Salvatore
The alleyway across the street from the center is the perfect place for a stakeout, even though it smells like rat piss. I’ve been camped out here since early this morning, before the searing LA sun had a chance to fully rise. I watched Molly come up the block, her face sallow, her hair carelessly tied into a ponytail, and her shoes mismatched. Sometimes I forget that not everyone has been born and bred into violence. They read fairy tales that promoted doing the right thing. Their bedroom walls were covered with idyllic posters bearing motivational messages. Since I was a kid, the darkest predilections of mankind were normalized, even celebrated. Greed, revenge, and carnality were as innocuous as a beer on Sunday.
Molly must be a mess.
She knows nothing about my world. She’s never had a threat on her life. She’s never gotten herself so tangled in deceptive deals that there’s no chance in hell of ever escaping. She’s a kind, giving woman who’s dedicated her life to helping others. Her only mistake was trying to help me.
I’m like a black hole. Get to close to my orbit, and I’ll destroy you from the inside out. But not before I suck the very energy out of you to suit my own needs. Molly’s isn’t the first life I’ve ruined. The others, I haven’t given a second thought. But her pain is my pain. I thought she could see through the black shell of my being to the man I really am. And she did, only to find the interior is just as grotesque as the exterior.
I have to make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid. I have to make sure Franco doesn’t find out what she knows, and send his goons to kill her. I nearly shoot Franco when I see his car pull up in front of the center. But if he wanted to do Molly harm, he would’ve sent someone else, the coward. He’s here to gloat about his next donation, and warm in the glow of Molly’s gratitude. Sometimes I wonder if my dear uncle believes the praises he receives. If so, that makes him a madman.
While Franco is inside, I wait with clenched fists. My hand inches to retrieve the cigarettes in my suit pocket. But I can’t send up a smoke signal and compromise my position. Molly’s smart enough to keep up the charade. Franco needs to believe that everything is as he wants it to be until I can figure out what to do next. Twenty minutes later, Franco emerges, pressing his phone to his ear while getting into his car.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. With quick, wide steps I get to the other end of the alley, far enough away where he can’t hear me, and I answer.
“I just had a lovely meeting with your Molly,” Franco says, a lilt in his voice. “I hope you aren’t jealous.”
I give a good natured chuckle. “I trust you, Uncle Franco.”
“You didn’t know me in my prime.” Franco’s belly laugh erupts through the phone. “It got me thinking, I haven’t seen the two of you in a long time. What do you say we get dinner tonight?”
I look up, suddenly at a loss for words, and I’m nearly blinded by the sun.
“You there?” Franco asks.
“Yeah, I’m just considering my schedule.”
“Your schedule? Cancel whatever you have.”
“I mean, Molly’s schedule. She’s been really busy lately.” I rub my temples, sighing away from the phone. I can’t put Molly through another dinner with Franco.
“Surely she can make time for her biggest benefactor.” There’s a pause. Franco sucks in a breath. He continues in a more casual tone. “Is everything all right between you two?”
“Yeah, of course.” I’m not used to being flustered, and I don’t like it. Usually, I’m a master of controlling my emotions. But Molly’s got me fucked up. “Everything’s great.” I rub the back of my neck, waiting for Franco to reply. I’m doing such a terrible job of playing the part, there’s no telling the quality of Molly’s performance.
“Good to hear. How does eight sound?”
I clench my eyes shut. “See you then, Uncle Franco.”
*
Darting out of a side street and into Molly’s path while she’s leaving the center probably isn’t the best way of approaching her. I realize this when I do just that. Her entire body tightens up. A scream struggles up from her constrained throat. She raises her fists defensively. When she squints up at my face, her terror morphs into hardened anger.
“How are you?” I ask, tightly. I fight against my instinct to grab her and pull her against me.
She levels her eyes at me, her flat stare serving as an answer to my question. I run my hands through my hair with a frustrated sigh.
“We have to have dinner with Franco tonight,” I say, ripping off the bandaid.
