LUCA_Her Ruthless Don

by Theodora Taylor

  “He’s barely said a word all day, and he’s been on his phone since we left church,” Ma points out, glaring at Greggi and his oldest son as best she can with all the injections she and Aunt Peg got while “dropping off a ziti” for Stone and Rock in the city.

  “Z’s in town,” I answer. “We’re trying to see if him, me, and Holt can hang out tonight.”

  “Oh, the Muslim roommate and the Cal-Mart royalty,” Ma answers with a roll of her eyes. It was Dad’s idea to do me better by sending me to an exclusive boarding school called Beaumont in Connecticut. And even though we moved to a mansion in Elizabeth right after Grandpa and Uncle Tonio went west with double life sentences, Ma never managed to make many friends outside the old neighborhood in the decade-plus since we’ve been living here.

  “Doesn’t Cal-Mart have a kid now?” Aunt Peg asks. “I thought I read that someplace.”

  I don’t answer, because like I’m going to talk with Aunt Peg about Holt’s miserable dad-approved wedding and heir spit out. But I don’t text Zahir the answer he wants either. “Sorry, bro, got to study for these finals. Can I send somebody to the apartment for you or make you a special reservation at The Clubhouse?”

  Zahir’s got certain…guess you’d call them sex vices. And this is what I do when I’m not pretending to be an upstanding grad student with a bright future in the disaster clean-up industry. You want drugs? I’m your guy. You want girls? My family owns one of the best “adult entertainment” venues in the city-so upscale we call it The Clubhouse and charge a five-figure membership fee. Guns? Intimidation? Murder-for-hire even? You know who to text. Some of the most powerful under-30s in the nation know to contact me for whatever dirty deed they need to be done—granted, not at all dirt cheap. I listen to way more Sinatra than AC/DC. But the point is, I’m pretty fucking great at the vice game, and only getting better.

  However, Zahir’s my best friend for a reason. Instead of telling me what I can do for him, he asks, “What is going on? You have not been available the last two times I’ve come to the city.”

  “Long story—” I start to answer, but before I can finish, Ma snatches the phone out of my hand and slaps me in the back of the head for daring to text at her dinner table.

  I’m looking forward to escaping back to the city, but before me and the twins are done rolling up our sleeves for the Sunday night dishes—our lifelong penance for not coming out girls, Dad says, “Get your jacket. You can keep me company during the visits tonight.”

  Can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve been acting sketch all winter into the spring, and Dad only takes me out on Sunday night visits when he wants to talk to me. Alone.

  The Sunday visits aren’t all about coffee and light-hearted conversation, but my dad acts like they are, even as the owners of all the mom and pop restaurants we visit, slip him envelopes of money after offering him dessert and cups of coffee. Technically, Greggi could do all this for him, but Dad’s old school. Greggi’s fine for extorting the non-Italians, the spics and the blacks and the people Dad didn’t grow up with. But when it comes to the restaurants passed down from father to son, Dad likes to do the rounds himself. Chat like old friends with the owners and take their coffee and desserts without ever paying for them.

  “Fuckin’ Chinese are getting bolder every day,” Dad says on our third dessert and coffee at Brandani’s. This is one of those places that won’t be around much longer, I can tell. Sunday night, and we’re the only people on the premises. The restaurant is so empty, Greggi and the over-talkative older son he started training as a future capo when Dad made him the underboss take a position outside the window we’re sitting at—just in case this is some kinda setup.

  But Dad seems more interested in the new dry cleaner across the street from the restaurant. “Greggi tried to have a little talk with them the other day, and they said they’ve already got protection. Might not have much of a legacy to leave you after you take over.”

  I shake my head. “Extortion’s a dying game. Not even worth the effort. Cyber and washing where it’s at far as I’m concerned, and with these real estate investments I’ve been making…”

  We talk business present and future for a while, but eventually, Dad sets his cup of decaf down and asks, “So…is there a girl?”

