by Holly Hart
“Someone give the bitch some clothes before we move,” my brother growls over the sound of my chattering teeth. “I want to be the one who puts a bullet in her head. Don’t disappoint me by letting her freeze to death.”
Detective Mackey fishes my jacket from the back of the van and pulls it over my body. There’s a faint hint of apology in his eyes. With my wrists tied behind me, I’ve just become a walking hotdog, with no control of my own balance. Mackey grabs an empty sleeve where my arm should be, and leads me forward. His support is as reassuring as it is sickening.
It takes my eyes a couple of seconds to adjust to the darkness. It’s vast and empty. The blackness is punctuated by pinpricks of light hovering over the ground, like fireflies in the blackness of a desert. Lamps, marking paths: it’s Boston Common.
“What am I doing here, Michael?” I yelp as the detective pulls me along. I’m stumbling over the frozen ground. We’re moving too fast for me to trust my footing.
My brother spins on his heel to look at me. His face is as black as storm clouds at night. It’s hard to pick it out of the darkness. “Shut your mouth,” he growls, “or I’ll shut it for you.”
He gestures with the pistol in his hand. His meaning is clear. If I say another word, he’ll put a bullet in my skull. Mickey – Michael – starts walking forward again. I glance up into the detective’s eyes. His head is bowed, eyes misty. I need to focus on him. He’s my only chance of getting out of here.
We only walk about thirty paces from the parking lot. It’s still in sight, but we’re shrouded in darkness.
“You came,” a familiar voice calls out of the darkness. I look around, a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me. I can’t see anyone. I let my eyes adjust, and half a dozen faces appear. Matteo.
“All right,” Michael yells into the darkness, not bothering to make any pretense of subtlety. “I brought the bitch. Now what do you want?”
My body stiffens when I hear the way Michael’s talking about me. At any other time, on any other day I would slap him in his face. Unfortunately, that’s going to be difficult to do with my hands tied behind my back. But now I need to concentrate. I don’t understand what is going on anymore. I thought that I had convinced Matteo Lorenzi to take my side in this fight.
I guess I’m not as convincing as I thought.
My brother walks forward, brandishing his pistol; looking in every respect like a bandit from the old West. Tony follows a pace behind, but the detective hangs back, holding my arm. My brother is acting erratically, like he hasn’t thought this far ahead. I guess some things don’t change.
I would be the first to admit that Michael’s plan – up to this point – has worked like a charm. But a leopard can’t change its spots, and neither can my brother. I don’t understand how he can’t see that he’s throwing himself headlong into danger. Matteo has the manpower, and the advantage. If the old gangster wants to, he could kill us all and take control of the family. My blood runs cold, though not as cold as it will feel trickling down my skin. Now that I think about it, Matteo turning on us is exactly what I expect will happen.
I need to manufacture my own way out.
“Think about what you’re doing, Detective,” I whisper, low enough that there’s no way my brother can hear. “Is this worth dying for; worth losing sleep over for the rest of your life?”
I look to my right, to where the detective is standing. He’s shaking: the coward.
“What the hell do you expect me to do about it?” Mackey hisses. “I’m fucked, you’re fucked: we’re both going to die.”
I bite my tongue. The pain that surges through my body shakes loose the last stores of adrenaline left in my brain. Think. I need to think.
Headlights swing through the darkness like searchlights as a car squeals into the parking lot. The sound of stones crunching and ricocheting off each other fills the air as gravel flies out from underneath the tires.
“Who, the fuck, is that?” Mickey shouts at Matteo. His pistol waves from side to side, but Lorenzi doesn’t blink an eye. He just stands there, face impassive. He looks as uncaring as a stone gargoyle: weathered by the elements, staring down from his tower year after year.
Matteo shrugs. “How the hell should I know?”
We all turn and watch. A car door slams. A figure comes running out of the darkness. I blink with astonishment; it’s an old man. He’s dressed in an overcoat and the black pistol in his hand looks as out of place as a pacifier on a catwalk model.
“Lucio…” I whisper. My head is spinning. This development doesn’t make sense. If Lucio tries to save me,he’ll die.