Molly closes her eyes, her mouth round with incredulousness. “Absolutely not.” She shakes her head, walking past me.
I grab her arm, making her jump. She looks at me with terror in her eyes. I grimace from the internal pain.
“We have to keep up the act for a little longer,” I say.
“And then what?” She yanks her arm away. “How is this supposed to end, Sal?”
I’m going to kill Franco. The words creep up to the back of my tongue. But I can’t say them. I don’t want to see the look in her eyes when I tell her I’m a murderer.
“I always find a way,” I say.
She straightens her back. Her face is hardened, except for her quivering chin. “You just want me to play ball, don’t you? So you and Franco can continue taking advantage of me.”
“No.” I step towards her, then stop myself. I wish I could wrap her in my arms and keep her all for myself. But it’s not that easy. And if I can’t have her now, the least I can do is keep her alive. “Molly, Franco thinks we’re still together. We need him to continue thinking that so he doesn’t kill us.”
Once upon a time, I yearned to see Molly submit. But now, seeing her eyes fall to her mismatched shoes, and hearing her helpless sigh, it feels like a knife to the gut. She looks up at me, her eyes glimmering with tears.
“I hate you,” she spits. “I really do.”
Not as much as I hate myself.
*
Molly’s dressed in her regular work clothes. Her hair’s pinned back in a valiant attempt to tame it’s wild curliness, but ultimately falls short. She’s out of place among LA’s upper caste, with their slick designer clothes and artificially plump faces. I worry that her lack of attention to detail will warn Franco that something’s off. At least her shoes match.
We’re sitting at Franco’s private chef’s table. A few yards away, line cooks follow orders from the barking sous chef. Clouds of steam rise up from sizzling hot pans. A steady chopping rhythmically underscores the sporadic yelling. Chef Vega dips in and out of the choreographed chaos for a quick nip of limoncello before returning to his adoring fans in the lobby.
“How is your salad?” Franco asks Molly, pointing to her untouched plate. “Should we send it back?” He raises a hand, intent on summoning the waiter.
“No, it’s wonderful,” Molly says, perkily. “I apologize, Franco. I don’t have much of an appetite.”
I sip the tequila Franco ordered for the table, hoping it will warm my cold insides. Molly’s been distant tonight. She’s barely looked at me since I picked her up at her apartment. Doesn’t she understand that her life depends on her performance here?
Franco snaps his fingers. “I know just the thing.” He raises a hand. An eager waiter rushes over. “Sambuca for the table. Your finest.” The waiter nods before scuttling off. Franco smiles at Molly. “The anise settles the stomach.”
A short while later, the waiter returns with the frosted white bottle. A cold steam rises up from the shot glasses as he gracefully fills them. Franco takes his glass, raising it in the air.
“To the two of you, my family. I look forward to drinking at your wedding. Salud.”
Molly casts a nervous glance my way, though never meeting my eyes. We raise our glasses, and accept Franco’s wish of health. I throw back my shot. The taste is sickly sweet, yet harsh, and my stomach almost rejects it. I’m able to get it down, but Molly isn’t as successful. She cover
s her mouth as she gags. Her eyes turn red and watery. She looks up with a wild expression.
“Excuse me,” she mumbles, before rushing off from the table, and out of the kitchen.
In my periphery, I see Franco watch after her, suspicion tugging at his wrinkled mouth.
“Molly’s not been feeling well lately,” I explain.
Franco refills his glass with Sambuca, and sips it idly. “You know, there are people who can’t handle success. That’s hard for a Mariano to understand, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t so. There are those content with mediocrity, and anything more frightens them.”
He looks at me over his shot glass. Franco thinks that by wrapping Molly up in his illegal schemes, he’s handing her the world on a silver platter.
“That’s not Molly,” I say. I refill my glass as well, even though I hate Sambuca. “She’s been sick. A stomach bug, or something.”
His expression is blank. I’m not sure if he even heard what I said. His eyes are set on the swinging kitchen door that Molly just barged out of. After a few moments of unbearable silence, he says, “I hope she feels better soon.”
