His Witness

by Vanessa Waltz

  The talk around the table suddenly moves from girls to business, and I try to raise my head over the lustful cloud I’m sitting in to participate in the conversation, but all I can think about is her curves in my hands.

  * * *

  With my sleeves rolled back and my prey helpless underneath me, I feel like a god. Every cut is a catharsis. Blood pumps out of his wounds, the angry red color spilling from him. His screams channel my rage. They lift to the ceiling and bounce on the thick walls, which absorb the sound, and I feel cleaner. I drag the scalpel across his skin, frowning when it catches on tough tendon. Some of these blades are getting old. I’ll need to replace them. I throw it aside and instead I pick up a more blunt tool: a hammer.

  His eyes grow wide when he sees it. “No! NO!”

  The man strapped to my table raped one of the guys’ comares. I caught him peddling heroin outside a 7-11, lured him to my car, and then put him in a chokehold. Now he’s at my mercy, except there is no mercy for him. Not from Jack and certainly not from me.

  “Please!” he screams. “Please stop!”

  He’s a middle-aged man with a wedding ring on his finger.

  “Did you listen to her when she told you to stop?”

  The rape of our comares is a serious crime. No one touches a wiseguy’s girl without losing a few fingers. This guy won’t live to see another day. The pathetic bastard probably had no idea that the girl was connected. I despise men like him, not necessarily because of the crime, but because it’s too easy. It’s not fair. Only weak men prey on the weak.

  So I’m not going to fucking stop, no matter how much he begs. It’s mob justice. It’s cruel and unforgiving, but it’s fair.

  Starting with his hand, I smash. Each digit goes pop as I move from finger to finger. Smash. Smash. Smash. They crack, swell, and bleed. It hurts like a son of a bitch. I know it does, because the guy passes out from the pain.

  I open the bottle of ammonia and hold it under his nose, and then he’s awake again, screaming and thrashing.

  My knife fillets his flesh like a fish. None of his wounds will kill him. I’m keeping him alive to experience the most pain possible. The yellow fatty layer just below the skin peels back, revealing deep-red muscle tissue. His screams pierce my ears like knives.

  Making it in this life only works if everyone else is afraid of you, especially when you’re half-Italian. I’m such a huge target because I make so much money. I see the other guys watching me, just waiting for me to make one wrong move. They don’t think I see them, but I do.

  The same guys watching me right now.

  I hold two items in front of the man’s eyes. He can barely see me through his tears.

  “Choose.”

  Blowtorch or pliers?

  Red eyes flick back and forth. “No!” he screams over and over.

  Eventually they wear down to a single syllable. It gets boring very quickly, so I jab him in the knee. He chooses the pliers. They always do.

  I use the blowtorch instead.

  Hey, Jack said to make the bastard suffer. That’s what I’m doing. The smell of burning flesh is almost too much for me. Sometimes it reminds me of cooked pork and that alone is enough to make me gag. It’s too much for one of the guys, who leaves the room with a hand clamped over his mouth and nose.

  Sometimes I wish I could keep them for a few more days. There’s a lot more one can accomplish over a week rather than a few days, but Jack wants this one gone. Today.

  Like I said, I’m getting a little bored with this.

  When he’s finally dead, I slam a knife right into the center of his chest and look up over his bloodless corpse to the silent, judgmental faces watching. Hardened eyes look away from me. None of them can bear to look into the darkness.

  I brush past them to exit the room, past the chill of the meat freezers holding dozens of carcasses on hooks, and then I walk to the sink, furiously washing my hands. Suddenly I’m reminded of Melanie, and how she walked into the deli right after I’d washed my arms.

  It was such a shock to see her there, but I haven’t seen her much lately. It’s clear that she’s avoiding me. Why? I have no fucking idea.

  Maybe I should move on to someone else.

  I’m not obsessed with her, but it’s like getting your first hit of coke. The first time is so amazing, so incredible, that you can’t help but go back for a little bit more. She gave me a tease, and naturally I want more. I feel like she already gave me the green light, and all she needs is a little convincing.

