by B. B. Hamel
And didn’t see him anywhere.
I walked to the right, away from the big, wide staircase, and over toward the Rocky statue. There was a line for pictures and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the tourists. Philadelphia had to so much to offer, so much rich and important history, and all people wanted to do was come take a picture with stupid Rocky.
It wasn’t even that good of a movie.
Okay, well, the first one was good. But the rest of them were stupid.
I walked down a shady, tree-lines sidewalk that nestled up against the Parkway. Cars whizzed past, driving way too fast for how many pedestrians there were wandering around like morons. I slowed and stopped, arms crossed over my chest, and wondered if he was just messing with me.
When I heard my name.
I turned and saw him, standing in the Rocky line.
I walked over, mouth hanging open. He wore a dark suit, similar to the one from earlier, but different. It was tighter somehow, and he wasn’t wearing a tie anymore. He stood behind a pair of older boomers with big, floppy hats and cargo shorts, and in front of a family of young kids and two harried-looking parents with zoned-out expressions.
“What are you doing?” I asked him.
“Getting a picture with Rocky.”
I shook my head and laughed, not sure what else to do.
“But, I mean, you live here,” I said.
“So what?” He grinned at me, head cocked. “I never got a picture with him before.”
“You remember when it used to be up there?” I asked, gesturing toward the top of the steps.
“Of course. I made my father call Mayor Street when the statue got moved.”
“Was he even in office?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Who knows,” he said. “Probably not.”
I laughed and shook my head. “You’re insane.”
“I’m a Rocky fan, that’s all.”
I sighed and stood close to him as the line slowly moved. People stood with Rocky, took a few pictures, mostly with their arms shoved in the air in triumph.
“You ever do this before?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I don’t even like Rocky all that much.”
He gave me a sideways glance. “No kidding?”
“The first one was okay,” I said quickly. “And the most recent one. With, uh, what’s his name?”
“Michael B. Jordan,” Vince said. “Yeah, I liked that one too. Even the sequel.”
“I just, I don’t know. It just seems so silly. This stupid statue gets more traffic than the Liberty Bell.”
He snorted. “No, it doesn’t,” he said. “There’s no way. Come on, it’s just a fun thing the city does. I didn’t realize you were such a jaded journalist already.”
“And I didn’t know you were so soft.”
He laughed as we moved forward again. The boomer couple took their turn, alternating poses and taking pictures.
“I’m not soft,” he said, his voice low. “But I don’t have to prove anything to you.”
“No, you don’t,” I said.
It was our turn. He gestured for me to step up and pulled his phone from his pocket. I hesitated then walked to the statue. I stood next to it, feeling awkward, and I could feel everyone staring at me.
“Come on,” he said, “you just made it to the top of the steps. You’ve been training so hard, it’s the end of the montage, you gotta be excited. Fists up in the air, girl.”
I caught a few people smiling at him and I couldn’t help myself. I thrust my hands in the air and he laughed, took a few pictures, then nodded.
“All right, got it,” he said.
“Your turn.” I gestured at the statue.
“Hell, no,” he said and slipped his phone back into his pocket.
I gaped at him. “Wait, what?”
“No way in hell am I getting a picture with that fucking thing.” He laughed and put an arm around my shoulders. “Come on, journalist. Let’s go have a chat.”
I shook my head and laughed, unable to help myself. He steered me from the crowd and I slipped out from under his arm. He winked at me and led me back down past the crowds, along that shady path, and toward the back of the museum. We walked up a hill and toward the Schuylkill River, toward the Fairmount Water Works.
We walked along a wide-open concrete square with a fountain in the center. The Water Works were built into the side of the retaining wall that housed the Schuylkill River. They were old buildings, probably from the 1890s, with marble and white walls, lots of columns, and green roofs. They sat right against the river and used to help bring water into the city, although it hadn’t been active as an actual waterworks for some time.
He angled away from the buildings and led me to the edge of a black spiral staircase. I slowed and stopped as he stood at the end and looked back at me. I’d never seen that staircase before, and for all I knew it led right down into the water.
He grinned at me. “Come on,” he said. “This is my favorite part of the city.”
“What’s down there?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes. “Come on.”
I watched as he descended the staircase. It rocked under his weight and I could’ve sworn it was about to pull out from the wall and tip into the river below.
But I took a step out and looked down.
The spiral staircase led directly onto a ledge down below, maybe ten feet wide, with a concrete path down the middle and grass and trees on either side. I took a breath and followed him, my hand on the railing, praying that the thing wouldn’t break apart and send me falling.
I made it to the bottom and jumped off the last step. I stumbled but he caught me, a little smile on his face.
“Careful,” he said. “Dangerous down here.”
I blinked and looked around. It was a path that led through some bushes, some small trees, and rocks on either side. He took me along it, strolling slow. There was nobody else around, though I spotted old needles in the grass near the gray stone retaining wall, some empty Doritos bags, some plastic water bottles.
