Damn Claudio. Damn the whole Family. I’ll never be able to help her now.
My father stirs in his bed and I realize his eyes are open now, so I go in, quickly blinking away tears.
Thanks to the money that my brother stole, my father is getting an experimental treatment which is delaying the slow death of his poor abused liver, but what he really needs is a transplant. He’s not even on the list for one, not a life-long alcoholic like him. He knows it, but he never lets the roguish smile slip form his face.
“How’s my princess?” he asks, his voice a faint rasp.
I toss my hair casually, and paste a bright smile on my face. “Couldn’t be better,” I say, and I sit down in the chair next to him and hand him a macadamia nut cookie that I stole from work yesterday. So sue me. I don’t want to show up empty-handed, and I’m so broke I walked thirty blocks to the hospital because I can’t afford the fare for the L train. And my boss can spare a damn cookie.
I sit down next to the bed, admiring the giant vase of flowers on his nightstand. I don’t even recognize most of the blooms. Him and his nurse girlfriends. After mom left, there was a whole parade of women traipsing through our house. I used to hope that one of them would look at me and James, and want to stay, to take care of us. They never did.
“I didn’t get you anything,” he says, looking a little wistful. He pulls one of the flowers from the vase and hands it to me, and winks. “There you go.” I tuck it behind my ear.
“Beautiful.” He nods admiringly. “So, let’s talk about you. You’re going back to school next spring, right?” he says. “Maybe even taking some summer classes?”
I make a wry face. Two years ago, I was going to Chicago State University, majoring in accounting, when my father’s health started failing. He lost his machinist job. I moved out of the dorms, and moved in with my dad to take care of him. James and I put aside every cent we had from our cruddy jobs to save up for money for treatment for him.
“I couldn’t get financial aid in time for summer classes,” I say with a shrug. Summer? That’s a million light years away. I don’t know that I’ll even be alive that long. Claudio’s face swims through my mind, and I shiver and hug myself, hoping dad doesn’t notice. But he does.
“I’ll tell the nurse to turn up the heat,” he says.
“No, no, I’m fine. Hey, did you finish the book I bought you? James Rollins has a new book out, I can get you a copy from the library.”
“Why do I feel like you’re trying to change the subject? Did you fill out your paperwork for the financial aid for spring semester, at least?” He tries to make his voice stern.
“Of course I did.”
He arches a graying eyebrow. “You wouldn’t lie to a sick old man, now, would you?”
“Daddy dearest.” I open my eyes wide and make them big and innocent. I make a joke out of it. “Would I ever?”
“I hope not, because lying to your father is a mortal sin. Here, help me sit up, will you? I feel a little better today. I think the treatment’s starting to work.” I grab him by the arm as he slowly hoists himself into a sitting position; he pants with the effort.
“That’s great,” I say, in my bright, happy voice.
It’s sad, is what it is. All we do these days is lie to each other, because the truth is too painful. I can’t think of one happy thing in my life that I could share with him. I come here every Monday and pretend that life is grand, and I love my job and I’m not starving and broke, and he sits there and pretends he’s not dying.
“Yep. I might be able to go home in a few weeks and do the rest as an outpatient.”
“That will be fantastic. I can’t wait to have you back,” I say, as if this is possible.
His nurse, Alison, comes in just then to take his vital signs, and help him shuffle to the bathroom. And flirt with him a little. She’s in her fifties, but still very pretty, and he makes her giggle. I welcome the distraction.
In a couple of minutes, Alison helps him sit back down on the bed, and after she leaves, he asks the question that I’ve been bracing myself for. “Have you heard from your brother?”
I told him that my brother found a construction job in Florida. There’s no way I’m going to tell my father how much his medical treatments have really cost this family. The one small mercy about dad’s imminent death is that he likely won’t be around long enough to find out.
“Yeah, he called me on a friend’s cell phone. He’s saving up to get one of his own. He sends his love.” The lie slips so easily from my lips, and I settle back in my chair, a sense of gloom settling over me like a cold, suffocating fog.
