by Ivy Fox
I shudder to think which version of Vincent I’m going to find.
I nod to the guards at the estate’s gate and drive up to the luxurious chalet. The snow-covered ground, plus the white forest surrounding it, make the estate feel that much more tranquil. However, I doubt I’ll find the same serenity behind the closed doors.
I step inside the silent house, and it doesn’t take me too long to discover what my best friend has been doing all day. Sitting on the floor, leaning against a couch disheveled and shitfaced, Vincent stares at the picture he has in one hand while drinking from an almost-empty bottle of Jack with the other.
“Day off, boss?” I say, leaning against the door with my arms crossed over my chest, taking this sad sight in.
Vincent doesn’t reply and instead drinks the remainder of the rich, dark liquor. He then throws the bottle next to its empty twin and proceeds to grab his third. He struggles to open it, too drunk and useless to twist the cap.
Shit.
I walk up to him and take the bottle away.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” I suggest, and once again I’m faced with his silence. My eyes seek out the frame in his hands, and I’m troubled to acknowledge being a picture of him and Pietro with their arms over each other’s shoulder when they were still kids.
“Was I happy here?” he finally asks, and the gravel in his voice hurts my ears as much as my heart.
“Hard to tell. You weren’t the most forthcoming with feelings and shit, even as a child,” I proclaim, sliding next to him and leaning my head back on the couch cushion.
“Hmm. I think I was. I had her. I had him. I had you and Gio. But then I lost it all,” he mumbles incoherently.
“You still have Gio and me.”
“Until when, do you think?” he asks, turning his bloodshot eyes toward me.
“Until we meet our maker, Vince. Does it really matter?” I question, looking into his dead, hazel eyes and praying he won’t go too far off into the abyss beyond our reach.
“No. It doesn’t,” he groans, placing the photograph, face down, on the floor next to him.
“Your housekeeper is going to be pissed when she sees the mess you made,” I divert.
“I saw Selene last night,” he announces, his tone flat and unresponsive.
“I know. She came to see me this afternoon,” I tell him and his resigned expression persists in slicing me in two.
“Hmm,” he mumbles.
“We’ll have to tell Gio.”
“That will be a problem. I need him focused on the assignment I gave him,” he rebukes, shaking his head.
“This is Red we’re talking about, Vincent,” I explain softly, as a parent would to an errant child.
He slams his fists vehemently on the floor, halting my reasoning words from leaving my mouth.
“I know who she is!” he shouts, and the dormant volcano shows its first sign of an impending eruption.
I don’t say another word and wait for him to cool down. It will be pointless to try having a logical conversation with him at this very moment. Not when he’s all raw flesh and fractured soul.
“I need a shower,” he says after a half-hour of total, agonizing silence.
I stand up and help him off the floor. I let him lean on me for balance as I take him upstairs into his bedroom, and then usher him into the master bathroom. He sits on the toilet and starts to undress the same clothes he’s been wearing since yesterday, while I prepare his shower, making sure he gets the cold waterfall to sober up.
“Can you stand up on your own?” I ask, making sure he enters the shower safely.
With his eyes closed under the cold spray, he nods.
“Okay. I’ll make you some coffee,” I tell him and leave him to his business.
I leave the room, heading toward the kitchen, and the minute I step inside, I call Gio without any hesitation or concern to Vincent’s warning.
“Pronto?” he says, and I hear the smile in his voice. It pains me how I’m about to be the bastard who’ll rob it away from him.
“Gio, its Dom. You have to come home. Now.”
“Shit, what happened? Is it Vincent?” he asks, unable to hide the panic in his voice.
“No. He’s fine. Well, sort of,” I mumble.
“The fuck, Dom! You almost gave me a heart attack. My imagination was already coming up with scenarios of how The Butcher or maybe your fucking BFF whacked our brother out,” he relents, pissed at me, but I just roll my eyes at his dramatics.
“Just shut the fuck up, Giovanni, and get your ass home!” I order, with no patience for his bullshit right now.
“Why?”
“Red’s back.”
EIGHT
Selene
While the uniformed guard double checks my ID, I sign my alias on the dotted line. He hands me the driver’s license back once he’s satisfied, and orders me to stand in line against the bleak white wall with the rest of the grim-looking visitors here. I’m not one to follow orders anymore, but I know this routine by now, and if I want to see James, I have to submit to the jailers’ demands.
One by one, each visitor’s belongings are searched, as well as the customary pat down to ensure no contraband makes it within the facility’s walls. The Cheatham County Jail likes to be known for having a zero-tolerance rule with any visitor trying to smuggle in goods for its inmates. But since I’ve been here every weekend for the past two months, I’ve seen enough to know that a few guards can be bought to turn a blind eye—a little piece of information which may become useful, if push comes to shove.
The loud ring of the opening door sends a cold shiver down my spine, as all of us file into the solemn visitors’ room with its round steel tables and bolted-down chairs. I loathe being in this place. I was sure I had escaped the despicable fate of visiting a loved one in a horrid facility such as this one. But karma seems to think it ironically funny to have me live out the same experiences I thought I’d run away from long ago.