  I glance at Greggi and son on the other side of our empty restaurant window. Then I make a calculated decision to tell Dad most of the truth. “Yeah, there is. But she ain’t the bringing-home-to-mom type. Kind of like Rosalita.”

  At the mention of the mistress Dad keeps at the house in Texas, Dad raises his eyebrows. “She cartel?”

  I shake my head. “Law student, and…” I wave a hand down my face. The universal sign for “black” and Dad nods.

  “You’re over at her place most of the time?”

  I shrug, not wanting to fully explain to the current head of the Ferraro family about why I’ve been spending so much time with the daughter of the enforcer who kidnapped me…or let him know she’s not dead like the reports claimed, after all, “She’s got a grad apartment right next to the school. Real convenient.”

  “She in her last year like you?”

  I nod, resisting the urge to shift uncomfortably in my seat because I don’t like how close this conversation is coming to blending the two identities I’ve been living since my transfer to Columbia.

  And he decides for me, “Keep her if you want. Get her a place in the city for after she graduates. But Ma’s not waiting forever on grandkids. You’re twenty-seven. That means you’ve got five to six years, tops, to find yourself the kind of girl you can bring home.”

  I nod in agreement, but there’s a sour feeling in the bottom of my stomach, and it’s got nothing to do with the shit coffee I’m drinking.

  “You going out with the Muslim and CalMart tonight?” he asks. “Taking them to The Clubhouse?”

  Unlike with Ma, this isn’t a question rooted in disapproval. Dad’s got big plans for me. The kind that will make me untouchable, and me getting buddy-buddy with a bunch of future power players is part of that plan. Zahir and Holt are friends. Bros for real. But they’re the only two. All the rest of my friends are just people I’m angling. I do dirt for them now, knowing the early investment in the spoiled scions of the rich and most powerful will pay off when I’m the head of the family and in need of favors of my own.

  I shake my head. “Got finals.”

  He looks at me for what feels like a full minute before saying, “That’s why I keep Rosalita in Texas. Less distracting.”

  “I’m not seeing her tonight,” I tell him. And that’s true. But Dad’s still watching me. Close. And I know he knows what I’ve been trying not to know since me and Amber first hooked up. That I’m in too deep. That I’m not acting or thinking like a future crime boss when it comes to her if I’m blowing off two important business contacts to study. He’s more right than he thinks. Because the truth is, I’ve spent over three months trying to gain access to information Stone would’ve gotten out of her in under three hours.

  But a chill runs down my back at the thought of handing Amber over to my savage cousin. Yeah… more than a little bit of me can’t stand the idea of Stone laying a finger on her. Much less a fist—or a knife.

  “Sometimes I think I should’ve gone with the original plan,” Dad says quietly. “I was all set to go legit after they sent Dad and Tonio away, but then you got kidnapped, and it pulled me right back in. Changed you, too. Christ, I’m ready to retire and leave all this bullshit behind. It’s starting to keep me up at night, you know?”

  I shake my head, unsure what to say. Because true, the kidnapping changed me, too. Made me harder, stronger, unafraid of anything or anyone. And yeah, I could have lived the original plotline. Taken over the Disaster Disposal business, turned it the legit, worldwide thing like Dad had been planning. Maybe still will. But as the head of the Ferraro family. Because unlike my Dad, the shit we do doesn’t keep me up at night. Only the though
t of that Peretti fucker still breathing unretaliated against, keeps me from getting my eight recommended hours of Zs.

  Except when you’re with her, a snide voice reminds me in the back of my head. You sleep like a baby in her no-frills cotton sheets bed.

  Dad and I don’t have much to talk about after that. Stone and Rock pick me up from the restaurant, and maybe they’ve been given an extra set of orders from their real boss behind my back because they come up to the apartment instead of going out that night.

  I dutifully study, just like I told Zahir and Dad I would. Then I call it around ten.

  “You two can still go out,” I remind them.

  But for once they act like twins, both of them crossing their arms over their wide chests as Rock says, “Night, Luc.”

