I just flipped off the devil himself.
What the hell, it doesn't matter. The only way I could come up with the amount of money to pay those bastards back would be to rob a bank. And I’d need to buy a gun, to do that. And I don’t have the money to buy a gun.
So I’m a dead girl walking, and there is nothing I can do about it.
Tears fill my eyes, and I blink them away before I rush back inside to cry in the bathroom.
Chapter Two
Claudio Abruzzi
"You're in an unusually good mood," Diego's wife Donata says to me, as I settle into a chair in Diego’s living room. “Is that a smile on your face? Looks kind of weird.”
Donata is one of two people who can talk to me like that and keep the blood inside her body. Diego is the other one.
She’s standing next to me with a tray of pastries. She awkwardly tries to bend over and set it down on the mahogany coffee table, but her stomach gets in the way. She’s very pregnant, her belly an enormous beach ball underneath her loose cotton dress.
Rocco and Carmelo, who work for Diego, are sitting in the other chairs, and they make a move to get up. I jump to my feet, grab the tray, and set it down for her.
“Oh, my God. You’re actually being helpful,” she says with amusement. “Are you dying or something? Trying to make sure we remember you fondly?”
“Don’t get your hopes up. It’s strictly survival instinct. If I didn’t help you when you’re twenty months pregnant, Diego would feed me my tongue,” I say, grabbing a cannoli from the tray. She’s an amazing cook. My fridge is full of dishes she’s cooked and frozen for me, and she and Diego own a chain of bakery-cafes together. They use it to launder dirty money.
Diego is standing in the doorway, watching us and talking on his cell phone, with a faint scowl stamped on his forehead. Then he catches his wife’s eye and winks at her. Look at him, Mr. Domestic.
Diego used to live in an apartment over a bar that he owns, but after he got married, and promoted to underboss, he bought this enormous townhouse. I live in another, down the block, at his request. He snatched up most of the other buildings on the block, and filled them with people who are loyal to him. He rents the apartments to them at below market prices, so they can live right next door. He'll do anything to keep his wife safe.
"She’s right, you don't have that usual ‘who should I kill in the next five minutes’? look on your face,” Rocco observes.
"That can change," I scowl, grabbing a beer. No point in having them think I’m going soft.
The truth is, I was smiling because I was thinking of Heather flipping me off. She’s got spunk, that girl. Nothing like her weak little pussy of a brother. I never even wanted to hire him; I knew he’d fuck up.
But Heather? I could be around that girl 24 hours a day. Following her around is way too much fun. I love messing with her, love watching her. I couldn’t say why. That little catch in her breath when I pushed her up against the wall...Jesus. My dick is so hard it could pound nails through concrete, just thinking about it.
Of course, sooner or later her debt is going to have to come due, and there’s no way she could ever come up with the kind of money her brother owes us. She lives in a cruddy un-gentrified neighborhood, works double shifts at the café six days a week, and the soles of her sneakers are starting to separate from her shoes.
I know what Diego will say. We’re going to have to make an example of her.
She thinks that we’re going to kill her. I’m surprised she’s that naive.
Killing her would be a waste of a good resource. She’s a stunner, even though she barely seems to notice. Doesn’t wear makeup, chews her nails to the nub. And she’s a little too skinny. But she’s still got tits and ass for days, huge eyes like a Kewpie doll, and little rosebud lips. Her cloud of blonde hair is like an angel’s halo. Diego will want me to give her to one of the older Capos, or even snatch her up and give her to the Russians.
There’s a new Russian Avtoritat in town, Kostya, and Diego’s suggested that she’d make a nice welcome gift for him. They’re big into human trafficking.
For some reason, the thought stirs an uneasiness inside me. I wonder why. I have a hard time connecting with my own feelings sometimes.
Apparently my strange fixation with Heather is a selfish one. I like thinking about ways to punish her for what her brother did, but I don’t want anyone else to put their hands on her.