It could be worse. At least I won’t have to talk to James behind a glass partition, separating us completely. It’s a small comfort to be allowed to hug him briefly at hello and goodbye. No other contact can be made, not even a simple, inoffensive gesture like holding hands. That’s crossing the line in the eyes of the law, apparently. This place was built to break spirits, not offer solace.
I take my seat nearer to a window, hoping the sight of the clear Tennessee sky will bring him some joy—a feeling he hasn’t been able to experience these last couple of months, something that I’m hoping to fix.
The clank of another opening door grabs all of the visitors’ attention as, one by one, orange jumpsuits come into view.
James’ eyes lock on mine immediately, and his endearing grin surfaces as he walks in my direction. After our three-second hug ends, he sits down opposite me with his carefree smile no longer in place.
“You look like shit, Beautiful,” he appraises, his brow furrowed in alarm. But I’m too worried to pay him any mind when he’s showcasing an ugly shiner and a split lip as its companion.
“You don’t look too hot yourself, Handsome,” I reply, trying to taunt him, but it falls flat as I see him cringe when he grazes himself against the table. He shifts until he’s found a sitting position comfortable enough, favoring his left side to avoid further pain. “Got some ribs broken there, too, huh?”
“What can I say? I’m a people person. Some of the fellas here like to play rough, and you know me. I hate to disappoint,” he jokes with his Nashville, country-boy swagger.
“Nice to see you’re making friends then,” I counter lightly, even though it hurts to look at him this way. It is unforgivable to me that such a strong man, who survived so much ugliness in his life, is forced to defend himself in a prison brawl.
“How are you? How is everything back home?” James questions, trying to divert my attention from his injuries.
“As expected, consideri
ng the circumstances,” I reply sullenly at his attempt to move the conversation to a safer topic. “Is roughhousing the reason why I couldn’t visit you last weekend?”
“Sorry about that, Beautiful. Had to spend some quality time with a hot nurse instead. You don’t mind, do ya?” He winks flirtatiously, and I have to smile at his optimistic spirits.
“Not one bit, Handsome. Knock yourself out.” I know he’s trying to make me laugh with his feeble attempts at provoking jealousy, but seeing his body so broken is no laughing matter.
“I have to get you out of here,” I mumble under my breath, not wanting anyone nearby to hear our conversation.
His teasing smile thins, and he takes a cautious look around before beginning the reprimand I know he’s itching to give.
“Selene,” he hushes out, so no one else hears him say my real name. “We talked about this. Let the legal system do its job. I’m an innocent man. The court will prove that.”
“James, how many times do we see murderers, rapists, and lowlifes get off on a technicality while innocent men get life sentences? The justice system is blind in more ways than one. I don’t have faith in it, and neither should you,” I reproach, annoyed he somehow still believes the truth will set him free.
“It’s all we have, and I need you to keep your wits about you, okay? I can’t think straight as it is inside this place, and if you start to fall apart, then I’m going to lose it. You hear me? Trust that everything will play as it should and, before you know it, I’ll be home,” he explains, and I see genuine belief in his eyes.
I adore this man for being the safe haven I longed for when I was so lost and broken, but his trust in people—and society as a whole—is so innocent and naive that it’s painfully aggravating. No beating or unjust circumstance could knock sense into him in thinking the contrary. He’s seen so much violence and despair, yet he continues to hold on to his rainbow-like vision of the human race. A sweeter woman would find the trait endearing. I find it mind-bogglingly frustrating.
“You do what you have to do, and so will I. Let’s see who is going to get you out of that disgusting jumpsuit and back home where you belong,” I advise adamantly.
“What are you talking about?” he questions suspiciously.
“You can’t stay here, James. Both you and I know you weren’t built to be incarcerated. You need the wind in your face and the sun on your back. This place and these normals will steal it away from you,” I sneer.
“Normals? You mean people? Haven’t heard you say that word in a long time,” he counters, crossing his arms over his chest and scrutinizing my every detail. “You haven’t done anything stupid, have you? Like, oh, I don’t know, take a trip to talk to people who may want to see you dead?” he adds, his quirked eyebrow now high on his forehead.
I lean back in my seat and mimic his statuesque, disapproving form in reply. He leans closer to the table, with little amusement in his dark brown eyes.
“Don’t do it. Not even for me, Selene. Don’t go to Chicago,” he pleads, and my eyes cringe at the sides at his aversion to my past life.
“I already did,” I deadpan with no remorse whatsoever.
“Sweet baby Jesus. You really are fixin’ for a game day, aren’t ya?” he scolds, eyes wide in fear. “They’ll murder, ya! Is that what you want? Leave me to mourn another death and—”
“Enough!” I shout and immediately bite my lip as my outburst gains unwanted attention from one of the guards. I produce a sweet, fake smile at the beady-eyed man and gather my composure to the placid, well-mannered, southern lady they believe me to be.
James looks thunderous in his worry, but I have little time for that as the bell rings, announcing the end of this short visit. He gives me another hug, this one tighter than his first, revealing just how anxious he feels.
“I’m fine, Beautiful. Trust me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself in here. Don’t do anything you may come to regret later. Okay?” he whispers in my ear, and I give him a small, rigid nod in reply.