“Michael,” Lucio pants, holding his chest, “Thank God. I heard that you were here. I came to help.”
My head sinks to my chest. If I had thought that I was alone before, now I know it’s true. If Lucio has turned on me … I can’t believe it. I won’t. I don’t.
My brother turns his weapon on the old caporegime. “Tony,” he barks, “cover Matteo.” He leers at Lucio, who is trembling with exertion. “What the hell are you doing here, old man?”
Lucio smooths his overcoat. “I serve the Family,” he says primly. He glances at me with wrinkled distaste. “Even when I disapprove of your actions, Michael, your wishes are my only concern.”
“Mickey,” Matteo shouts out of the darkness. “I don’t have time for a Family reunion. Are you ready to deal?”
My brother seems caught between two minds. He turns toward Matteo; then back to Lucio, face twisted with indecision. He looks back and forth, again and again – a pet choosing between two treats. I can almost sense the battle that’s going on in his brain.
“Clock’s ticking,” Matteo grunts out of the darkness. “You want your man, or not?”
I glance up. It almost feels …
… like Matteo’s playing him. My eyes narrow. I realize it’s true. Matteo knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s applying pressure, twisting the knife, squeezing the vice. Whatever your metaphor, Matteo’s putting it into action. He’s closing off all Mickey’s avenues of escape, one by one. The wily old mobster is pushing my brother in the direction he wants him to take.
Lucio walks forward. “Looks like you could use all the help you can get, Michael,” he says. His voice is calming and familiar, like warm socks on a cold winter’s morning.
Mickey grimaces. “You need to just back off, old man. If you die, it’s no business of mine.”
“Very well,” Lucio smiles, stepping back and out of Mickey’s eye line. As the old man moves, he turns his head, and I swear I see him wink. Something’s happening. I know it. It’s now or never, and if I’m going to escape this mess, then I need to add my weight to the scales.
“I can make you a hero, Detective,” I whisper to Mackey. This time, the detective’s eyes light up. It makes me sick to have to talk to him like this, but I finally see the detective for exactly the type of man he is. He’s a coward, and a fraud, but he’s also greedy. Not for money, but fame and recognition. There are things like that which can turn a man’s head as easily as a greased palm.
“What do you mean?” Mackey growls back.
“In about thirty seconds,” I guess, “things are going to get very hairy. When that happens, you’re going to have to pick a side. Choose carefully, Detective,” I say, sounding a whole lot more confident than I am inside, “because if you make the wrong decision, it’ll be your funeral. You understand?”
Matteo clicks his fingers. “Bring him out!” He grunts. My eyes are drawn to the sound of a body being dragged through dead leaves and grass in the darkness. My stomach plunges when I see Kieran for the first time. He’s a dead weight, held up by a man either side. His head swings freely, and it’s been pounded black and blue. I feel sick just seeing it. He looks on the verge of death. I start to wonder if I’ve got all of this wrong.
I let out a strangled cry of horror. My brother’s neck cracks around. His face twists with disgust at my weakness. I don’t care. Kieran means mor
e to me than a hundred of my brother: a thousand.
Matteo’s boys drag Kieran until he’s only a couple of feet from Michael. I can’t see my brother’s eyes, but he looks entranced. He can’t take his eyes away from Kieran’s bloody face. It’s like he’s a victorious general, desperate to show the world his success.
“Wake him up,” he orders, gesturing with his pistol.
“That,” Matteo says, “might be a bit tricky.”
Michael takes a step forward. His weapon is loose by his side. He’s relaxed, almost jovial. I can tell that he thinks he’s won. I see Kieran’s body flinch, then still.
“He’s no use to me dead,” Michael growls. “Show me he’s still breathing.”
Matteo beckons at Kieran’s hanging body. “See for yourself.”
Mickey leans forward, until his head is only a couple of inches from Kieran’s. Then, everything starts to happen very, very quickly.
Kieran explodes into action, surging forward faster than I would have believed possible for a person in his condition. The blood starts to race in my veins. I feel more alive than I ever have. I need to do something; I need to help.