“Wow,” I said. “I didn’t know this was here.”
“Not many people do,” he said. “It’s not really advertised. They renovated it a few years back, made it nicer, but that just made it more appealing to homeless people.” He walked on and tugged me with him.
I looked out at the river, at the water moving slowly beneath the bridge that connected West Philly with the rest of the city. Cars crawled along fifty feet above the gently lapping waves. I bit my lip and breathed deep, and the air smelled like gasoline and grass.
He took me around a bend and toward a rock that jutted out over the water. I hesitated as he walked out along it then gestured for me to join him.
I took a few hesitant steps. The stone was large and definitely natural. I guessed whoever had made this little spot decided to keep it. The rock sat out above the water by a few feet, and Vince walked right to the end with a smile on his face.
I joined him, though stayed back from the edge.
“This is the best place in the city,” he said. “Quiet, secluded.”
“Dangerous,” I said.
He nodded and didn’t look back. “Dangerous,” he said. “Imagine if someone came. They could shove us right into the water. What could we do to stop them?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But you don’t make me want to stay here.”
He turned and faced me. I was very aware of how close we stood, maybe three inches between us, both of us shoved together on a boulder out above the Schuylkill. I had the crazy idea that he might throw me in and leave me there to drown, all because I had the nerve to approach him.
But then I looked into his eyes and my heart skipped a beat.
He stared at me like he wanted me. His head tilted to the side, his handsome lips smiling ever so slightly. I wanted to touch the stubble on his cheek and barely managed to stop myself.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier,” he
said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He tilted his head. “I’d like to do it.”
I blinked and took a step back out of sheer surprise.
“Really?”
“Really.” His smile got bigger. “But I have conditions.”
“Of course,” I said too quickly and stopped myself.
He laughed and stepped toward me. I stumbled back from him and my foot slipped. I nearly fell backward, back onto the concrete sidewalk, but he grabbed my arm then slipped his other hand behind my lower back.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said. “You just surprised me.”
“Don’t worry,” he said then helped me down off the rock. “Come on.”
My heart raced as I followed him down the path again. We headed toward the waterworks, and he stopped at a large bench built in around a tree near steps that led back up to the main park. He sat down and crossed his legs.
I sat down next to him, leaving a few inches between us.
“This is what I’m thinking,” he said. “The most obvious thing is you can’t ever use my name. And you can’t use my associates’ names. Everyone get fake names, and the details have to get screwed up. It can’t be obvious that you’re writing about me.”
“I think I can manage that,” I said. “I’m not sure exactly how, but I’ll try.”
“Good.” He nodded and stared out at the water. “I want you to show me what you write before you publish it. I won’t try to stop you, no matter what you say, unless it’s too revealing of my identity. Do you think that’s fair?”
I bit my lip and shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t give you say over that. If I put my time into this, you can’t be able to just… shoot it down.”
He frowned at me for a moment then shrugged. “Fine then. But still, show it to me before you publish.”
“That’s a deal.”
“All right then.” He shifted in his seat and looked at me. “Last condition is the most important one. I want you to come stay with me.”
I reared back and stared at him. My heart did a double beat and I took a sharp breath to steady myself.
“What do you mean, stay with you?”
“If you want to do this right, you’ll need to be my shadow,” he said like it was no big deal. “You’ll move into my place, stay in a guest room. You’ll follow me around for the next couple of weeks. When I go back to New York, that’ll be the end of our arrangement.”
“But, I don’t… I can’t just… you want me to move in with you?” I gaped at him and felt a bead of sweat run down my back.
Out on the river, two kayaks glided past.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m a perfect gentleman.”
“No, you’re not,” I blurted out.
He laughed and stretched his arms out then sighed.
“Okay, I’m not,” he said. “And I’m not going to promise that I won’t try and take you when I want you, my little journalist. But I will promise that I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.”
“This is crazy,” I said. “I want to write a profile on you, not live with you.”
“These are my terms,” he said.
“They’re crazy terms.”
He shrugged and gestured like he didn’t care.
I turned and stared at the water. I watched it rise and fall in tiny little peaks as the wind picked up. I wondered how much trash was in there, how many bodies, how many secrets. That river, that damned river, helped sustain the city for so long, was its source of water, its source of waste. It flowed into the Delaware then out into the sea, so far from here.
I could feel the choice in front of me. I could see my life branching off in two different directions. There was the Mona that played it safe, that didn’t go for this crazy deal, that kept on working on her safe stories in her safe life.
That Mona didn’t get anywhere.
But I didn’t know if I could be that other Mona, the one that reached out and took risks and tried to do something bold and brave.
I looked at Vince and he smiled at me, head tilted. He was so handsome, and it was almost distracting enough to forget that he was also dangerous, that he was the son of a famous mobster, a very famous and very deadly mobster.
