“John.” Yeah, right.
“Did he have light hair, or dark?”
“Light.”
“Did he wear really strong cologne?” I ask, standing up.
“Ugh, yes.” She makes a face. “Too much.”
Light hair means it’s Makar.
I should tell Claudio, of course. But I’m curious as to what Makar could possibly have to say to me, especially if it’s something I could use for leverage against Claudio.
We head to the bathroom together. I glance outside, and see Carmelo watching me through the window. I give him a half-wave, which he returns.
We go into the bathroom and Mary pulls a small envelope from her waitress apron. I open it; there’s a cell phone inside, along with a hand-written note with a phone number on it.
“Watch the video, and then call me,” the note says. “I will get you and your brother to safety.”
On the cell phone, there’s a video. It’s only a few seconds long. It shows Claudio in my father’s room – handing him a bottle of whiskey. My father takes the bottle, tips it back, and drinks. Watching it makes me feel physically sick; it takes everything I have not to vomit.
That would have to be the day after I asked Claudio to let me out of our marriage. And this is how he punished me.
It’s obvious why Makar sent this to me. He wants to mess with Claudio. Seriously, how stupid does he think I am? Makar was one of the people who was going to use me as a sex slave. Sure, hopping in a car with Makar sounds like a great idea! Our first stop would be the brothel where I’d be gang-raped for the rest of my days.
But I can’t forgive Claudio for this, either. My father had one foot in the grave – and Claudio just sent him toppling in.
I shove the cell phone in my pocket. “The man who gave you this? If you see him again, don’t go anywhere with him,” I warn Mary. “And call me right away.”
Her eyes widen in alarm. “Oh, no. Is he a bad person?”
“It’s okay, you didn’t know. But yes, he’s dangerous.”
I leave with Carmelo shortly afterwards. I force myself to make pleasant conversation the whole way back, although I think he can tell that something’s bothering me.
When I get home, I start cooking one of Claudio’s favorite meals, risotto. And I cook it some more. And then some more. By the time he gets home, it’s a heap of black charcoal.
He walks into the kitchen, holding a shopping bag. He looks at the smoking black chunks on his plate and then at me.
“I’m sorry I was late?” he says, with mild amusement. “Something happen that I should know about?”
He hands me the shopping bag. The bastard who’s just handed my father a death sentence in the form of a whiskey bottle is giving me a gift.
“I’ll trade you,” I say. I hand him the cell phone and the note. “Makar left this with Mary, at the café. There’s a video on there, of you and my father. In his damned hospital room. You brought him alcohol. You killed him, you bastard!” I can’t hold back the tears any more. My father was starting to feel better; the treatment was working. Maybe he’d have had a few more years to live, even without a transplant. Claudio promised me he wouldn’t do anything to my father, and the minute he got mad enough, he broke that promise. “I know you were mad at me for asking to end things, but this? Really, Claudio?”
And I hurl the shopping bag against the wall. Something shatters, and the bag thuds to the floor. I storm out of the room.
A couple of minutes later, he finds me in our bedroom, pulling clothing from the closet.
His face contorts as he tears the clothing out of my arms and it falls to the floor. “You’re not leaving me,” Claudio says fiercely. “Ever.”
I laugh, a brittle, horrible sound that hurts my throat. “Oh, I’ve already left you. You can keep physically keep me prisoner in this house, but it won’t change a thing. I’ll be sleeping down the hall for the rest of your miserable life, you bastard.”
I scoop up the clothing from the bedroom floor and storm off, locking the door behind me. Claudio doesn’t try to stop me.
Chapter Twenty-one
Claudio
Diego and I are sitting side by side, at Kostya’s dining room table. It’s a broad mahogany table with elaborately carved legs, which could easily seat twenty. This evening, it’s just Kostya, Diego, and I. Kostya’s bodyguard Andrei stands behind an empty chair to Kostya’s right.
Today has been a very good day – and it was a long time coming. It’s been a week since my wife stopped speaking to me, but I finally have good news for her.