*
Molly’s a tight, quiet bundle of nerves as I drive us back to where we both live. I’m tense too. I keep going over the evening in my mind, trying to analyze Franco’s words and facial expressions from memory. No matter how I look at it, we blew it. The tension is thick between us, and Franco’s a smart enough man to see that.
I walk Molly into the building, and wait while she unlocks her apartment door. She’s in such a hurry to get away from me, she gets in her own way, and struggles with the key. When she finally gets it open, I place my hand on the door, not allowing her to shut it.
“I’m staying with you tonight,” I say.
Molly blinks up at me nervously. Her indignant anger is gone, replaced by pure fear. “No,” she says, breathlessly.
I stare down at her intensely. She’s afraid of me, when she should be afraid of him. I should push this door open with all of my strength, forcing my way inside. And then what? Molly wouldn’t invite me into her bed. She’d stay as far away from me as she can, cowering the night away.
“I’d never hurt you.” There’s a slight tremor in my voice. Is that what happens when you tell the truth?
She narrows her eyes in disgust. She doesn’t trust me. She despises me. Maybe I’m not redeemable after all. She steps away from the door, squaring her body towards me.
“Your father,” she asks. “How did he die?”
“Snake shot him. On Franco’s order.” I force myself to look into her eyes, and not hide from the truth.
She looks away quickly. “Okay. And your mother?”
I gulp down the rising emotion, burying it back in its grave. “She killed herself.” Molly’s eyes soften for a second. I’m pitiful for craving her compassion, but I’ll take that over her distant coldness. “Do you believe me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Believe this.” I lower my face to hers. “I’m going to take care of Franco. You won’t have to worry for long.”
“I don’t want any part of this.” She bites her bottom lip as tears roll from her eyes. “I’m leaving town.”
In her withered expression, I finally see the damage my lies and deception have caused. It seems irreparable. There’s nothing I can say or do to make her forgive me. Forgiveness, I once thought, is the goal of weak men. Now, I want it more than anything, but it’s completely off limits. A woman like Molly has no business with me. For once in my life, I’m going to do something completely selfless, and let her go. I clear my throat, steadying myself.
“Get out soon,” I say. I turn from her, headed towards my apartment. Behind me, I hear her door slam shut, and the clunking of each lock.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Salvatore
Molly heeds my advice. Less than an hour later, I hear her door open. I stare through the peephole, my palms sweating as I press them against the wooden door. Molly emerges with a stuffed duffel bag. Her face is red, and her eyes puffy, like she’s been crying. Not only did I threaten her life, I also broke her heart. I watch her walk down the hallway towards the exit, bidding her to go, to get as far away from me as she possibly can, even though it twists my insides to see her leave. It won’t be the last time I see her. Wherever she’s going, I’ll find her. But I’ll keep my distance. I just need to make sure she gets out of LA safely.
The front door closes with a clang that reverberates through my chest. I can’t stand it, this maddening internal storm that thrashes inside of me. My entire body is on edge. I pry myself from the peephole, and pour myself a tall tumbler of bourbon from my liquor cabinet. I drink it quickly, reveling in the burning sensation as a distraction from the pain. I lick my lips, waiting for the alcohol to take hold. It does nothing more than fuel the fire.
Bury it, I think, remembering my father. Bury it down with everything else.
But there’s no escape from this inner torment. What’s happening to me?
I deserve to die for the pain I’ve caused Molly. My hatred for myself is so intense, I wish I could rip my own body to shreds. My skin crawls with bitter emotion. I grab the bottle of bourbon, bring it to my mouth, and tip the bottom up to the sky, intent on drinking myself to death. I get a quarter through what’s left in the bottle when I begin to wretch. My body rejects the liquor. I rush to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I puke all over the floor. When I finish, I’m stone cold sober, with a lingering taste of bile on my tongue.
I need something visceral, physical, to kill this pain that I can’t see.