  I just want to fuck her and move on at this point. That’s how it always is with me. Fuck them and move on to the next one. I see the other guys with relationships, with wives, and I really don’t see the appeal. They’re constantly compromising for them, doing this or that, and meanwhile they’re fucking their comares behind their backs anyway.

  What do they get out of it? I don’t understand it. I really don’t.

  Eyes avoid me as I enter the back of the deli, where Jack waits. “He’s gone.”

  Jack is a tall, imposing figure for a sixty-year-old man. Light of hair and eyes, he always makes me feel vulnerable. I’m self-conscious around him, maybe it’s because I’ve known him for so long. He tightens his jaw and nods stiffly. “Good.”

  He reaches around my back, smiling, grasping my shoulder with a tight squeeze. “Tommy, I need you to keep your eyes open.”

  Past the giant saws and refrigerators, there’s a large room with a pool table, an oak dining-room table, desks, and chairs. He leads me around and motions to a seat. All my life Jack has always been surrounded by people. There were always a couple guards hanging around him. Until now.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What happened with Ben was just—” he shakes his head. “I’m very worried, Tommy. Very worried.”

  My insides stir when I hear the dejected tone in his voice. He’s like a father to me, and I hate hearing disappointment from him. It makes my skin crawl. I sit down across from him, and the look on his face makes my guts twist. What happened? Is he upset with me?

  “What’s wrong, Skip?”

  “Keep your eyes and ears open for any more rats. There might be more.”

  Jesus.

  “Jack, you know you can trust me, right? I would never talk after everything you’ve done for me over the years.”

  “I don’t trust anyone, but if I did, it’d be you.”

  I sit up straighter in my chair. “Then why won’t you make me a member?”

  He looks up at me, suddenly much older than his age, his eyes pained.

  The first time he told me I could never become a made member, I was sixteen years old. It was probably the worst day of my life. All my life I wanted to belong somewhere. I wasn’t noticed at home. There, I might as well have been a ghost. There are some people who just go through the motions in life. They have kids, even though they have no interest in raising them. They just do it because it’s expected of them. My parents were like that.

  Jack made me feel special. For the first time, an adult actually showed interest in me. He’d ask me questions about what I wanted to do with my life, who was my favorite baseball player, and he’d listen to the responses. He’d lean forward on the table with his head in his hand and really listen as though he was interested. Jack threw me my first birthday party because I told him my parents never bothered with them. There was even a cake! I couldn’t believe it. I was so moved by the gesture that he practically had me eating out of his hand. He gained my loyalty basically by being the parent I always wanted and never had.

  When he told me I would never be made, I went home, locked myself in my bedroom, and cried for hours. The pain still resonates inside me, fifteen years later. It’s a bitter tang at the back of my throat; it’s the hollow beat of my heart. I wanted so badly to be accepted by him, and he denied me because of who I was. It was heartbreaking. I didn’t understand why it was so important that I wasn’t full Italian. What did it matter if I went through the same
training and pulled the same numbers as everyone else?

  “The books are closed,” he says without meeting my eyes.

  I let his voice ring in the empty room for a few moments.

  “Bullshit.”

  His head snaps up. “You know I can’t make you a member.”

  “Why not?”

  He just stares at me, pity swirling in his eyes.

  “Fuck this—” I stand up abruptly, but his hand snatches my wrist.

  “Damn it, Tommy, it’s not like I’ve a choice. Those are the rules.”

  I laugh hollowly. “You’re the boss. You can do whatever you want.”

  “What kind of example does that set if I make you and not others?” His fingers tighten over my wrist. “I give you every single protection that they get, and I let you get away with a lot of shit.”

  “Only because I make you so much fucking money.”

  The bitterness in my voice makes me want to spit on the floor. Jack’s eyes narrow.