“Now, Detective,” I yell. “Pick a side.” I tear myself free of Mackey’s grasp. I put one unsteady foot in front of the other, and run into the darkness of the Common. I know that as long as I’m in my brother’s clutches, I’m leverage. The whole picture starts to become clear in my head. Matteo, Kieran and Lucio, they are all working together. The best and only thing I can do to help, with my hands tied behind my back, is to take my piece off the playing board: to hide.
Hide – and avoid getting shot.
I duck behind a low bush and throw myself to the ground. It’s freezing cold, but I barely notice it. My attention is split between Kieran, who’s grappling with Michael on the ground, and the melee of action going on around him.
I see a blur, and look back where I came from. Mackey’s gun hand rises. He takes a hurried aim and pulls the trigger.
The crack of a bullet echoes across the empty common. For a second, everyone and everything seems to stop.
Tony Bianchi topples over. In the commotion, somehow everyone had missed him. His gun is aimed directly at Kieran’s back.
The detective trembles and drops his weapon. Lucio stands over him – an unlikely hero – brandishing his own pistol. He looks alive with excitement – and younger than he has in decades. “Get on your knees,” the old man growls. Mackey does as he is ordered, clasping his fingers behind his head.
The only people left fighting are Michael and Kieran. I struggle to my feet, and walk towards them as if in a daze.
Lucio calls my name, but I ignore him.
“Go to hell, Irishman,” my brother screams into the inky darkness, struggling underneath Kieran’s weight. His weapon comes skittering out along the ground and stops by my feet. There’s no way I can pick it up with my arms trussed behind me. I’m a helpless observer. Michael is like a banshee underneath Kieran, struggling, scratching, punching and biting whatever and wherever he can, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Just chill the hell out, will ye,” Kieran grunts. As usual, he doesn’t even sound ruffled, despite being in the midst all this violence. “I’m not going to kill ye –”
“I won’t let you!” Michael howls. I see a flash – the park lighting reflects off of polished stainless steel – from whatever Michael’s wielding in his hands. My stomach clenches, and somehow I shout a warning.
A second gunshot echoes around the park. I fall to my knees, my eyes blotted by tears. I don’t know who was shot. I don’t want to, just in case … I blink, shaking the tears away, and look up.
Matteo is standing over my brother’s bleeding corpse, gun held in both hands. “I’m sorry, Sofia,” he says, voice soft and apologetic, “I had to do it. He was going to –.”
I shake my head, cutting the old lieutenant off. “You did what you had to,” I sob. “Don’t apologize.”
I feel hands on me. It’s Lucio. He cuts me free, but I hardly realize it in the midst of the waves of relief and shock alternately sweeping over me. He pulls me up and swaddles me in his arms. I weep into his shoulder.
“You’ll be okay,” he whispers to me.
I sniff, trying to pull myself together. “I know,” I say, my voice coming out forced from the tightness of my chest, “I’m not crying for Michael: not for the man he became.” I pause to collect myself. I need to work out how to phrase something that is so simple in my head, but so hard to say. “I’m crying for the kid I knew.”
That’s it. That’s all. I don’t know why my brother turned into a monster. I don’t know what switch flipped in his head and made him choose that path. But I don’t have to remember the animal in him, just the good.
I weep into Lucio’s shoulder. He’s warm, and comforting, but he’s not what I need right now. I look up at his lined, weathered face.
“Thank you, old friend,” I say, so quietly he has to lean in to hear me. “Do you mind? There’s someone I need to see.”
25
Kieran
I walk towards Sofia. Even in the dim half-light cast by the lamps on Boston Common, I can see the redness on her cheek, and the blood underneath her fingernails. I’m so glad that she is alive, and mostly unharmed. But I feel like crap for putting her in danger in the first place. There’s no hiding from this. Every last bit of pain and terror Sofia was forced to endure … it was all my fault.
My boots crunch in the snow. As far as I’m concerned, everything else that is going on around us is just a circus. Matteo’s men are swarming: securing bodies; making sure no passers-by see what’s going on. We don’t need witnesses, not tonight.