Too bad for her, I’m not going to have a choice in the matter. I’ve dragged this out for way longer than Diego wanted, and any day now he’s going to tell me that it’s time.
Diego helps his wife sit down on the couch next to him. She settles in with an “oof” and he hands her a cannoli. When she starts to protest, he growls “Eat. The baby needs calories.” She smiles fondly at him, and takes a small bite; she loves it when he’s bossy.
I can’t even comprehend feeling like that about another human. It’s kind of nauseating, actually. It’s like watching the mating rituals of lemurs or something, on “Animal Planet”.
"Down to business," Diego says. "I was just talking to Tiberio. He wants us to get this shit straightened out with Kostya, establish our territories.” Diego reports directly to Tiberio, who is the Chicago Capo – for now. Diego has his eye on the position. He also has plans to replace him someday, but that’s going to take time. Tiberio is like royalty, descended from several generations of made men. Diego started as a lowly soldato, a street soldier, and he’s already risen higher and faster in the Family then anyone before him.
“Let me guess,” I say. “The Russians want to meet up, and Tiberio wants us to go there as his representatives, because his bitch ass is afraid it’ll turn into an ambush.”
Diego grins. “He didn’t say it on so many words, but yes.”
The former Chicago Avtoritet had to flee the country because his idiot of a nephew accidentally brought the authorities right to his doorstep, exposing his human trafficking operation. Months dragged by and nobody else was named as a replacement. While there was a power vacuum, Diego moved in to the territory they’d owned, and took over offering protection to some restaurants and nightclubs.
But now that Kostya’s here, he’s flexing his muscles. And we need to firm up where our boundaries are, or they’ll try to run all over us.
Diego takes a long pull from the beer bottle, then sets it down. “We don't want to start a war with the Russians, but we also can't be seen as weak. I’m going to try to arrange for a meeting some time in the next week. We’ll need to bring Kostya a present, something that’ll knock his socks off. I’ll leave you in charge of that, Claudio.” He flicks a look at me. So that’s it, then. He definitely wants me to bring Heather.
He doesn’t want to say so in front of Donata. Like all mob wives, she knows that he does some ugly stuff, but she doesn’t ask questions. He’s faithful, he loves her with a fierce devotion and would die to keep her safe. She asks no more than that. But he doesn’t want to rub her face in the worst of what he does.
We don’t deal in trafficking, but some of the people that we do business with engage in the flesh trade. We don’t get involved. We can’t police the world; policing our own neighborhood and maintaining our territory is a full-time job in itself.
“Whatever you need,” I say, but my voice suddenly sounds strange in my ears. Kostya ripping off Heather’s clothes...tying her down spread-eagled on a bed, with a line of his men waiting to have their turn with her...She’d fight back. At first. Until they broke her. Kostya’s meaty fists raining down blows on her face, the snap of bone, the swelling of flesh...
Diego picks up on my hesitance, and scowls at me. "Can you keep your shit together? Because you've been acting pretty weird lately, and what happened at the party last week was not cool." He savagely bites into a jam filled pastry, and raspberry oozes out like blood.
He’d thrown a party the North Chicago Italian Social club to celebrate the engagement of one of Diego’s men. I hate
parties, but I was there as security for Diego. "The guy bumped into you, hard. Nearly knocked you on your ass. I thought he was attacking you."
Okay, yeah, that’s true, but I might have gone a little overboard with my response.
Diego’s words are so frosty icicles are dripping off them. "It was an accident. He was drunk. I yelled at you to stop hitting him.”
“I get in the zone,” I shrug uneasily. “I don’t hear anything when that happens.”
“We barely pulled you off him before you killed him, and that shit’s not gonna fly. We don't treat our people like crap unless they've earned it." That’s true. That’s why Diego has been able to rise to the position he has. He’s a fucking psycho, but he’s also fair. He protects his men, unlike the old school bosses who used the soldatos like disposable chess pieces, and in return, all of his men, including me, are loyal to the death.
"You're right. I shouldn't have done that." I scowl, shifting in my seat. "I'll keep it under control."