  “Hey, it’s not about that. You’re like a—”

  “Like a son to you?” I finish his sentence with a smirk. “Come on, Jack. That might’ve worked when I was young—”

  “It’s the truth, you little shit.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t believe it anymore.”

  His fingers drop from my wrist and it’s like a frozen wall erects itself between us. Cold makes the hairs on my arm stand up, and I can’t see him anymore. I’m a snake and all I can sense is heat, but he’s completely cold. There’s nothing there.

  Maybe a flicker of fear.

  That’s when I know I’ve gone too far, because when your boss starts fearing you, that’s when throats get cut.

  MELANIE

  I always thought that I was smart, you know?

  Turns out that when there’s enough alcohol in me, I’m just as dumb as those girls hanging around the gangsters in my club. He kissed me and I let myself feel something for him. Who knows what could’ve happened if we weren’t interrupted?

  It just kills me.

  He’s like that one extra slice of chocolate cake, another drink when you know you’ve already had too much, a hit—just a small bump, just something to tide you over until the next thing comes along and sweeps you off your feet. When his charm is on full blast and I’m wedged beside him in a happy alcoholic haze, he’s almost impossible to resist. I know I shouldn’t, he’s bad for me, but I can’t help it.

  Like I said, I thought I was smart. I’m not. I’m a fucking idiot.

  The tangle of sheets around my legs and torso feel like ropes binding my limbs. Complete darkness greets me when I open my eyes, and I grab my phone, bewildered. I’ve no idea what time it is. Five p.m.

  Oh great. Only a couple hours until work. Fabulous!

  Already grumpy, I rip back the sheets and try to ignore the pounding in my head from that night. It keeps playing over and over again, and I can’t help but smile secretly into the sheets when I let the feelings from last night crawl over my breasts.

  I let him kiss me, and what’s worse is that I liked it.

  He was an incredible kisser. His mouth and tongue worked magic over me. I can only imagine what else he can do with his body.

  No.

  The steamy thoughts grind to a halt. This can’t happen. I swore to myself I’d never get involved with one of them, and for good reason. They’re dangerous. Even Tommy. Especially Tommy.

  But is he dangerous to me?

  I step into the shower and try to let the hot jets of water scour every trace of attraction I feel for him. Instead my chest heats up as I imagine him cornering me inside the shower, smiling down at me with that devilish grin. His hand wraps around my neck and he closes the space between our bodies, my breasts flattened against his carved chest. Then the intoxicating warmth of his mouth smothers mine, and his hand slides down my body and cups the heat between my legs. I back against the shower wall as he curls a finger inside me, the water not quite masking how wet I am.

  The water pelts my face as I snap out of my daydream, my nipples hard in the hot water. Jesus, this isn’t working at all. I still want him.

  Of course you want him. When was the last time you’ve been laid?

  Good question.

  I just have to keep staying away from him, that’s all. It’ll fade. I imagine Tommy disappearing from the club, discouraged. I imagine him not coming back anymore, and it’s the strangest thing. I almost feel like crying. My chest tightens.

  On some level, I liked the attention. I was flattered that he kept coming back, over and over, even though I kept rejecting him. He’d utter sweet things in my ear every time, no matter how nasty I was to him. I know he just wants to fuck me, but he did get to me. I’m misty eyed just at the thought of never seeing him again, maybe because he was the only guy who gave me that kind of attention. I’m always at the club, working, never having a moment to myself.

  Should I take a chance with him?

  I dry myself off and apply my makeup wearily, knowing that I’ll never give Tommy a chance. It’s just not smart to get involved with someone like him, no matter how sweet he is to me.

  Mom and Dad sit on the couch, watching Portuguese channels, and I feel a sudden surge of anger. It’s so intense that I tremble on the spot, fighting back the bizarre urge to yell at them.

  Mom’s bright face turns toward me. “Going out?”

  “Yeah, I slept in too late.”

  “You should eat something, sweetie!”

  The name stirs the monster inside me, and I’m like a viper. “I’m going to be late for work,” I snap.

