by B. B. Hamel
Guns were machines that killed people.
I walked over to the coffee table, knelt down, and lifted it up. I was surprised at how heavy and solid it felt in my hand. I stood back up, staring at the thing, and carried it over to the kitchen.
Luca stood in front of the stove, whistling to himself, a wooden spoon in his hand. Breaded chicken was frying in a pan while water boiled for pasta. Packages of pasta were lined up on the counter and a few store-bought jars of pasta were set up in front of them. He looked over his shoulder at me and smiled a handsome, crooked little grin, which melted away the instant he saw the gun in my hands.
I held it flat on my palms like an offering.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“You left this out,” I said. “Just sitting on the coffee table.”
He slowly put the wooden spoon down, his face hard, his eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I did,” he said. “I left it there on purpose.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because it’s uncomfortable to carry it around all the time, and I don’t think anyone’s coming for you tonight.”
“Right.” I held it out to him. “You probably shouldn’t leave it where I can get it, right?”
He cocked his head like he didn’t understand the question.
“You going to shoot me, Clair?”
“No,” I said and stared at the thing in my hands with wide eyes. “I’ve never even touched one of these before.”
He walked over and reached out, plucking the weapon from me. I took a step back as he held it in his hands like an extension of himself, like he’d been born with his tiny fingers on a trigger.
“Let me make something clear,” he said. “You touch my gun again, you better plan on killing me with it.”
I took a hard breath then narrowed my eyes at him, my fists balling up. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means, you don’t touch a person’s weapon, no matter what.”
“You just left it lying out there. You left a freaking gun lying around, for no reason.”
“I thought that was better than bringing it with me to the grocery store.”
“I thought you said it was uncomfortable.”
“It is,” he said, pulled the slide back, a bullet popping out. He caught it, put it in his pocket, slid the gun into his waistband. “But apparently I’ll have to get used to it.”
I opened my mouth, worked my jaw, shut it again. He stood there staring at me, his shirt tight against his muscular chest, his dark eyes intense and hard.
I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.
“Come on,” he said, turning away. “Sit down. Have some wine.”
I hesitated, still lingering in the doorway, as he walked back to the stove. He flipped the chicken, stirred the pasta, then uncorked a bottle of red and poured two glasses.
I walked over to the light metal, thinly padded chairs, took a seat, and let him place a glass in front of me.
I didn’t touch it.
“How long am I going to be here?” I asked.
“I have no clue,” he said. “Honestly, the Don didn’t tell me much.”
“You mean my uncle.”
“Uncle, Don, sure,” he said, waving the wooden spoon. “You’ve got to understand, I’m just the muscle.”
“Muscle,” I said with a little aggressive snort. “Something like that.”
He looked over his shoulder, eyebrow arched, smile on his handsome lips. “You don’t like my muscles? Don’t think I’m big enough?”
“I just mean—”
“Nah, you think I’m big enough,” he said and laughed to himself. “You’re trying to bait me into getting pissed off.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Fun,” he said, shrugging, stirring the pasta. “Boredom. I don’t know. You’re angry about your situation, and I’m an easy target.”
“Maybe I just don’t like you fundamentally.”
“Fundamentally,” he said and laughed again. “Yeah, maybe that’s it. So you hate all mafia types?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“This must be a nightmare for you, then,” he said. “Getting all that mafia money.”
“You have no clue.”
“How much did the old gangster give you?” he asked. “Must be a lot, if the Don’s keeping you under lock and key.”
“Is that really a question you want to ask me?”
He looked over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed and sharp. For a second, I got the impression that he wasn’t just the idiot mafia musclehead I thought he was.
But then he turned back to the food, took the chicken out of the pan, put it on a paper towel-lined plate.
“Probably not,” he said. “But I’m guessing it’s a lot anyway. Maybe something else, since I doubt the Don cares all that much about straight cash. The family has cash in spades.”
“Good for you,” she said.
“None of it’s mine, though,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, I get paid very, very well, but the real money, the big foreign bank accounts, the investments, they’re all upper management. They’re all the Don, his underboss, those guys.”
“And you’re just a grunt.”
“Poor me, right?”
“I don’t know, you don’t seem to mind.”
He laughed a little, placed a couple slices of mozzarella over each piece of chicken, and put them in the broiler. He stirred the pasta then took it to the sink to drain. When he was finished, he plated the pasta in small bowls, poured a little jarred sauce over top, grated some cheese, added a touch of oil, a little pepper, and nodded to himself.
“Didn’t have time to do a real sauce,” he said. “But good enough for now.” He put the bowl in front of me then returned to the oven. “Hope you’re hungry.”
I felt my stomach rumbling, staring at the pasta. “I could eat.”
“Go ahead,” he said. “Get started.”
I took a bite, and as soon as I tasted the delicious cheese and sauce, I knew I was screwed. I took a few more bites, sipped the wine, and couldn’t help myself. By the time he had the chicken finished, plated, and on the table, I’d finished almost the entire bowl.