*
Madame Cherie rushes over to greet me on her skyscraper heels, possessing the delicate balance of a tightrope walker. She grabs my arm with her perfumed hand, dollar signs in her eyes.
“Mr. Mariano, it’s been so long,” she gushes, petting my arm. “We’ve missed you.”
I retrieve a wad of cash from my jacket and hand it to her. “I want to start another tab.”
Her eyes glitter as she measures the thickness of the cash with her fingertips. “Of course, darling. What will it be tonight? Paris is here. Clementine too, but she’s with a client. She should be finishing up soon. Shall I show you to your room?”
She slips her arm through my elbow, pulling me towards the hallway. I look at her flatly and shake my head. “I don’t want them.”
She smiles, unfazed. “Someone new, then?”
I glance around the darkened basement until my eyes settle on the person I came here for. Madame Cherie follows my gaze to the large bodyguard who’s posted on the opposite wall. She turns back to me, puzzled and delighted at the same time.
“I’m sorry, darling. Joe’s not for sale.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “But if you want a man, I can help you with that.”
I extract myself from Madame Cherie’s grasp, and walk over to the man myself. He perks up when he sees me approach, puffing out his barrel chest. His eyes darken with warning.
“You,” I say, pointing to him. “I want you to beat the shit out of me.”
The veins in his huge neck stop pumping as he looks at me with confusion. Madame Cherie taps my shoulder delicately.
“Sal, dear,” she says in a motherly tone. “That’s not what we do here. Let me call one of the girls. They’ll take care of you, make you feel better.”
“I don’t want to feel better.”
I shake off her touch, and appeal to the muscle man myself with another stack of cash. His eyes widen at the money in his hand, then he looks to his employer. Madame Cherie steps forward, snatching the money from him.
“Five minutes,” she says, stuffing the money into her corset.
Moments later, I’m in a dark room, stripped down to my boxers. I stand in front of a rack, fastening my wrists in the same constraints that I’ve used on so many women, their faces all a blur, and their names not filed in my memory.
“Tighten the slack,” I tell my punisher. He
looks confused. “The crank. There.”
Joe’s entire face and bald head is a ruddy shade of red. His anxious shoulders creep up to his ears. “This isn’t a sex thing, right? Because I’m not into that.”
I stare him down coldly until he does what I ask. He cranks the device, tightening the chains that connect to the cuffs around my wrists until my arms are stretched over my head.
“Tighter,” I bark.
He turns the cranks a few more times. When pain radiates through my overstretched muscles, I tell him to stop.
“Begin,” I growl, through tightly clenched teeth.
Joe steps forward, and delivers a solid punch to my side. I know he’s holding back and not giving me his full strength. My flesh throbs dully, but it’s not enough to chase away the ghost that’s haunting me. When I close my eyes, I still see her.
“Joe,” I intone, followed by a low, cackling laugh. “Is that all you’ve got?”
His eyes flit towards the door, then back to me. I see myself reflected in his expression, a demonic presence that thrives on blood and adrenaline.
“Give me what I want, and there’s another wad of cash in it for you,” I tell him. “Completely under the table without the madame taking her cut.”
He looks down at his feet, reluctantly, then gives a quick nod. With his beefy hand on my shoulder for leverage, he rears his arm back, then pummels his heavy fist into my solarplex. My body lurches forward, increasing the pressure on the restraints and nearly ripping my shoulder blades apart. My lungs constrict, desperate for the air that was knocked out of me. Yes. Now, we’re getting somewhere.
“You think that’s all I deserve?” I’m going light headed from the lack of air. My head rolls around on my neck as I struggle to lift it. “Do you know what I’ve done?” A montage of brutal, bloody memories collide against my skull. I see images of men, their heads blown off, of eyes draining of light as I tighten my hands around delicate neck bones and tendons, of women degraded for my perverse pleasure. I can feel Molly’s pain. And I can feel theirs too, in all its crushing intensity.
“I don’t know who you are,” Joe says, defensively.
Beware the Devil (Mafia Soldiers Book 3) Page 15