At least the room smells nice today, like a flower shop, instead of like disinfectant and pee. I lean in and sniff at the flowers again.
“Which one of your girlfriends sent this to you, dad?”
He laughs, which turns into a coughing fit. He winces in pain; it only hurts when he laughs, as they say. “I have no idea who they came from. At first I thought it must be the wrong room. I must have a secret admirer.”
“Oh, wow,” I say, but now my smile is forced. I turn the vase around carefully. There’s no card.
I drop my hand as if the vase has turned red hot. Claudio. It has to be. If it were any of dad’s friends, they’d have included a card. And this huge, over the top vase wouldn’t be their style anyway. A cheap supermarket bouquet of daisies, maybe, but we don’t have the kind of friends who’d spend hundreds of dollars on a cut crystal vase stuffed with exotic blooms.
“Yep. I still got it.” There’s pride in my father’s tired voice. “It might be that fine little nurse who just came in here, or it might be the night-nurse.”
“You lady-killer, you,” I say, making a joke out of it. I’m so angry at Claudio’s invasion that I want to I punch something, but I swallow it down and just smile wider.
My father tries to return the smile, but he’s pale and tired from the effort of walking to the bathroom and back.
“You should go,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping. “You’re tired. You work too much.”
I kiss him on the cheek and promise to come back next Monday. As soon as I’m out in the hallway, I snatch the flower from behind my ear and throw it in the nearest trash can.
That bastard Claudio, worming his way into my father’s hospital room. That son of a bitch.
When I get back to my dad’s apartment, I check the fridge. As if I didn’t already know it would be empty, except for that box of rice from the Chinese take-out which has gone rock hard. I don’t throw it away, because then the fridge would be completely empty, and that’s just too sad.
My stomach growls furiously. I drink water to try to fill it. Then I go to take a shower.
I think of Claudio as I’m showering, and shamefully, my hand moves down between my legs.
I stroke myself and imagine him throwing me down on the bed. Pinning my hands above my head. Taking control. Kissing my neck.
Heat floods my body, and I shudder in release. The moment the pleasurable heat fades from my body, I feel sick. How weak am I? How can I have so little self-respect?
I towel myself off furiously, scrubbing at my skin until it turns red. Punishing my body for its betrayal. A great weariness settles over me. It’s early afternoon, but I need to nap. I just want to fall into oblivion, to escape the world for a little while.
I pull on my pajamas, and then plop down on my bed, and it takes a second for it to register – there’s something on my pillow. A little package wrapped in gold wrapping paper and tied with a ribbon.
I open it. There’s a hand-made wallet. The leather is weird, it has a strange, horrible feel to it and there are odd markings on it that...I swear it looks exactly junkie’s track marks. Growing up where I did, I’m quite familiar with what those look like. And there’s an ugly rose that looks like a cheap tattoo.
The prostitute who was kidnapped and killed? Her name was Rose.
I throw the wallet down and scream, then clap my hands
over my mouth. I run through the apartment, checking the closets, as if Claudio might be hiding in one of them.
Oh my God oh my God oh my God. There’s a wallet made of skin in my bedroom. A human being was wearing that skin last week.
I grab my suitcase and pull open dresser drawers, tossing clothing in. Then I stop. Where would I go? Is there anywhere that I could go that he wouldn’t find me?
And in the alley yesterday, he mentioned Mary and my father. He sent flowers to my father’s damned hospital room, just to make his point. I can’t leave them to deal with the fallout.
This is my fight, not theirs.
The phone rings. I pick it up. “Did you like my present?” It’s him. I recognize his deep, harsh voice. “Tick, tock.”
“Leave me alone!” I scream, and I slam the phone down.
Chapter Four
Claudio
Wednesday evening, Diego still hasn’t set up the meeting with Kostya. I’m at the gym, beating a punching bag into submission. If I don’t figure out what’s got me on edge like this, I’m fucked.
