes peeled as I move down the street to my next drop. I’ve been working for Marcus Ricci for a few years now, and I’m still stuck with the Lower Ninth Ward, Central City, and The Garden District—the parts of town that no one wants. The money is still good, but the clientele is slowly fading away, falling victim to the drug. The only bright side is they’re less likely to end up in rehab.

  I don’t complain though. I’ll work any street Marcus puts me on with a smile on my face. As long as the money keeps finding its way into my pocket, I’ll keep showing up.

  Marcus picked me up out of a club where I was working the door. He saw me bouncing a few junkies and offered me a job. I wonder sometimes if he could see the desperation on my face, the need for money so strong it was the only thought that wracked my brain.

  As if on cue, my phone rings, boasting Marcus’ name on the caller ID. “Yeah?” I answer.

  “Got time for an event tonight?” his voice rings through the speaker.

  Flic
king my wrist, I check the time on my watch. I need to stop by Ma’s, but I know this isn’t a real question from him. The answer has to be yes. I don’t get a choice while working for my button, my key into the Costello Famiglia. I do as the made men ask, whenever they ask, and pray that sooner rather than later they initiate me into this thing.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “Where at?”

  Marcus rattles off the address and I make a mental note of the location. It’s in the French Quarter, a private party at some club looking for the hookup. I’ll need to make my stop at Ma’s quick, change my clothes and head out.

  I reach for the keys in my pocket and head for the new Jeep Wrangler parked on South Street. One of the many perks of working for Marcus is that the money is steady, coming in quicker than I can spend it. For the first time in my life I have a nice car that won’t break down every ten miles.

  Another perk of the money is being able to happily lay an envelope of cash on my mother's kitchen table, knowing that I can still buy groceries for myself and pay my rent.

  Whoever said money can’t buy happiness clearly had money.

  “I don’t want that.” Ma tells me without even turning around to see the envelope. She swipes a hand through her graying hair while the other one stirs the pot of red sauce bubbling on the stove top.

  “What do you mean you don’t want it?” I ask with a scoff, not bothering to pick the envelope back up.

  This is an ongoing occurrence. She likes to fret about taking the money, claiming it’s corrupt and evil, but at the end of the night I’ll leave the envelope there and she’ll spend it because she has no other choice.

  Before she can continue her onslaught of reasons why she doesn’t want the gift I just presented to her, Anthony bolts from the back room heading toward me at full force. He wraps his arms around my waist, his small head hitting my abdomen.

  “Naz, Ma got me a new game, you wanna play?” He’s a happy kid, looking up at me with a slight smile and bright eyes. He’s better than I was at that age, though I’d argue that not starving and living in a nicer home plays a role in his disposition.