by B. B. Hamel
“Because she’s tough,” I said. “And because she has no other choice.”
He gave me a flat look. “It isn’t because you like her?”
“I like her because she’s strong,” I said. “Not the other way around.”
“Interesting.” He twirled his fork and let out a weary sigh. “I’ll admit, I’ve begun to wonder if this little operation wasn’t more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Have the Jalisco attacked openly yet?”
“Not yet,” he said. “But there are whispers that they’re consolidating their strength. I worry about them as well, Luca. Although we’ve hurt them very badly, they still have a lot of strength south of the border, and they could bring it down on us if they chose to.”
“I thought the Gulf Cartel was keeping them busy.”
“Not busy enough.” Don Leone put down his fork and stared at me before pushing back from the table. He got to his feet with some difficulty, picking up his cane from where it leaned against the chair. He walked over to his desk and I stood to follow him, but he held up a hand for me to wait.
He reached his desk and took something out of a drawer. It was a rectangle, heavy, plastic. I recognized the laptop I’d stolen last night.
“You know what this is?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“I had one of my young tech boys go through it an hour ago. We found some very interesting documents.”
“Like what, sir?”
“Documents pertaining to weapons purchases. They’re gearing up much more than we had anticipated.”
I frowned, tilted my head. “That doesn’t make sense though. They’re still outmanned and outnumbered, even if they have more guns than we do. It’s not a fight worth having.”
“An inferior force can still do a lot of damage with the right weapons,” Don Leone said. “And it seems as though the Jalisco are preparing the right weapons.”
I nodded and took a deep breath. “What can I do, sir?”
“Convince Clair to speed things along,” Don Leone said. “Convince Clair’s mother to behave. Watch over both of them very, very carefully. This situation is getting more and more dangerous. I need you to be on top of it.”
“I will, sir.”
“Good.” He looked down for a long moment at the laptop then looked back up at me. “If Clair gives us those buildings, the Leone Crime Family will be something much bigger than we ever anticipated. The family up in New York is growing nicely, gaining some power, rivaling some of the stronger gangs. If we can establish ourselves in Chicago, I don’t see why we couldn’t spread out across the entire country.”
I stared at him for a moment, trying to imagine what that would be like, and failed to envision it.
The beauty of the family was its size. We were a strong mafia, large enough to control a city, but not so large that I didn’t know almost everyone by name and face. If the family spread itself out all over the place, it would cease to be the thing that I’d grown accustomed to, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
But ultimately, it didn’t matter. I was sworn to the family, and I’d do anything to protect it.
“I’ll try my best, sir,” I said.
“Good.” He nodded, checked his wristwatch. “I have an appointment soon, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course.” I turned to leave and made it to the door when he called my name again. I turned to face the Don, one hand on the doorknob.
“Be careful,” he said. “Clair’s mother won’t be easy on you.”
“No, I don’t think she will be,” I said with a little smile, then left his office, my mind buzzing.
Things were happening fast. The Don wanted this wrapped up, but he seemed to think the Jalisco were going to hit and hit hard. But we were in the safest place in the city, so it was hard to imagine that they could reach us within these walls.
Don Leone seemed to think it was possible, and so I had to be on guard.
It was troubling though. I didn’t want to push Clair into something she wasn’t comfortable with, at least not faster than she was ready for. And I knew her mother wasn’t going to come along for the ride willingly.
But they were my responsibility, and I’d do what I could.
I walked back to our little private wing, Clair’s taste back on my lips, as I struggled with the path forward.
17
Clair
I woke up late the next morning, my head groggy and spinning, the feeling of Luca’s tongue still lingering between my legs. I rubbed my feet along the buttery soft sheets and stretched my legs, trying to get him out of my brain.
But he was stuck there, so deeply, so fully, that I didn’t think I’d ever be able to stop thinking about the way he could make me feel.
I got up, showered, dressed. It smelled like perfume, whiskey, and honey in my room. I considered calling down for breakfast, but I wasn’t hungry. Instead, I found a little single-use coffee machine lodged in the corner next to the alcohol bottles and made myself a cup.
I drank it down, steaming hot, burned my tongue and throat.
It woke me up enough to leave my room. The hallway was silent, the kind of silent only hotels managed. The carpet was thick, lush in a way that exuded wealth. I turned left out my door and walked to the far end, letting my eyes skip over landscape oil paintings, majestic mountains with heavy light rolling down their peaks, lakes with idyllic little rowboat bobbing near green rotten docks, before I stopped in front of my mother’s room.
I knocked twice, waited, knocked two more times. I heard someone move inside before the door unlocked and opened.
My mother stood there, her short hair bedraggled and messy, her eyes bleary-red and puffy, wearing a long plaid robe hanging open, an old t-shirt, and a pair of flannel pants.
“Hi, hon,” she said.
“Morning, Mom. You look awful.”