Sofia doesn’t take her eyes off me as I approach her. The sadness on her face, the snow on the ground and my love for her; it all makes this feel like a screwed up nativity scene. The weight of her stare makes the journey feel a dozen times longer. It’s impossible to read her face.
Sofia takes a step towards me. I can’t tell whether she plans to kiss me, or tell me she never wants to see me again. She chooses option three; she slaps me in the face. The force knocks me aside. I bring my hand up to meet my cheek. Matteo’s men give us a wide berth. I don’t blame them. Nor do I blame Sofia. I understand why she did it.
“That,” Sofia growls in a yelled whisper, “is for embarrassing the hell out of me.”
I’m rocked backwards: more by the intensity of Sofia’s anger than the pain of her slap. “Embarrassing?” I mutter, surprised by her choice of words.
“But this,” Sofia smiles, stepping towards me and clasping my cheeks between her palms, “is for making it all up to me.” She presses her lips against mine and gives me the longest, deepest, most earth–shattering passionate kiss I can ever remember. It steals the breath from my lungs, soothes the pain from the wounds on my face, and makes me forget the cold. Right now, all that matters is Sofia’s touch.
My hands close around Sofia’s hips. She pushes her body against mine, as if craving my touch, my warmth. I pull back from the kiss, but she clings on, nibbling at my lip. I’d be happy to stay like this forever. But I can’t. There’s something I need to say: a guilt weighing down on me.
“Stop,” I pant.
Sofia peers at me through the darkness. Her face wrinkles with confusion and need. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” I mutter, saying words that hurt me to speak. “You’re in shock. You shouldn’t – we shouldn’t be doing this. Not right now.”
Sofia takes a step back. When the cold night air kisses my skin, I feel like I’ve lost more than just Sofia’s warmth. “Oh?” She purrs, raising her eyebrows dangerously. I should know better by now than to question her, but I can’t help it. I let her down: let her down when I was supposed to be protecting her.
I hang my head in shame. It’s the only response that makes any sense to me. If there’s one thing me Ma and Pa drilled into me over the years, it’s that there’s nothing more important tha
n taking care of family. And if the woman you love, and the mother of your child isn’t family, then I don’t know what is.
But there’s the whole damn thing, wrapped up in a neat Christmas parcel. I didn’t take care of Sofia. I didn’t protect her; not when it came to it. So what the hell does that make me; because I sure as hell don’t feel like a man?
“I’ll understand it,” I say, barely able to raise my gaze to look at Sofia, “if you don’t want to see me again. I deserve it.” The words physically hurt me as I speak them.
“You think that that,” Sofia growls, parting her hips with a display of Beyoncé-like attitude, “was a kiss goodbye?”
I look up. Sofia Morello reminds me of a tiger: elegant, even with the wounds of her kidnapping. She’s poised, powerful and in control. There’s a smile dancing across her lips, lighting up her bruised and battered face.
I want to let myself believe that she’s not messing with me, but I can’t. It would be like climbing to the top of Mount Everest only to slip and fall, my battered body tumbling the whole way down. I can bear a lot of pain: my face is testament to that. But I don’t think I could live with Sofia playing tricks on me, not right now.
“You’re serious?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Sofia giggles. “I mean,” she gestures at my bruised, swollen face, “you’re not exactly the Prince Charming that all the stories told me was going to come to my rescue. But you’ll do, I suppose…”
I rush towards Sofia; towards my girl, because that is what she is once again. I clutch her to my body, ignoring all the aches and screams of pain as I do. Hell, they fade away into insignificance, now. None of that matters, not as long as Sofia is by my side.
I press my lips against hers, kissing her with the same passion as she kissed me: maybe more. Sofia pushes me away, gasping for breath. “Kieran,” she groans. “Take me home.”
I’m on edge the whole way back to my place. Until Sofia is safe behind my locked door, my eyes won’t stop dancing left and right, looking for danger. Anyone that tries to mess with Sofia tonight – hell, ever again – won’t last a second. We pass through the lobby of my apartment building, and the concierge diplomatically forgets to point out that I’m leaving a trail of tiny violet droplets of blood on the floor.