  Wrenching open the door, I lose her angry retort as I slam it behind me. I jog down the steps and notice a pretty girl dressed in slacks, her face set in stone. She looks sort of familiar. I pass right by her, hurrying toward the subway.

  “Melanie.”

  A deep, mature voice sounds behind me. It’s the girl. I turn around, my mouth gaping as I see Michelle. It’s Michelle, but everything is wrong. Her hair is slicked back into a neat ponytail, her makeup is nonexistent, and her false nails are gone. What the fuck? She looks like a completely different person.

  “Michelle? What are you—?”

  She slips her hand inside her jacket and pulls out something. Something with a shiny metal badge.

  No way.

  “Agent Spencer, FBI.”

  All the warmth drains out of my body and I sway on my feet, catching myself on a tree. Oh fuck. Oh Jesus Christ! I’m fucking dead!

  “No fucking way!”

  A sleek black sedan rolls to the curb and Michelle steps aside to open the door. “We’d like you to come in to talk.”

  The car might as well be my hearse. I step backward, shaking my head. “No, I’m not going to fucking talk.”

  “Trust me, Melanie. You want to hear what we have to say.”

  “Trust you?” I raise my voice incredulously. “Trust you!”

  Those lips I hardly recognize curl into a smile. “If I were you, I’d forget about how angry you are with me and focus on yourself.”

  Fuck.

  I look around the street. Jesus, any of them could be here, watching me. My heart pounding, I reluctantly slide into the car, even though everything inside me screams not to.

  Michelle slides in next to me and gives me a small smile, and I try to resist the urge to give her the finger. My eyes sting with tears when I realize how much she saw in the back, and all the time she was an FBI agent. Probably sent to gain my trust, and it fucking worked. She’s a fucking duplicitous snake. A bitch.

  I trusted her.

  “Is your name even Michelle?”

  She shrugs apologetically and I bury my face in my hands. “Oh God.”

  The car ride is silent, but my thoughts scream in my head. What am I going to do? Fuck, they’re going to kill me. They’ve got me for something. Who knows what? She’s seen so many things in the back—why the fuck did I let her go in the back?

  I agonize over it as
they bring me to a nondescript building somewhere. It must be some kind of secret fucking black-ops hiding place they have for snitches. Michelle, or whatever the fuck her name is, takes my arm to lead me inside. I pull away from her as disgust rises in my throat. I cannot tolerate her right now.

  My body shakes violently when they take me into a claustrophobic room with three blank white walls and one giant two-way mirror. Four men and women, including Michelle, sit down in front of me and I feel as if I’m about to endure some kind of panel interview, and they’re about to judge my fate.

  “I’m Agent Palmer.” A balding man with a morose expression addresses me.

  “A-Am I under arrest?”

  “Not at this time, but that can change depending on your choices.”

  Michelle slides a piece of paper across the table, and I gasp out loud when I read the title.

  “That’s a search warrant for your club, your office, and your drugs.”

  “It’s not—” I bite my lip suddenly and fight the tears threatening to spill over my lids. I can’t say anything. I can’t let them trick me into admitting anything.

  They’re not my drugs, and she knows it.

  “We’re offering you a chance to get out of this, Mel,” she says, leaning in, her eyes harder than I’ve ever seen them. “You told me so many times how you wished you could get out.”

  “I did not,” I growl.

  “I have it on tape.”

  Heat enflames my chest as I stare at that bitch. She taped me? Actually taped me?

  “We’re building a RICO case against the members of the Vittorio Crime Family: Vincent Cesare, Joe DiFiore, Paulie Marziliano, Nicky, and anyone else we can rope in. We need your help.”

  Oh my God.

  My heart hammers against my chest as I look at each of them, hoping that this is an elaborate joke. “Are you fucking crazy? There’s no way I’ll testify against them.”

  I wouldn’t last a day.

  “We would protect you and your parents. You’d be sent to the Witness Protection Program, and all charges against you would be dropped.”