She grunted and looked at my yoga pants and tank top. “You’re not much better.”
“Can we talk?”
“Probably should.” She gestured for me to follow as she turned and walked back inside.
I went in and shut the door behind me.
Her room was the mirror image of my own, though a little bit larger. There was an extra couch around the fireplace, set off against the far wall, and her coffee table was a modern glass style that looked like it was almost floating in the air.
She walked over to the couch and sat down. There was a tray with a silver carafe and two mugs sitting on it. She leaned forward and poured herself some coffee before offering me some.
I sat on the chair next to the couch and took the coffee. I sipped and stifled a sigh. It was delicious, and I really should’ve just called down for something before coming over.
“I’m sorry I pulled you into this,” I said.
She sighed and shook her head. “It isn’t your fault,” she said.
“I think it is, at least a little bit,” I said.
“Fazio never should’ve left you that money.” She put her coffee down and shifted in her seat, turning her body toward me. “I don’t know why he did it. I think he was trying to help someone, in his own odd way.”
“Were you close with him?” I asked.
“Before your father,” she said.
That was how things were: before my father then after him, a line in the sand, a split in the middle of her life.
When things were good, and when things weren’t good anymore.
“I wish I’d met him,” I said.
“No, you don’t,” she said. “He was a cranky old asshole. We got along because I was one of the few people that didn’t take his crap, but he wasn’t pleasant, not even a little bit.”
“Still, I wish I knew more of my family, you know?” I sipped my coffee, let it sit on my tongue, swallowed. I felt like the air in the room was heavy, like the Philly humidity leaked in through the walls.
“Why?” she asked. “My family’s a bunch of thieves and gangsters. Your
father’s side wasn’t much better.”
“You say that, but I still don’t know them,” I said. “Shouldn’t I get the chance to at least decide?”
She shook her head, picked up her coffee, put it down again. “Where is all this coming from?” she asked finally.
“My uncle just left me more money than I ever thought I’d have in my life,” I said. “Of course I’m a little curious about my family.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “But honey, I’ve told you a thousand times. They’re not good people, they’re not good people at all. What’s there to know?”
“They’re still my family,” I said, trying not to let the frustration show.
I must not have done a good job, because my mind stiffened a bit. I could see her getting defensive already in the set of her eyes, in her body’s posture.
“I wish I’d never known them,” she said. “If that makes any difference. I wanted to give you the same thing. I wanted you to have a chance, honey.”
I let that settle for a second, letting myself feel what she’s trying to say. I can understand her wanting what’s best for me, and in her mind, keeping the gangster family away from me would ensure they could never influence me and drag me down a bad path.
On that level, I could understand.
But now I knew gangsters. As much as I wanted to pretend like I didn’t, I was coming to like being around Luca, I was starting to respect him and want him more than I really was prepared for.
That had to mean something.
“You married Dad,” I said after a silence. I stared down into my coffee, unable to meet her eyes. “Why did you marry him if gangsters are so awful?”
She was quiet as she looked at me. Her eyes went fuzzy, unfocused, and she turned away, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. She leaned her head back, cradling her skull in her hands, and sighed as she looked up at the ceiling.
“He was charming,” she said.
“That’s all?”
“He was charming, and handsome, and fun to be around.” She smiled a little bit. “I’d grown up with men like him, remember. But your father wasn’t violent like some of the other guys. I knew how to handle a man with a temper, but I didn’t have to do that with him.”
“You fell in love with him, right?” I asked.
“Not at first.” A smile slipped over her face. “He pursued me. Did I ever tell you that?”
“No,” I said. “You never talked about him much.”
She looked at me then, and I thought I saw something, something deep and dark and sad, something she’d been carrying her whole life. The weight on her back, the truth of her self, that thing she didn’t want to admit to herself.
But then it was gone as her face shifted back into a mask again.
“My family used to do more business in Philadelphia back then,” she said. “This was before the Leone family really took over the city. My family would come in from time to time and do whatever it was they did. I never asked questions, I didn’t really care. But on one of those trips, I went with my father to a meeting, and your father was there. He asked me out afterwards, and I told him no, and laughed at him, but he never gave up. From then on, every time I came to the city, he’d find out somehow and ask me on a date.”
I smiled, head tilted. I couldn’t exactly understand this image of my father as a spurned but persistent lover, not after Mom had painted him as a horrible gangster all my life. But then again, that squared with the man I remembered, gentle and kind and funny, always playing with me, always available for me.
“What happened then?” I asked.
“We went out,” she said. “He took me to this mob place, an Italian place in South Philly, it’s gone now. Afterward we walked along Passyunk, stopped in a bar for a couple drinks, then he took me back to my hotel.”
“Did he kiss you on the first date?”
She laughed and shook her head. “He was a gentleman.”
“How did you end up married? I mean, you lived in different cities.”