It’s not breaking news that I have a short fuse. A hot rage always simmers right beneath my skin.
This is something different, though. I used to be able to rein it in. I used my job as an outlet to channel my anger, delivering pain and death on command, and for years, that was enough for me. Not any more.
The first time I noticed it was at a night club we were scoping out, about six weeks ago. It was in a neutral part of town, in between the Russian’s territory and our own.
A group of Russians made their way through the crowd towards us, all muscle and flashy suits and too much gold jewelry. They stank of cologne and pricey cigars. One of them, a man who introduced himself as Makar, said that his boss Kostya had just put in an offer for the place. He asked us if we were there to congratulate him.
Diego had replied smoothly – saying that no, he was there to invite them to try out his new restaurant – which just so happened to be three buildings down from this nightclub.
Lines were being drawn in the sand. Everybody smiled while thinking about killing each other.
And I stifled a burning rage that was all out of proportion to the situation.
Ever since that night, I’ve started more fights, and killed more people, in more violent ways, then ever before. I’m snappish and tense and people see the look in my eye and cross the street to avoid me.
I slam my fists into the punching bag that they sting, even through the wraps, and picture skulls shattering beneath my knuckles.
“Claudio. Did that punching bag kill your family and steal your car?” It’s Carmelo, and I didn’t even see him walk up. That’s not good. I can’t let myself get distracted like this.
"Not now,” I growl at him. "If something's not on fire, leave me alone."
"That girl that you were keeping an eye on? Heather?
I drop my hands to my sides. Now he’s got my full attention.
"Anyway, she's not actually on fire, so I don't know if you want me to bother you with this or not." The left side of Carmelo's face twitches up in a smile. He used to be a handsome guy. Well, he's still half handsome, I guess. The other half of his face was slashed up when he was in prison.
"Spill," I say.
"I thought you might want to know that she just applied for a second job. She's going to be working at Starlight.” That’s a nightclub across town, owned by the Cartel. “They're giving her a tryout tonight, she's going to be a cocktail waitress."
Oh, hell no she didn't.
"You were supposed to be keeping eye on her!”
"I've been watching over her as much as I can, as a favor for you when I have spare time." There's a bite to his tone now. And I deserve it. "This isn't my full-time job."
He's right. There have been changes in the organization, and I got promoted. Carmelo reports to me as often as he does Diego these days, but the family comes first, and my stalking and harassment of Heather isn't a priority for us. Well, not for anyone but me.
“How did you find out?" I ask. I am peeling the wraps off my hands and walking as I say that, headed towards the locker room. He follows at my heels.
"I have a snitch who works at the club."
"Thanks," I say shortly. "I owe you one."
"You know Diego has got her in mind as a present for Kostya," Carmelo says.
That picture flashes in front of my eyes again, of Heather chained down, legs spread wide, with some stranger slamming into her. Tearing her open. A small nuclear explosion of fury detonates in my head.
"Did I ask you?"
He turns and starts to walk away. I call him back.
"I'm sorry, I'm just on edge these days." I bite the words out. Carmelo is loyal, a good soldato, and he doesn't deserve my asshole behavior.
"I was just going to say, if you don't want to give him the girl, then you should come up with an alternative gift that he’d like even better. Or Diego’s going to be pissed.” That’s an understatement.
And Carmelo can tell that I don't want to give Heather away. That means she's a weakness. A chink in my armor.
But I can't seem to stop myself.
Carmelo is right about the gift. This is something that I should have thought about already. Diego has taught me how to be strategic. I learned a lot from watching him climb through the ranks over the years. Always plan ahead.
I don’t know where the fuck my head is these days, that I didn’t think of that myself.
"Suggestions?" I ask. I'm doing so partly as an apology, showing Carmelo I value his opinion. He’s a lower-level soldato, I’m a captain, but another thing I learned from Diego is that when you make your underlings feel valued, they’re loyal to the death.