I hope I’ll be able to keep that promise. I’ve been filled with a prickling rage lately. It swoops in at random and threatens to destroy me. I think I’m having nightmares, too, but I don’t remember them. I just wake up on the floor sometimes, soaked in sweat.
I’ve always had a harsh temper and a dark, acid anger eating away at me from the inside out, but I’ve also got cast-iron self-control. Except for lately, when every little thing threatens to send me spiraling out of control.
And it obviously hasn’t escaped Diego. He fixes me with his cold gaze, and his voice is harsh. "Claudio, let's be real, you just used that guy bumping into me as an excuse. Something’s messing with your head lately, and you’re losing your shit. If this keeps happening, it’s going to fuck up my plans. That guy’s going to be in the hospital for weeks, and I paid his family six figures to compensate them.”
Fuck, now I actually feel bad. I am loyal to the death to Diego, and the last thing I want to do is cause him problems or cost him money.
"I'll pay you back," I say.
"Yes, you will, but more than that, if you fuck up again, I’m going to send you away.” His eyes burn with ice-blue fire. “Like, out of the fucking country, with a one-way ticket. I need someone I can count on right now. I’m close to getting everything that I wanted, and I’m not going to let you screw it up.”
Anyone else, he'd have killed them. "That's fair,” I nod. Where has this darkness come from? I feel its heavy weight pressing on my shoulders and slump back in my chair, stretching my legs.
"New shoes?" Rocco asks. He frowns at them, and looks closer. "What is that design on them?"
Suddenly everyone's looking at my leather shoes. The design is tattoos.
They’re what’s left of a guy who was skimming from the till at one of our nightclubs.
Too far? It’s hard for me to tell. I went through some shit in my teens that changed me, and not in a good way. I wall up my feelings, I go through the motions of acting like I’m normal, but I’m not. I’m so fucking far from it.
Donata is staring too, and I see her face go pale as she guesses what material I used to make my shoes. Abruptly she stands up. "I'm going to go get something to drink," she says.
Diego shoots to his feet. “Are you all right?” He glances at her rounded belly.
She manages a not entirely convincing smile. "Totally fine. Nothing wrong with the baby." She puts both her hands over her belly in a protective gesture, and then for some reason she glances at my shoes again and swallows hard, before walking quickly out of the room. Diego shoots me a look, and follows her.
Carmelo and Rocco suddenly find it really important to talk about baseball, Carmelo’s a Cub’s fan, Rocco’s a diehard White Sox fanatic. I don’t join in. I just wait until Diego comes back in a couple of minutes later. Alone. Donata doesn’t want to be anywhere near me right now.
Diego waves his hand at the guys. “Out.”
They jump to their feet and hurry from the room. Carmelo pauses in the doorway. He shoots me a worried look, gives me a half wave, and shuts the door behind him. He’s a good guy, we work together a lot. I try to remind myself, for the millionth time, not to snap at him so much.
Diego sinks down into the chair next to mine, and pins me with a furious glower. "You don’t fucking come to my house and freak out my wife, asshole. You're not wearing those shoes here again. Or the belt. We all know what they're made of." I close my fingers on the belt. I don't try to deny it.
My parents died when I was a kid, and my uncle took over raising me. He was a sadistic fuck, who liked to beat the shit out of me and cut me with knives. Then he found a guy who had different appetites – an Albanian named Ditmar, with dark, perverse desires.
Ditmar paid my uncle for access to me. My uncle kept me chained up in the basement, made me eat from a dog food bowl. One whole year, that was my life. I never saw the sun. He drugged me, kept me half-starved so I was too weak to fight back.
Then he made a mistake. My uncle got greedy, started looking around for more people to rent me out to.
Word got to Diego. Diego broke into the house, and set me free. His parents had both died recently, and he was living on the streets. He had no chance, back then, of getting revenge on the people who’d caused their deaths. He was looking for a fight that he could win.