I should have explained earlier. I should have told her what really happened in that hospital room. Of course, Makar didn’t show her the whole video, the little weasel. When she confronted me, I should have grabbed her by the arm and held her still and made her listen. When I go home tonight, I’ll do just that, and then when she hears what I’ve arranged, all will be forgiven.
The door to the dining room opens, and Makar walks into the room. He slowly approaches the table, and looks at Diego and me in confusion. I’ve just showered, and my hair is wet. I’m sure he wonders why.
My hatred of being filthy is why. And after I finished a long, strenuous session in Kostya’s basement earlier, with Diego watching and cheering me on, I was stinking and covered with blood and bits of flesh. Kostya was kind enough to let me wash off before he summoned Makar.
“I didn’t know we were having guests,” Makar says cautiously.
“Sit,” Kostya says, his voice ringing through the enormous room.
Makar hesitates, before he finally walks over and sits down at the chair where Andrei’s sitting. There’s only one dish on the table, with a silver dome cover hiding its contents.
Makar is wearing that fucking cologne again, and earlier today, I finally remembered why I hated it. Also, I know why I instinctively hated Makar.
My teenage years were so traumatic that I blocked most of it out, but now it’s come back to me.
Makar flicks his gaze at the dish nervously. He gives Kostya an imploring look.
“Is everything all right?” he asks.
Kostya smiles. “You tell me. How’s it going?”
Makar visibly gulps, and squirms in his seat. He knows something bad is coming. He’s huddling in on himself, trying to make himself small and invisible. “Fine...sir.”
“You feeling okay?” Diego says, with malicious concern. “You don’t look so hot. A little green around the gills.”
“I don’t know what that means.” Makar’s voice has gone faint.
“Well, enough chit-chat. I’ll let you be our server tonight.” Kostya gestures at the platter.
Makar is trembling all over as he reaches for the handle and pulls the cover up. And then he screams like a girl. The cover clatters to the floor. Makar falls back into his chair and gasps like a fish floundering on a deck, the oxygen burning.
Because he’s looking at the head of Ditmar, my rapist and tormentor, raggedly sawed off at the neck and sitting on a bed of ice cubes. Ditmar’s face is contorted in agony, tongue protruding, eyes bulging.
Kostya smiles.
“You’ve seen plenty of body parts before, Makar. Why would this make you scream? Unless it was someone you knew. Someone close to you. Like your uncle.”
“Sir!” Makar sobs. “Sir, I have been a loyal soldier to you!”
Kostya shakes his head chidingly. “What you have been, Makar, is a liar. I don’t like liars. You killed those women in Moscow because you wanted a reason to have to flee the country, under a new identity. You wanted to be sent to Chicago, with me. And you had an agenda in mind, the whole time. Your uncle told us everything.”
“But I...why...how...” Makar’s gulping for air. He should enjoy each breath while he can. He doesn’t have many left.
“Claudio pointed out that you had issues with him, and I realized that you’ve been trying to provoke trouble with him from the minute we first met him. So I started looking int
o why. And when I found out the truth, I had Ditmar flown here.” Kostya smiles, baring white teeth. “It seems your uncle likes little boys. Can’t stay away from them. Apparently, things were getting too hot for him in Albania, and he wanted to come back here, but he was afraid that anywhere in the U.S., Claudio would find him. So he sent you over here to try to find a way to get at Claudio. To fuck with his head. To learn his weaknesses. He even had you wear the same cologne that he used to wear when he was abusing Claudio. He gave you the same cigarette lighter that he used when he burned Claudio, and you lit a cigarette with it, at Claudio’s house.”
Tears are running down Makar’s face. “My uncle is a liar! We haven’t spoken in years, I swear on my life!”
“He deposited one hundred thousand dollars in your account before you came to America with me,” Kostya says, his voice deceptively kind and gentle. It’s creepy as fuck when he uses that tone.
“I will give you everything I have,” Makar pleads. “My sisters. They want to come to America. They’re young, beautiful, virgins...they’d net you a fortune.”