He sat down across from me and gave me this strange smile, like he was proud of me for eating my most of my meal. I glanced at him then looked away as I cut a piece of chicken and ate it.
“Whoa,” I said.
“Good?”
“This is really good.”
“They didn’t have my normal stuff at the grocery place,” he said. “So I had to improvise a little bit. I like a different brand of cheese and breadcrumbs, and the chicken was a little too thick, but I think I managed.”
“Where’d you learn to do this?”
“Sergio,” he said. “The guy that owns the bakery. My Capo was in his crew back in the day, and I help him out sometimes. He showed me how to cook a few dishes, you know, made me dinner and made me stand around and learn while he did it.”
“Sounds like an interesting guy,” I said, my voice flat.
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “I hear a lot of stories about that crew, you know, about the old days. They got into a lot of trouble back then.”
“I’m not really interested.”
“You’ve made that pretty clear,” he said, but the smile didn’t slip from his lips. “Not that I mind, though.”
I ate the chicken in silence. He picked at his food, ate half the pasta, sipped his wine, and watched me. It was a little disconcerting, a little uncomfortable, but I forced myself to ignore him.
He was looking for a reaction. I wasn’t going to give it to him.
“What makes you hate mafia guys so much?” he asked. “One just made you a very rich girl.”
“You know who my dad was?” I asked.
“All I know is he was the Don’s brother,” he said and put his wine glass down. “But I’m guessing he’s gone now.”
“Got killed when I was a little girl
,” I said, staring at my plate, picking at the remnants of the chicken. “One day he went out to work, I didn’t know what he did back then, but he didn’t come home. Ended up shot in some alley.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Luca said.
“Broke my mom,” I said. “Really messed her up. The rest of her family’s in the mafia too, out in Chicago, really powerful people. I guess they tried to bring her home for a while after it happened, but she refused, kept telling me that all the men in the mob are broken, that life just leads to death and misery. I guess she couldn’t handle it anymore, and she had some really rough years.”
“I can see why you’d hold it against us then,” he said.
“No, you can’t,” I said. “To you, a mafia guy getting killed is just part of the game. But to me and my mother, it meant losing a father and a husband. It broke her for a while, and I think she’s still picking up the pieces.” I dropped my fork with a clatter and pushed back from the table, anger pouring through my chest. I couldn’t help myself, the memory of my mother back then spiked through me, and I hated him, god, I hated him so much.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Upstairs,” I said, picking up my wine glass.
“I’m glad you joined me for dinner,” he said. “Maybe we can do it again.”
I stared at him. “This isn’t a game,” I said. “This isn’t some joke. I don’t want to be here. Getting trapped in this house by my uncle, getting this stupid fortune handed to me that I don’t even want, this is a nightmare for me. Do you even get it?”
He nodded, his eyes on mine like liquid fire.
“I get it,” he said, his voice gentle. “But it’s not my job to make this easy on you. It’s my job to make sure you’re safe.”
I let out a hard laugh. “You’re doing a great job, leaving guns lying around.”
A hint of anger flitted across his expression.
“Run on upstairs, little girl,” he said. “You can throw your tantrum up there. Maybe even move that bookcase in front of the door again.”
I glared at him, jaw tight. I wanted to throw the wine in his face almost as bad as I wanted to throw it down my throat.
I turned away. “Thanks for the food,” I said, and left the kitchen.
He didn’t speak as I stormed through the living room, up the steps, and back into my room. I slammed the door and locked it.
I stood with my back against the wall, breathing hard, before taking three deep chugs of the wine, finishing it off. It felt warm and heavy in my stomach, and for a second, I thought I might get sick.
Instead, I climbed into the strange bed, pulled the strange covers over my head, and buried into the strange, scratchy sheets with their odd storage-room smell and their faded floral pattern.
5
Luca
That night I couldn’t bring myself to climb the stairs and find a bed, so I camped out on the couch. It wasn’t too bad, but in the morning my legs were cramped and my back ached from lying on a bundled-up blanket for half the night.
I got up and checked on Clair’s room. The door was shut and I thought I could hear soft snoring from inside when I pressed my ear against it. I headed back downstairs, made some coffee in an old crusty black drip maker, and leaned up against the wall to contemplate my goddamn life.
I was a babysitter, no getting around it. Don Leone stuck me with Clair, made it seem like this was some big and important job, but now I realize he just gave the girl to whatever lieutenant was dumb enough to take her on. I should’ve turned him down, but when the Don tells a soldier to do something, that soldier better shut up and do it.
Three weeks ago, I was shaking down Jalisco strongholds and killing anyone that stood up and got in our way.
Now, I’m making sure some rich, spoiled girl didn’t… what, cry herself to death?
“Shit,” I said out loud and took out my phone. It was just a little past seven but I knew Steven would be up and at the bakery, so I called him up.
He answered after a couple rings.
“How’s my favorite soldier?” he said.
“What’s up, boss?” I walked over to the coffee pot, poured a mug. “How’s business?”