I watch him return to his iron-barred cage, resolved in going through with my original plan, no matter how upsetting it is to him.
Although James wants me to let the legal system take its course, I know the evidence against him is too incriminating for any judge or jury to reach a ‘not guilty’ verdict. James has faith in the good guys and that they will do their jobs to clear his name.
Me?
I have a feeling only evil men will be able to help me get James home.
No matter the costs, I will end this nightmare one way or another.
NINE
Vincent
“Mr. Romano you have a visitor,” Lourdes, my housekeeper, informs me.
“Show them in,” I state, not looking up from my tablet screen, too preoccupied with the recent numbers that Antoine has sent me to care which made man now needs my undivided attention.
There isn’t a day that goes by without some asshole coming up to my house in search of a one-on-one with the capo dei capi to discuss their grievous concerns on the war I want to ensue on New York. Sometimes I think I should listen to Giovanni’s jesting suggestion of whacking the whole lot of them. The code prevents me—of course—but that doesn’t mean I’m not growing tired of their cowardly antics.
My uncle must be rolling in his grave with the despicable show of gutlessness exhibited by his former commilitoni. Greedy made men, who are way past their prime, yet they do not want to step down from their ruling position and give their seats to younger and more worthy mafia blood. I have begun to understand why my uncle was so adamant in retiring at a certain age. He already knew what I’ve only now begun to realize. In the Outfit, there is no room for the tired and weak-willed; only the young and fearless. While old men dread being introduced to the devil, the young laugh in his face.
A few minutes later, I’m interrupted once again from my analysis, with a light knock on my study’s door. Unfortunately, instead of the bothersome visitor I was expecting, an even less desirable guest stands at its threshold.
Selene is ushered into my sanctuary with shy smiles from my housekeeper. Her hair is slightly wet from the latest fall of Chicago snow. Lourdes takes her coat, revealing skin-tight clothes clinging to her, showcasing new curves she didn’t hold when she was younger. The change is both pleasing to the eye and a foul reminder to the heart, of the years she robbed from us.
“I see you finally remembered your manners and used the front door this time. Progress,” I remark critically and watch Selene gnaw at her lower lip, preventing herself from the snarky comeback that must be lodged in her throat.
Progress indeed.
“Lourdes, fetch our guest a towel before she wets my ten-thousand-dollar rug any further, will you?” I order, seemingly annoyed.
“Right away, Mr. Romano,” Lourdes answers back quickly, and I shift my stare back to my iPad, unperturbed with the silence in the room while we wait for my housekeeper’s return.
“Thank you,” Selene replies gratefully to the older woman in my staff and uses the towel to dry up her long blond hair. The change of hair color is a travesty she must have done in the attempt to conceal her identity. Thinking of the lengths she went to, in order to keep us all stupidly unaware of her whereabouts, irks me to no end.
“Do you need anything else, Mr. Romano? Some hot tea perhaps? For you and Miss…” Lourdes begins to ask.
“No. This visit should be rather short. I see no need for such pleasantries,” I interject harshly. My tone alone leaves no room for debate, making my housekeeper retreat in haste to complete her daily tasks.
But I don’t miss how she sneaks another glance at Selene, curiosity getting the best of her. Since I moved into this house, I have never once brought a woman to it, much less one as beautiful as Selene.
“I was under the assumption I had made my intentions quite clear last time you came around. I expected you to be miles away by now,” I tell her, my tone thin
and to the point, without a hint of emotion behind it.
“I told you, I need your help,” she explains with the same detached tone, and I feel this chess game of ours has just begun in her mind. I have long surpassed any childish game she has planned, and have no desire to play it whatsoever.
“And I told you to leave my city.”
“Guess we’re both hard of hearing.” She shrugs unapologetically and moves over to the lit fireplace for warmth.
“Or stubborn,” I grunt below my breath.
She continues to look into the flames, mesmerized by the fire, with her back turned to me while I take this unguarded minute and allow myself to be captivated by her beauty. It’s the first time I let my eyes take stock of each little, changed detail. Apart from the dyed hair, she looks stronger in body, and maybe even in soul, if she still has one—which I highly doubt.
Wearing a simple black sweater, blue jeans, and black knee-high boots, she looks like what any other normal might. Nothing really screams ‘remarkable’ with her clothing choices. Still, the air of strength and sophistication hovers over her—a quality I’m positive she tried to shed in order to blend in with the crowd but was never fully successful in doing so. She was groomed to be an Outfit’s principessa, and even if she wore a garbage bag overtop her frame, she wouldn’t be able to hide who she really is—mafia-born royalty.
Old habits die hard, it seems.
“You didn’t let me finish last time I was here, but I truly do like the place you chose for yourself. I always assumed you’d live at the Romano estate when you became boss. Finding this place was a pleasant surprise,” she says, never once moving her green emeralds away from the burning blaze.
Show me your eyes, tesoro.
I stand up from my seat, and head over to my corner bar, no longer comfortable with the faint whispers of my frozen heart. I pour myself a glass of whiskey and down it in one go.