I watch him with interest. I can see the family resemblance now. My mind must have just blanked it out before, but they’ve got the same nose, the same thick eyebrows.
Of course, they don’t look too similar any more. I broke Ditmar’s nose. Pulled out his teeth. And then I really started having fun. Diego sat and watched, for hours. He’s like me; a sick fuck with a lot of suppressed rage. There’s nothing that he loves more than a righteous kill.
“I’m impressed,” Kostya shifts in his seat, and Makar’s face lights up with hope. “I am always interested to see how low a man will go. I think you just scraped the bottom, there.” And then he just stares at Makar, the same way he stared at me when he was in his office.
Clinically. Like he’s remembering where all the pressure points are, and calculating how much blood a human can lose before dying.
Makar lets out a squeal of fright and leaps to his feet. Andrei grabs him by the shoulders and slams him back down in his chair
Kostya lunges forward and slams a knife down, pinning Makar’s hand to the table. Makar shrieks like a little girl.
“Very nice,” I say admiringly. “I would like to work him over the same way I did his uncle.”
“Have mercy!” Makar howls, as blood pools on the table. “Sir, I’ll do anything!”
“I am afraid that I must claim that particular pleasure for myself,” Kostya says to me. “It was only right that I let you have Ditmar, since he had wronged you. But Makar wronged me, by lying to me, so it must be me that punishes him.”
“Very well. I just have one request, then.”
Kostya is surprised when he hears what I am asking, but he agrees to it. Makar, of course, is not excited to hear my plans for him – well, for a very important part of him. He screams so shrilly that the silverware on the table vibrates, and claws at the knife in his hand, trying to free himself.
Andrei grabs Makar’s arm and bends it back painfully. I hear something snap, and it makes me smile.
Diego and I thank Kostya. “I owe you another painting,” I say to him before we go. “We can discuss it next week. Let me know what your stepfather might be interested in.”
When we’re outside, I turn to Diego with a huge, stupid grin. “I feel so fucking good right now,” I say to him. “Knowing Ditmar was alive was like an anchor dragging me down. I’ve needed this for the last ten years.”
“You look good,” Diego says, clapping me on the back. “Seriously. You look like a new man. Who knew torture would be such good therapy?” He considers that for a moment. “Actually, I did.”
“Your time will come,” I say to him. “Tiberio will fall, and I hope I’m there to watch.”
Diego smiles grimly. “I know. I’m moving the pieces into place. It’ll happen. I think that Kostya could turn out to be a very good ally for us.” The look in his eyes promises painful retribution for Tiberio, and I don’t think it’ll be much longer.
I drive home quickly, anxious to tell Heather the good news. Ditmar’s death has lifted a heavy weight from my shoulders. I want to tell her that. I want to tell her everything. I want to tell her that I’m better now, that the darkness is fading from my soul. And I have fallen in love with her. That’s why I don’t want her to leave me. Because I need her, because she soothes the pain inside me.
And because she needs me too. She’s never had anyone fight for her, and I would die for her. She needs someone to make her feel loved and special. And I can do that for her.
When I walk up the front steps, though, I hesitate. Something’s wrong. I have that sixth sense, and it’s buzzing in my head now.
I pull out my cell phone and try to call Carmelo. I hear the phone ringing inside the house, but Carmelo doesn’t answer.
I call a couple of the guys from the house next door, for backup.
The front door is unlocked. We rush in, guns drawn. I’m expecting the worst. Blood, death, despair. My wife’s lifeless body.
What we find is Carmelo lying sprawled on the couch...snoring. There’s a cup of coffee sitting on the coffee table. It must be drugged. Carmelo would never, never sleep on the job, but he would accept a cup of coffee from my wife.
And visiting the hospital all the time, she’d have access to drugs. She could have stolen something that would knock him out.
We search every room in the house. I try to call her, and I hear the phone ringing, and for just a moment my heart leaps in hope, but I find the phone sitting on my pillow. It’s a pointed message to me.