  “Night,” I answer

  I decide not to call her as I take off my suit. Not because I don’t want to, but to prove a point. That I don’t have to, that I can get to sleep between my 1000 thread-count Egyptian sheets without her.

  But instead of climbing into bed, I reach into the messenger bag I use for school and pull out the burner phone with the mirroring app.

  “So, I guess I’m his girlfriend now?” I see she’s written to that future princess best friend of hers, and I can tell she’s just as confused about this “relationship” of ours as I am.

  I read the rest of the text exchange between her and Talia, smiling at her description of our situation. Unable to agree or disagree, even though it’s all a lie.

  But then my eyes widen at the next notification. An email sent from a Yahoo account I’ve never seen her use before to another email account with an all numbers username.

  My heart speeds up as I tap to open the copied message…

  “Dear Daddy, I met a boy…”

  Triumph dark and savage slithers through me, as I sit down on my large bed to read the rest of the message.

  Finally.

  6

  Somethin’ Stupid

  Amber

  “Heya, Reynolds,” Jake says when I let him into the apartment Monday night. He presses a kiss to my lips, and then I hear the sharp inhalation. “Smells fucking amazing in here!”

  “It’s the oil and garlic for the scallop and scallion stir-fry I’m making.”

  “Sounds great,” he says.

  “We’ll see…” Since Jake doesn’t eat Italian or weekday carbs, I’ve been experimenting with a lot of new recipes that go beyond what I grew up cooking with Mom.

  I rush back to the kitchen and can hear his wingtips clipping against the wood floor. He comes to stand at the counter just inside the kitchen’s arched entrance where I keep the Jawbone he got me.

  “Siri, play ‘Frank Sinatra, Best of Vegas,’” he commands into my phone. A few seconds later, a 60’s-era voice announces Frank Sinatra. And what sounds like a big band starts up the intro for “Luck be a Lady.”

  This recipe doesn’t take too long. I throw scallops, yellow squash, snow peas, and red peppers into the wok Jake showed up with one day and then tell Siri to set a timer for two minutes.

  Less than ten minutes and a little plating help from Jake later, we’re seated on the couch with dinner in our laps while Sinatra tells the band to get their horns up for “New York, New York.”

  We talk about our day. Jake spent his with his Brand Management Case Study group going over their final presentation. I got the last of the research in for my Non-Profit Law and Policy paper. We make a plan to spend tonight gathering all the notes for our Public Health Law and Policy seminar.

  But when Jake returns from washing our dinner dishes, instead of fishing his noise-canceling headphones out of his bag so he can study without my Voiceover interrupting him, he takes the laptop I just opened away.

  “Hey!”

  “How about we have some fun before studying tonight?”

  The next thing I know, I’m in a new position with my back resting against the arm of the couch.

  “Is this about me falling asleep the last time we studied together?” I ask as he drags my joggers and underwear down my hips.

  “It ain’t not about that.” he hooks both my legs over his shoulder. “Plus, I didn’t get to see you last night.”

  Because of the family dinner. The one he never invites me to go to with him. Talia’s “That’s weird” barges into my mind like an uninvited guest.

  But the intrusive thought gets shown the door when Jake’s mouth presses into my core, tongue diving deep.

  I grab on to his thick waves of hair. It’s longer than when we first hooked up in early February. Also, softer and silkier now he’s given up styling products. For me. Because I like running my hands through his hair when he does this to me…

  I come faster than I want, but that’s no longer unexpected these days. Jake’s really, really good at this. So good, I’m still panting from the orgasm when he sits up from in-between my legs. I hear the tearing of foil, and then he’s back.

  He starts to grab my hand like he always does at this point, but instead, I entwine his fingers with mine and say, “That’s okay.”

  “You trust me now?” he asks, voice casual but fingers squeezing mine tight.

  I keep my voice casual, too, but it feels like the most serious moment ever when I say, “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  “Alright,” he says, covering my chest with his. I feel his grin against my lips as he kisses me. Part one of what I’ve come to know as the deliberately slow tease that is sex with Jake.

