by B. B. Hamel
Luca nodded and watched as they car crossed over the Schuylkill River into West Philly. Roberto steered them toward the University of Pennsylvania’s campus and the surrounding neighborhoods. It was a decent enough area, not great by most standards, and the Leone Family only has a passing presence. Mostly West Philly was run by local gangs, small-time operations that controlled only a few blocks at a time. I knew there’d been talk of taking it all over and being done with it, but that never seemed to pan out.
“Does this job have to do with the girl, sir?” I asked.
“Very good, Luca,” Don Leone said. “You picked up on that quickly. I’ve heard you’re ruthless and good with a gun. Is that true?”
“I don’t know, sir,” I said. “I do what I’m ordered to do and I try not to let my Capo down.”
“Well said,” Don Leone said. “But be honest.”
I looked out the window, at old glass-fronted businesses, as young kids walking with backpacks and messenger bags.
“I’m good at killing,” I said. “I got used to it.”
Don Leone let out an approving grunt as he nodded his head. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
“Do you want me to kill the girl?” I asked.
A ghost of a smile slipped across his face. “Tell me, Luca. Would you, if I asked?”
“I’d do as ordered,” I said, although I didn’t mention that I’d never killed a girl before, and didn’t want to start now.
But I wasn’t about to contradict a shark in his ocean.
“I’m sure you would,” Don Leone said. “But no, that’s not what we’re here to do. In fact, I want the opposite.”
I sat up straighter. “Opposite, sir?”
The car stopped just on the outskirts of the campus outside a light red brick rowhome with a small concrete porch out front. It shared a porch roof with its neighbor, the borders around the front painted a pale lime green color. The door was white, glass up top, bars on the windows.
“Here we are,” Don Leone said.
Roberto jumped out and walked around to the back. I sat there for a beat before unbuckling my belt and getting out. Roberto helped Don Leone down, and together they hobbled toward the front door.
I followed them at a distance, hands shoved in the pockets of my jeans, not sure what the hell was going on. I didn’t know why Don Leone told me that little family story, and I didn’t know what any of this had to do with killing. If I wasn’t here to murder the girl, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do.
I wasn’t a fucking babysitter, if that’s what he had in mind.
But then again, if he told me to jump off that porch roof, I’d do it.
The Don and Roberto walked up the three low steps then to the front door. They didn’t knock, just opened the door and stepped inside. I followed at a respectful distance and stepped into a neat little entryway.
There was a staircase just ahead and a small living room to the left with bare bones furniture. A low, wooden coffee table had random magazines thrown on top, a couple Vogues and an ESPN in the mix. There was a leather chair, used and abused and patched with duct tape, but it looked comfortable at least. The flat-screen TV sitting on top of a rickety black-brown Ikea stand had some golf tournament on mute, and I watched as a fat guy in a green shirt missed a short, easy putt, and I swear he nearly threw his club.
“Through here,” Don Leone said, leading us toward the back doorway. There was a short hall to the right with two more doors, one standing slightly open to reveal teal-colored tiles and a white porcelain sink in surprisingly clean condition.
The left back door opened into a kitchen, barren granite countertops, simple off-white linoleum floor, a large stainless steel refrigerator next to a gas burner.
And sitting at a long white table was a blonde girl with bright blue eyes and one of the meanest scowls I’d ever seen in my life.
She stood as soon as Don Leone stepped into the room, arms crossed over her chest. I stared at her, my heart beating fast. She has thick lips, a small nose, tiny round ears, her hair piled up in a messy bun on her head. She wore a tank top that showed off just a hint of her round, firm breasts, and her skin-tight yoga pants suggested she kept herself in shape.
The girl was fucking gorgeous.
“Uncle Luciano,” she said, her voice dripping with anger. “You can’t just keep disappearing. I told your other guy, what was his name? Dino the Dinosaur? Whatever, I told him I’m not staying and I’m telling you—”
Don Leone held up a hand and she stopped talking, but she looked like he’d slapped her.
“Clair,” he said, “please, just a moment more. May I introduce you to someone?”
“I keep telling you, I’m not staying,” she said. “I know Uncle Fazio left me a lot of money, but—”
“This is Luca,” Don Leone said like she never started speaking at all. “Luca’s going to stay with you for a while, make sure you’re safe.”
She threw up her hands. “You’re not listening to me.”
He smiled at her, the pained expression of a man that had to deal with an unruly, frustrating child.
“I’m listening, Clair,” he said. “But you’re not comprehending your situation.”
“So, what, I’m a captive?”
“Consider yourself a part of the witness protection program,” Don Leone said with a delighted little smile.
Roberto snorted a laugh and leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
She glared at Roberto then looked back at her uncle.
“Please,” she said. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I know your business is dangerous. But I haven’t been involved in any of this in my entire life, and I barely even knew Uncle Fazio, and—”
“Luca,” Don Leone said, interrupting her. “Come introduce yourself to my niece. Luca is an important lieutenant, one of our best, you’ll be in good hands.”