“Not too bad,” he said. “How’s your special assignment?”
“Awful,” I said. “What’d you hear about it?”
“Not much, not yet at least.”
I sipped the coffee, burned my tongue, cursed, put the mug down.
“He’s got me babysitting his niece,” I said.
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. Apparently she got left some big money and I’m supposed to watch her.”
“Wow,” Steven said, laughing like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “That’s actually kind of crazy.”
“He thinks the girl’s going to be a target,” I said. “Like the Jalisco would go after some random civilian.”
“How much money did she inherit?”
“A lot,” I said. “Millions.”
He whistled. “Sounds like the sort of score the Jalisco would go after,” he said. “I mean, they’d have to grab her, beat her up a little bit, and make her withdraw it all. Not too hard for a crew like theirs.”
“Even still,” I said. “The girl despises the mafia. I mean, fucking hates all of us, like we’re all a bunch of monsters.”
“We sort of are,” he said. “At least to people outside the family.”
“Fine, but she doesn’t have to act like it.”
“Did you just call me up to complain?”
“I called you up to see if my Capo can get me out of this job,” I said. “Send someone else out here.”
“The Don picked you,” he said. “You specifically. You know I can’t go back on that.”
“Come on,” I said.
“She can’t be that bad. I mean, what’s she look like?”
“Not bad,” I said.
“Not bad?” He snorted a laugh. “Come on, what’s that even mean?”
“She’s hot, all right? But she despises me.”
“Colleen hated me at first,” he said. “Comes with the territory. You just have to show her your winning personality.”
“I’m not sure I have one. And I’m not interested in taking dating advice from you. Just get me off this assignment.”
“No can do,” he said. “And you know it. Now I got to go, Sergio’s giving me a look like he wants to kick my ass, and I think I know why. Adios, pal.”
He hung up and I cursed, tossing the phone down onto the table. I sipped the coffee again, and although it was still too hot, at least it didn’t burn my tongue.
I stood in front of the refrigerator, debating whether or not I wanted to eat leftovers for breakfast, when there was a sound outside. A car door slammed right out front, and I hurried to the window. This time I didn’t want to be surprised if someone barged in.
I saw Roberto, his shiny bald head glinting in the morning sun, as he helped Don Leone out of a big black SUV. I cursed, cleaned up the little nest I made on the couch, and stood up straight as the door opened and the Don came limping in.
His eyes swept the room then rested on me, and my whole body went tense. With just one look, I knew the Don was pissed, really fucking pissed.
“Where’s the girl?” he asked without greeting.
“Upstairs, sleeping,” I said.
“Good.” The Don limped inside.
Roberto stayed at the door, his hands clasped in front of him, a stupid smile on his face. I gave him a glare then kept my eyes on the Don as he walked to the kitchen door, peered inside, then walked back over to me.
“Do you know who visited me last night?” the Don asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“The girl’s mother.”
I cleared my throat, shifted foot to foot. “I don’t know anything about that, sir.”
“Of course not,” he said. “How would you? You’re just the one in charge of my niece.”
; “She was up in her room almost all day,” I said. “I made her dinner, but otherwise—”
“Made her dinner?” the Don asked. “You’re her personal fucking chef now?”
“Sir, I just—”
“I don’t care,” he said, waving me off with a sharp turn of his wrist. “That girl’s mother is going to be a problem, and you’re going to have to do something about it.”
“What happened, sir?”
He gave me an annoyed look then shook his head. “The woman came to my house,” he said. “Knocked on my door. When Roberto told her I was busy, she persisted, made a scene on my stoop. It was bad enough to pull me out of a meeting with Maksim. I met her in my entryway and let her scream at me for five minutes before Roberto threw her out and warned her never to come back. Can you imagine, Luca? A woman, in my house, yelling in my face like I was some child?”
I only shook my head, my jaw hanging open. Truly, I couldn’t picture it. In fact, I was pretty sure there were dead women littering the bottom of the Schuylkill River for doing exactly that.
There were whole fields of dead bodies planted like rows of corn, dead bodies of people that disrespected the Don.
“I’ll speak to her about it, sir,” I said.
“Do more than speak,” the Don said. “The girl called her mother yesterday, did you know that? I only know because Annabella screamed it in my face.”
“I didn’t know,” I said.
“Of course not. Because you’ve been down here, cooking and watching TV, while you leave the girl to her own devices upstairs. She called her mother, and now I have to deal with that loud-mouthed animal.”
“I’ll handle it, sir,” I said.
“Take her phone,” Don Leone said. “Take her phone away, and tell her that if she behaves, she can have it back.”
I nodded once. “I will, sir.”
“Good. I don’t want to hear from that woman again, and I certainly don’t want to hear that my niece is making phone calls.” He shook his head, his eyes wide with anger. He turned on his heel and walked back to the door, barely limping, barely using the cane.
I watched as he walked past Roberto and down onto the porch. Roberto gave me a wicked little smile and I flipped him off. He only chuckled and followed the Don, closing the door behind him.