I could almost forget that I might end up dead or worse with him.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
He smiled. “I knew you would,” he said.
“But no secrets,” I said. “No bullshit. If I’m going to go through with this, I don’t want you to just… hide things from me. I want the real Vincent Leone, I want the real story.”
“That’s why you’re coming to live with me,” he said.
“Good.” I nodded once and took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s do this. I can do this.”
“Good.” He stood up suddenly and reached out his hand.
I hesitated, stared at it, then let my eyes move up to his chest, his muscular chest in its tight white shirt and the jacket that fit him like an old, perfect blanket. He tilted his head, smiled at me, and it was so disarming, so charming.
I took his hand and stood.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’ll all be okay.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what people say when it really, really won’t.”
He laughed and turned, still holding my hand. He led me back to the staircase and climbed up. I followed him, heart beating, barely aware of the cold stone steps beneath my feet. We reached the top, right next to the waterworks, and stood there for a long moment as we surveyed the park. Parents with their children, young men with their girlfriends, a group of girls in workout clothes jogging past.
I felt like I was in an entirely different world now.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you home so you can pack. You’ll move in tonight.”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice a distant sound.
He led me away and I followed.
6
Mona
We drove to my apartment and I went up alone. He said he would help me pack, but I didn’t want him in my space.
I couldn’t say why. Maybe I didn’t want him to infect everything I owned. One day, this would be over and he’d go back to New York, and I’d be left with my old life.
I flipped on the light to my tiny studio apartment. Piles of clothes near the bed, my dresser a mess of jeans and underwear, framed posters of famous photographs on the walls, dishes piled in the sink. I pulled the small carry-on-sized suitcase from my closet and began to stuff as much clothing into it as I could fit. I put my laptop in a backpack, a couple books I was reading, my Kindle, and some chargers. I grabbed my toiletries, makeup, hair products, anything I’d need that he probably wouldn’t have.
When I was finished, I grabbed my backpack and the suitcase. I cleaned a few of the dishes as fast as I could so they didn’t rot in the sink while I was gone and I threw out anything perishable from the refrigerator. When that was done, I took the trash to the curb, and caught Vince looking at his phone. He flashed me a smile as I hurried inside, grabbed my backpack and suitcase, and came back out.
He helped me put them into the back then opened the passenger side door.
“Should I expect this level of service during my stay?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “And interesting word you just chose.”
“What, service?”
He nodded. “Do you know what goes into the blood oath every member of the family takes?”
“No,” I said. “I mean, nothing more than what I’ve seen on TV.”
“The TV version is more or less accurate,” he said as he drove back toward Old City, away from West Philly where I lived. “In the ritual, the Don pricks your finger with a needle, and a drop of blood falls onto a card depicting Saint Francis. The card’s then set on fire and passed around a circle of your future brothers. As it burns, the Don makes you take an oath.”
“Dramatic,” I said.
&nb
sp; “Very,” he said. “But effective. There’s something about a ritual like that, it stays with you, even if it’s just a bunch of superstitious bullshit.”
“But what does service have to do with it?”
“Service is a key part of the oath,” he said. “You pledge your life to serve the family, to serve the Don and your new brothers. You pledge to embrace omerta, to never speak, no matter the consequences. Every made man in the family is pledged to serve, for his entire life, until the day he dies.”
“Dramatic,” I said again.
He laughed and gestured with his hands. “What can you do? It’s an old-world thing, but it’s effective.”
“You really think so?”
“Definitely,” he said. “Think about all the secret societies around the world. They all have initiation rituals, and they’re all closely guarded secrets. There’s something about having a ritual, having a secret, and taking an oath.”
“But you just told me the ritual,” I said.
He laughed. “It’s on Wikipedia,” he said. “So it’s not really a secret anymore. Even still, we talk about it in hushed tones, like the world doesn’t already know. Symbols, ideas, rituals, they all have power.”
I looked at the shape of his jaw, at his hands gripping the steering wheel. He looked like a thug, a handsome thug, but still. He was a mobster, but there he was talking about ritual and service and meaning like a college professor. It made me shake my head in disbelief.
I didn’t know this man, didn’t know him at all. But I could be sure of one thing, he wasn’t stupid.
If he was doing this, if he was bringing me into his life, he was going to be careful.
I was a journalist, and he had secrets to protect, secrets with power. He was more or less telling me that straight out. Maybe he wasn’t saying it in so many words, but I could read the unspoken truth.
If I wanted truth, I was going to have to keep looking for something unspoken.
We drove through the city, through quiet, shady neighborhoods, past row home after row home with brick facades and gray concrete stoops, until he pulled down a particularly nice Old City street. He pulled the black SUV over to the curb and parked in front of a house with a black door, black shutters, and little other ornamentation.