I don’t want to talk to you ever again.
I stand there in our bedroom, utterly alone. The soaring happiness I felt earlier is replaced by an arctic chill that freezes my soul.
“Baby,” I whisper. “I fixed everything for you. It’s going to be okay now.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Claudio
Diego’s rapping on my front door, and I roll over on the couch and pull a pillow over my head.
It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, and I’m hungover as hell. Every rap on the door is like a spike banging into my skull.
For the past six weeks, since Heather left me, I’ve been useless to everyone, including myself. I haven’t gone to work; Diego divided up my duties between Carmelo and a couple of other guys. I’ve barely left the house. When I do, I start fights and drink so much that I black out. Best to stay home, stay out of trouble. After all, I can drink myself into oblivion right here in my own living room just as easily as at a bar.
I located my wife and her brother two weeks ago. She’s waitressing at a dive bar in Mississipi, sharing a room with James, who is working on a construction site. They took Mary with them. She’s working as a pet-sitter.
I know what I should do, as a mafia soldier. I should kill James and drag Heather back home, and keep her under lock and key. I know other men who have taken such measures. But I can’t.
I didn’t realize what I needed until after she left me. I don’t want Heather to be my prisoner; I want her to want to be my wife. I want her to crave me, to stay with me because I’m the only man in the world for her.
She wanted that too – until I drove her away. All she needed was for me to tell her that I loved her. To open up to her and let her in. And I couldn’t even do that for her. She left me, and she’s not coming back.
I hear the lock in my door turning, and groan.
“I fucking quit,” I call out from the couch, not bothering to get up.
Diego walks up to the couch, and I see he’s bought reinforcements. He’s standing there with Donata, and their new son, Angelo. Angelo is swaddled in a lacy blanket; he’s a week old now. I think. Time is kind of blurry these days.
All three of them peer down at me in my bed of misery.
“Jesus,” Donata says. “Will you look at this pig sty?’
“Jesus,” I throw back at her. “You brought a baby here? My whole fucking house is a haz-mat zone. Excuse
my language in front of the kid. But fuck, what were you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I can literally smell the stench from my own house,” Donata says with annoyance. “I’m also thinking, it’s not like my child is actually going to touch a single surface in this house until I’ve disinfected it.”
She hands her son over to Diego, and goes to the kitchen to get cleaning supplies. I still hate filth, but I’m too wrecked to clean up after myself these days. Wallowing in garbage is a way of punishing myself for driving my wife away.
After a little while, though, I feel like too much of a pussy lying there and letting her clean up after me, so I drag myself up to a sitting position, and then I go grab some cleaning supplies and help her.
When we’re done, I put away the clinic supplies under the kitchen sink, and go back to the living room to reclaim my space. Misery does not love company. “OK, mission accomplished. Can you just leave me be now?”
She walks over to her husband, and he hands her back her son, who nestles his head on her shoulder.
“Look at us,” she says.
I squint at them, blearily.
“You could have this,” she says, and there’s pleading in her voice. Pleading and anger and love. “You’re part of my family, you idiot. And you’re my husband’s best friend and his most loyal soldier. I can’t watch you do this to yourself. Heather loves you. And you love her. And you’re too stupid to admit it. Go do what you have to do. Bring her back.” Then she waves her hand in front of her nose.
“But for the love of God, take a shower first.”
“Listen to my wife,” Diego says. “Especially about the shower.”
I flip him off as they head for the door, and sink wearily back onto the couch, my head throbbing.
Heather
The humidity in Gulfport is something that can’t be described, just experienced. And I don’t recommend it. The city is wonderful, except for summers, when it’s like breathing underwater without a snorkel.
Every time I have to step outside of Big Daddy’s Crawdaddy Shack to deliver a meal to an outside table, my hair explodes in frizz and I’m instantly covered in a sheen of sweet. My white shirt sticks to my skin. Why the heck is anyone sitting outside in this heat anyway? Beats me.
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