I grimaced a smile and stepped forward. “Good to meet you,” I said.
Her eyes flashed to mine for the first time. She made a face, looked back at her uncle, then looked at me a second time. Her gaze lingered longer, her mouth parting ever so slightly, the pink tip of her pretty tongue licking along her plump bottom lip.
“Nice, uh, to meet you, too,” she said, then looked back at Don Leone. “Like I said, I appreciate this, but I’m not staying.”
“You’re staying,” Don Leone said with an air of finality, his words sharp and solid.
Clair took a step back, a look of surprise in her eyes.
“You’re staying,” Don Leone said again, though softer that time. “This is a temporary measure, just until we’re sure that you’re safe. But believe me when I say, right now, you are most definitely not safe, not in this city, not in this country. You don’t truly understand the blessing and the curse you’ve been given, but right now, you’re one of the biggest targets in the whole city.” He stepped toward her, rapping his cane on the floor three times. “So do not misbehave and do not make Luca’s job more difficult.”
“And what’s his job?” she asked, her voice still somehow dripping with venom, despite the fear in her eyes.
“He’s your bodyguard,” Don Leone said.
“Babysitter,” she said.
“I prefer bodyguard,” I said.
She shot me a look then turned back to her uncle. “Please—”
“Luca will get you anything you need,” Don Leone said, already turning away. “He’ll stay here with you, sleep in this house, make sure you’re safe at all times until we can figure out what to do with you.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, dread already filling the pit of my stomach.
This was going to be a very, very boring job.
And a very frustrating job, if her attitude was anything to judge it by.
“Good,” Don Leone said, limping out, leaning on his cane with Roberto by his side. “Spend what you need to spend, get her whatever she wants. Make sure she’s safe and comfortable. You have your sidearm?”
She stared at me, her mouth hanging open.
I looked back at Don Leone and forced myself not to smile.
“Very good,” Don Leone said. “She’s under your protection for now. She is the most important thing in this city at the moment, and I suspect the Jalisco know about her. They have men in Chicago, and they’ll have heard about what Fazio did.”
“You think the Jalisco are coming here?” I asked, tensing a bit as I walked with them to the door.
He paused on the threshold and shook his head. “No,” he said. “This is the best safe house in the city, my personal safe house. Nobody knows about this, nobody but us. Not even her mother knows the location of this place. But the Jalisco will look for her, and I need you to be prepared. Can you do this for me, Luca?”
“I’ll take care of her, sir,” I said.
“Good.” Don Leone nodded once. “Poor girl doesn’t understand what that asshole just threw her into. And I’m not entirely sure she really knows how much money he left her.”
“How much was it, sir?” I asked, unable to help myself, and regretted it right away. Roberto gave me a look that could melt steel, but Don Leone only laughed softly.
“Millions,” he said, then turned and left the house.
Roberto gave me a lingering, withering look, then shut the door behind them, leaving me alone in the living room.
I stared after them and ran a hand through my hair.
I had none of my stuff, no clothes or toiletries. I was going to have to buy everything I needed, and on top of that, buy everything this girl wanted. I was a glorified fucking babysitter, and all that talk about me being a killer was just a bunch of bullshit.
He didn’t care how many Jalisco I killed for him, he only cared that I was loyal and I would watch over his rich little niece.
I turned back from the door and Clair stood near the kitchen, watching me with narrowed eyes.
I stared back at her, head tilted. I let my eyes roam her body, not trying to hide it as I looked at her breasts, at her hips, then back up to her lips. She looked disgusted, her mouth hanging open, her nose wrinkled like it smelled.
“I’m not taking orders from you,” she said.
“You’d have more fun if you did.”
“I’m not joking. I don’t care if you’re some big, bad mafia guy. Deep down, you’re all just a bunch of bullies and assholes.”
“You’re not wrong,” I said. “But you’d still have more fun if you obeyed my every command.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not interested in talking,” she said. “I’m not interested in staying, either. I’m getting out of here as soon as I can.”
“Fine,” I said. “But I can’t let you leave until the Don says it’s okay. You know that, right?”
“Whatever you say.” She crossed her arms again.
“Good. You do what you want, I’ll do what I want, and we stay out of each other’s way. We’ll get through this shitty assignment together.”
“Fine. Works for me.”
“Just don’t try to run. Seriously, I’m not going to let you go, no matter what. I’ll drag you back, kicking and screaming, and tie you up in the bathtub if I have to.”
“In the bathtub?” she asked. “That’s creepy and specific.”
I shrugged and tilted my head. “Personal experience.”
She opened her mouth and shut it again. She let out a little snort, shook her head, and stomped to the staircase. She brushed past me, and for a moment I caught her smell, grass and honey.
I watched her stomp upstairs and disappear into one of the bedrooms.
I let out a little sigh and walked over to the couch. I dropped down, kicked my feet up, found the remote shoved in between the cushions, and unmuted golf.
It was going to be a boring, frustrating few days, and that girl was going to make my life miserable. But at least there was a decent cable package.