  I don’t mind how much time he takes now. In fact, I really like it. He truly is a good boyfriend, I admit to myself as he presses hot, biting kisses into my neck.

  “You know,” he murmurs against my throat. “I was thinking about buying you a place when the school year is over.”

  I stiffen beneath his next neck kiss. “Wait? What?”

  “You have to move out of student housing when the school year’s up,” he answers between kisses like it’s no big deal. “Let me buy you a place. Maybe in Morningside Heights.”

  “Why would you do that?” I ask, my voice becoming shriller by the second.

  “I dunno.” He keeps on with the sensual kisses. “Good investment. Nice thing to do.”

  “Okay, stop. Just stop.” I shove at his shoulders to let him know this isn’t banter. I’m not joking. “Get the fuck off me!”

  “What going on, baby?” He sits back, giving me enough room to stand.

  I move my foot around until I find the pants he tossed on the floor. I don’t want to be naked with him anymore.

  “Baby…what’s going on?” Jake asks again as I pick up the pants and shake out the underwear so I can put them on.

  “Get out,” I say, stepping into the joggers.

  “What?”

  I scrape a frustrated hand over the hair I’ve been wearing short and unadorned since the night we hooked up.

  “You heard me. Get out! Now! Get out! Get out! Get out!” I’m screaming now, and I probably look like a crazy person. But I don’t care. “GET OUT!”

  A long beat of silence. Then I hear him moving around and the soft brushing sounds of clothes being picked up. I listen to him put back on the suit he wears to class with my eyes averted. Which for me is one of the meanest things I can do to a sighted person. I usually try to train my eyes on whoever I’m talking to. But while he gets dressed, I don’t so much as acknowledge he’s in the room.

  He must get how serious I am about wanting him out of my apartment. Because the next thing I hear is the click of my front door opening and the slam of it closing behind the guy I almost let myself get used to thinking of as my boyfriend.

  Jake is gone. I sit down on the couch in the aftermath of his departure. Trying to adjust to this new reality with Frank singing “Witchcraft” in the background.

  I’ve got to tell Siri to stop playing that stupid album, but I don’t. Instead, I listen to that song and all the ones that come after it, until
Siri stops without a command. Because the album has finished. It’s done. Over…

  I already miss him, I think before I have the chance to shove the thought down.

  Dammit…why did he have to offer me an apartment? Things were going so well… I was just beginning to feel—well, if not totally okay with being in a healthy relationship like a normal woman my age, a little more at ease with the possibility.

  I decide not to think about it. I don’t have time to think about it. I have a paper due. And Jake was right about me needing to find a new place to live—I really have to get on that…and get on with the rest of my life, too. But where did Jake put my laptop?

  I go over to the desk to pick up my phone, so I can use my Tile app to find it. The laptop, like all my essential items, has a Tile Slim square adhered to the bottom so it can make a noise to alert me where it is when I use the app.

  But when my fingers brush over the desk to find my phone, they make contact with the bumpy rubber case I keep my laptop in.

  Jake put it on my desk for me so I wouldn’t have any problem finding it.

  The thoughtfulness of his gesture makes my eyes hot with tears. Ones I try to sniff back. There’s no reason to cry. I did the right thing. The only thing.

  But when a knock on my front door suddenly interrupts my rationalization party, I instantly rush across the apartment to answer it. Knowing before I open it who will be on the other side.

  The smell of his cologne and the warm cinnamon-and-spice aroma of an apple pie hit my nose as he says, “Obviously, we both need dessert.”

  I kicked him out of my place and Jake, who never eats carbs or sugar on weekdays, came back. With dessert.

  Jake and I are not huggers.

  Kissers? Passionate love makers? Sure. Sign us up. All day and all night. Huggers? No.

  Yet I throw my arms around his shoulders, squeezing him tight as I say, “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

  I hear his breath hitch with surprise…right before he hugs me back. The small bag with the pie bumps against my bottom as his long arms enfold my waist.

  Then comes a soft thump which I realize must be his foot kicking back against the door when I hear it click closed.