Doesn’t matter why he saved me; what matters is he did it. He dragged me out of the house and took me to the squat where he was living with Rocco. He weaned me off the drugs – and when I was strong enough, I went hunting.
This belt is what's left of my uncle. Ditmar fled the country. That was because Diego put the word out that he was a perv who liked boys. And that was what did it for him. He could have messed around with pre-teen girls all day long, but the mob is a conservative bunch, and they weren’t going to tolerate a gay guy.
He went home to Albania, so I've heard. I have feelers out, a big reward offered for him dead or alive – but I’d pay much more to get him back alive. The knowledge that he’s still alive out there, and probably doing to some other little boy the same things he did to me, eats away at me like a cancer. Someday I'll find him.
I owe everything to Diego. I swore an oath to be loyal to him, and I do my best not to let my crazy screw things up for him.
"I can stop coming to the house," I say. “Just meet you at the office.”
"That’s not what I need,” he snaps. “I need to be able to rely on you, and I need you to stop freaking everyone the fuck out. All the higher ups are waiting for me to fail. You need something to settle you down. You can’t put it off any longer.”
The “it” he’s referring to is finding a wife. He wants me to get married. Now that Diego’s wifed up, he thinks that’s the magic pill, the solution to everything.
“Okay,” I say uneasily.
The thing is, he’s genuinely in love with Donata, and that’s what helped make him into something that’s a little less evil, a little closer to human. I am not capable of those emotions. Where most men have a heart, I’ve got an angry hive of killer bees.
“I’ll find a girl for you,” he mutters. “Someone who’ll be loyal.”
The thought of being tied to some good little Mafia girl for the rest of my life makes me queasy. The things that I need to do to get me off – I doubt that kind of girl would go for it. And I can’t stand being around most people for any length of time.
This is Diego asking, though. I’ll have to find a way to live with it.
It would be strictly a business arrangement anyway. And I can always get my physical needs met elsewhere, if my wife isn’t into it. I almost feel pity for whoever’s going to be stuck with my crazy ass. “I don’t think it’s going work, but if you want me to, you know I’ll do it.”
“Fine. Now go home, or better yet, go screw one of your whores. That seems to be a good fix for you, for at least a few hours.” Diego shakes his head in annoyance, and I head for the door.
The thought of whipping some hooker’s ass with m
y belt until she cries in pain rather than pleasure usually gets me at least a little hard, but lately I just haven’t been feeling it.
So instead I head home for an ice-cold shower and a session with my hand. I know who’s face I’ll see as I’m gripping my cock – a girl with a golden cloud of hair and a furious spark in her blue eyes.
Chapter Three
Heather
My father is in his hospital bed, asleep. His thick graying hair is combed neatly in place, and he looks a little bit like a fifties style greaser. He’s still so handsome, even with the faint yellow tinge to his skin; he’s always been a real lady-killer. The nurses flutter around him and sneak him extra desserts.
I stand there in the doorway, watching his chest rise and fall. I’m trying to commit him to memory,
He smiles faintly when I come in. Monday is my only day off, and I’m here every week, like clock-work. I can’t come more often than that, which makes me feel terrible, but if I’m not working double shifts, we’ll lose the apartment and then he’d have nowhere to come home to.
If he even survives.
That would take a miracle, and miracles are not meant for people like us.
I used to believe in them. All of my life I’ve prayed for a miracle. I prayed for my mother to come back home, I prayed for my father to stop drinking, I prayed for my brother to stay safe, but when my father was diagnosed with End Stage Liver Disease, I stopped.
Now what I think I that some people are born under a lucky star, and all the world’s miracles are saved for them. For some reason, Mary’s smiling face flashes through my mind. She still believes. To her, the opening of blossoms in spring is a miracle meant just for her.
I always hoped I’d find a way to make life better for her. She lives in a tiny, cruddy little apartment that makes mine look luxurious by comparison, and she’s craved, yearned for, pets all of her life but isn’t allowed to have them, but she never complains.
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