And, hell, at least she wasn’t bad to look at.
2
Clair
I slammed the unfamiliar door and turned the lock on the knob.
For a long time, I just stood there, staring at the floor. It was hardwood, gnarled with small knots, polished to a shine. It looked new, just like the rest of the house, like it had been gutted and refinished at some point in the last few years.
That was hard to believe, since it was apparently some super-secret mafia safe house.
I let myself look up, scanned the room. An old queen bed was pressed against the far wall with a simple nightstand on either side. There was a clock on the right, glowing a red LED, and a lamp on the left. The bedspread was floral, looked musty, and two pillows in off-white cases sat against the black metal frame. There was a bathroom through the door to the right, a small closet, and a bureau with a vase of fake flowers and a few small matryoshka dolls carved in shiny wood and painted a bright red.
A heavy cross hung between the windows.
I walked into the bathroom, my hands shaking. There was a tub and a shower on the left, small toilet on the right, a cheap-looking plywood cabinet and a sink straight ahead. I stared into the unadorned mirror that hung above it, stared at my face, and tried to understand what was staring back at me.
I hadn’t been involved with the mafia since my father died when I was a little girl. I barely remembered the mafia at all, if I was being honest. They were just a blur in my memory, just a bunch of older guys that were always hanging around with my dad, making jokes and laughing.
I remembered liking them. I remembered Uncle Luciano was nice to me, gave me candy when my parents weren’t looking.
But it’d been so long.
The idea that I was still mafia made my blood run cold. My mother didn’t talk much about my father and she stayed away from her family back in Chicago. What stories she did tell were never good: violence, darkness, danger, depression, death. She talked about uncles drinking themselves to an early grave, about brothers hitting their wives, about cousins killing political figures.
Every time a mafia movie came on TV, every time I expressed any interest in watching The Sopranos, she always made sure to tell me exactly what she thought of the familia.
I turned on the cold tap, splashed freezing water in my face, dried it off with a scratchy thin towel. I turned away from the bathroom, years of my mother telling me how dangerous the mob is, how much I should hate them, how I’m not a part of their world flitting through my head.
And now, even though I never asked for it, even though I hate the idea of it, I’m very much a part of it all.
I walked to the bed and sat at the edge. I took out my phone, stared at the screen.
For a brief second, I thought about calling the cops.
But that would be stupid. Uncle Luciano owned Philadelphia. I could get the cops to come here, even though I didn’t know where I was exactly, but they could probably locate my phone. And when that happened, what next?
Uncle Luciano would hunt me down, drag me back here, and punish me.
Instead, I found my mother’s number and called her.
“Hi, sweetie,” she answered after a couple rings.
I could hear the radio playing WXPN in the background.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. “What are you up to?”
“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “Trying to work on this new piece, you know, and it’s so dreadful. Then I have housework to do and all manner of tidying up. What about you, sweetie?”
“Not too much,” I said, kicking my legs, staring at my feet. “What’s the new piece?”
“Oil on canvas,” she said. “Trying to make a passage still life, but instead of painting an orange and flowers, they look more like monsters from outer space trying to eat each other.”
I smiled a little bit, my heart beating fast, my stomach a mess. Ever since I was younger and we moved out on our own, my mother has been into art. She did paintings, sculpture
s, even had an intense pottery phase and sold a few expensive pieces. But lately she was back into traditional paintings, and even though she acted like she was terrible, she had an incredible talent.
I didn’t know why I called her or what I wanted out of this. I knew she would be upset as soon as I told her what was going on, but I needed her to know, needed to hear her voice. We talked on the phone almost every day, but I haven’t spoken to her since I heard from Uncle Fazio’s lawyers.
About the inheritance. About the money and the property.
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” I said. “And even if you’re not, I bet you could title it ‘Aliens Kissing in the Moonlight’ and sell it for ten grand.”
She laughed at that, light and breezy. That was my mother these days, light and breezy. Not like back when I was a little girl, back then she was always looking over her shoulder, always sure something bad was around the next corner.
But after years of the world not ending, I think she’d settled into a bit of a routine.
“I’m not so sure about that, but it’s nice of you to say so,” she said. “You know, I haven’t heard from you in a few days. I was starting to think you found a new boyfriend.”
“No boyfriend,” I said. “Just busy.”
“Work’s treating you okay?”
“Sure,” I said, and it occurred to me that I likely wouldn’t have a job after this. I’d been doing PR for a conglomerate of local art galleries, a job my mother managed to wrangle for me, actually. I loved it, and was good at it, but I was going to get fired once they realized I was taking a forced vacation for some undetermined amount of time.
“No boyfriend, work’s okay,” she said, “so why the radio silence, sweetie?”
I chewed my lip for a moment, couldn’t put it off.
“Look, Mom,” I said. “I have to tell you something.”
“Okay,” she said. “Did you get a tattoo? It’s okay if you did. I mean, I don’t love them, but you’re old enough to make your own bad choices.”