He shrugs. "Well, what do we know about Kostya? He's flashy. He likes money, power, and impressing his people back in Moscow."
I nod. "I'll give that some thought."
I’m pissed. Her asshole boss Jake was supposed to make sure that she worked double shifts at the café; she shouldn’t have any time off. I made that very clear to him. I’m going to have words with him, and they won’t be nice words.
I shower and change quickly, into my suit – Diego always wants us to dress to reflect our success - and head over to the club. The bouncer Juan knows me, and he steps aside with a nod. We extend him the same courtesy at our clubs.
I tell him who I’m looking for. “She’s one of ours,” I tell him. “You didn’t know. I’m here to bring her home.”
He grunts in acknowledgement. “I’ll show you where she is. Too bad, she’s a nice piece.” He flashes a smile with a lot of gold in it. Heather has no idea what would have happened to her if I’d let her work here.
Juan escorts me into the club, and takes me to the dressing room in the back. Heather is sitting in front of a mirror, wearing a denim skirt and low-cut shirt, painting on lipstick; her eyes go wide when she sees me. Two other girls are in there, changing; Juan jerks his thumb at the door, and they both scurry out. He follows them, shutting the door behind him.
Leaving us alone so I can do whatever I want with her. Nice of him.
I walk over to her as she leaps to her feet. She stumbles back a couple of steps, and fuck, does that make me hard.
"You're not working here," I say to her.
"Why not?" she demands. "It isn't one of your clubs, and it isn't owned by any of your rivals either."
I grab her by the shoulder. "You have no idea who our rivals are. Don't ever talk about our business." I give her a hard shake to emphasize my words. She needs to be smarter. If the wrong people overheard her saying things like that, they’d slit her throat without a second thought.
"I...I’m sorry,” she says, flinching away from me. “I need the money. I don’t get paid enough at the coffee shop." Her voice turns desperate.
And I like that. I like that she has nowhere to turn. I hold her fate in the palm of my hand, which means that she’s mine. My little toy to play with.
&
nbsp; “How did you get the night off?” I demand.
She looks confused at the question. She doesn’t know that I have her boss watching her. “Jake was home sick, and one of the other girls wanted to pick up an extra shift, so I got to leave.” She stifles a yawn. That’s not okay. She’s owned by the Family, whether she acknowledges it or not, so she’s not allowed to run herself ragged.
“You want to work until four in the morning here and then go to work at the café at 10 a.m.?”
“I need the money,” she repeats stubbornly.
"Too bad, so sad,” I growl. “You stay where I can keep an eye on you."
"You can't tell me what to do. I don't work for you, and you have no say over where I work." Her voice trembles as she says it, but she forces the words out anyway. Brave girl. Nobody else stands up to me like that.
And now it's time to show her why that is. I grab her by the hair and yank her hair back, making her squeal. Then I move her backwards, until she’s pressed up against the wall.
I leaned down and brush my lips over her throat, and then give it a nip that’s sharp enough to hurt. "What did you just say to me?" I murmur into her ear,
“You heard me.” Her voice trembles, but she’s still showing more moxie than most of the thugs I’ve killed. I like that about her. It’ll make it that much more fun to break her.
I let go of her hair, grab her t-shirt and tear it open, exposing her. She squalls in fury and frantically tries to cover herself, but I force her arms down by her sides.
"I'm going to go tell the boss to fire you. You think he'll say no to me?"
Tears of fury fill her eyes. "No. He won't.” Her shoulders slump and she spits out the words, miserable and defeated. “Because nobody around here has the balls to stand up to you."
"Nobody around here is stupid enough to try to stand up to me," I correct her.
"Why do you hate me? Why won't you let me do this? Maybe if I work somewhere where I made more money, I could start making payments." That desperation in her voice again. It makes me so hard.
Claudio: A Dark Mafia Hate Story (Chicago Crime Family Book 2) Page 3