“He started coming to Chicago every weekend,” she said, head tilted, eyes far away, lost in the shroud of memory. “At first, he pretended like it was on business, but then it became clear he was just coming to see me. We dated like that for a few months, and then he asked me to marry him, and I just said… I said yes. I was so young and stupid and in love, and I couldn’t help myself.”
“That doesn’t sound like you,” I said, laughing a little bit.
“I wasn’t always so angry, you know,” Mom said. She leaned forward, chewed on her fingernail, picked up her coffee. She held it cradled between her hands and stared down into the mug for several long breaths.
“When did you start to hate them?” I asked, my voice soft and gentle.
“After your father died,” she said and looked up sharply. “That doesn’t make it wrong, though. I just didn’t see what they were until they took him away from me.”
“You really loved him,” I said.
“I did.”
“But he was a gangster.”
“He wasn’t like the others,” she said. “He was gentle and funny and kind. You have to remember him, at least a little bit.”
“I remember him picking me up and swinging me around in the backyard,” I said. “I remember him raking leaves in our tiny little yard, and then throwing me into them. Then I remember throwing leaves at him, and he jumped in with me, and we rolled around getting wet with dew.”
“He did that sort of thing all the time,” she said. “Used to take you on long walks around the city. You’d both come home sweating and exhausted, but you loved it.”
“I barely remember that.”
“He was a good father,” she said. “But then when he was gone, everything changed.”
“Didn’t the family try to help?” I asked.
She snorted and put her mug down hard enough to splash coffee out onto the glass top. It looked like it floated in the air, just above the gleaming hardwood floor.
“They pretended to care,” she said. “Offered money, kind words. That sort of thing. But I turned it all down.”
“If you loved him so much, why didn’t you take it?” I asked. “He would’ve wanted that, right?”
She stared at me then shook her head. “You don’t understand, do you?”
“I think I do,” I said. “You thought Dad was different. You really loved him, but when he got killed, you suddenly saw all the ugly, nasty things you’d been trying to ignore. Is that it?”
“No,” she said, jaw tense. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Clair. This was all a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish I had gotten to know Dad, I really do. He sounds like he was pretty great.”
She looked away and shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking. If he was so great, why do I hate the mafia so much? But you didn’t see the late nights. You didn’t see him coming home covered in blood, or coming home too drunk to stand. He was faithful, he was gentle, but the life wasn’t easy on any of us, it wasn’t kind or fun or smart. And I don’t want that for you, do you understand? I want you to get out while you can.”
I smiled at her and for the first time in my life, I felt like I could see her, could actually see her.
It’s hard to see a parent. They’re always something bigger, something else, something other. They’re not a person, but a myth.
In that moment, I thought I could see the woman my mother used to be, the woman that married my father and loved him so much that when he died, she began to hate everything around her, began to hate the things that took him away from her.
I stood up, walked over to her, and sat down on the couch. I leaned over and gave her a hug. She hugged me back, a little tentative, but she was still my mom. I hugged her hard then let her go.
“I love you, Mom,” I said. “I’m sorry I dragged you to this place. I know it’s hard, being around these guys again.”
“I feel bad for yo
ur uncle, is all,” she said, grinning. “I’m going to give him hell. I know Luciano is a god around here, but I’m not going to walk on eggshells for him.”
“Just don’t get yourself killed.”
She snorted. “Like they’d hurt me,” she said. “You’re too useful to them right now.”
I stood up and walked to the door. She tracked me with her eyes, and I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. I paused with my hand on the doorknob, turning back, a smile forced onto my face. She cocked her head, eyes sharp and pleading, but I thought we were speaking two very different languages.
“I’ll check in on you later,” I said.
“Please do,” she said. “Let me know you’re still alive.”
“Don’t worry. Remember, I’m the valuable one.”
She didn’t smile as I turned away, opened the door, and stepped into the hall.
The door shut behind me with a gentle click.
I leaned my back against it, turned my head up, stared at the ceiling.
My mother loved my father, loved him so much that it broke her when he died. All those years she told me the mafia was wrong, they were all evil, they were all bastards, and in a lot of ways she was right.
But she also neglected to tell me that some of them were just people, some of them weren’t monsters at all, some of them were men worth being with. If that weren’t true, she never would’ve married my father at all.
She never lied to me, but she never told me the full truth.
But in that moment, standing in that hallway with my head against the door, breathing hard like I’d just run a mile, I felt it hit me hard, hit me so deep that I knew I’d been forever altered.
“Hey, little Clair.”
I turned my head and saw him standing halfway down the hall. He wore a pair of dark slacks, a white shirt tucked in, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was pushed back, casual and messy, and a little smile tugged at his handsome lips.
“Hey, yourself,” I said, pushing off my mom’s door and walking to him.
“How’s she doing?” he asked, gesturing at her room with his chin.
“Fine,” I said. “Angry, but fine.”