by Nicole Fox
Chapter Sixteen
Colleen
“I’ll be watching you the entire time,” he says, attaching the scope to his rifle. It’s an impressive-looking thing and it gives me some hope that this isn’t as crazy as it seems after all. He’s spent most of his life using guns like these; I’m not going to believe that he’ll forget today, when my life is potentially on the line. “But your life isn’t on the line or anything like that,” he goes on, as though reading my thoughts. “You’re the princess, remember. Nobody’s going to gun down the princess.”
We sit in the deep dark of an alleyway across the street, the melting snow turning the ground to slush around us. It glistens in the emerging sunlight. The first sunny day in weeks and this is how I spend it: my heart hammering into my throat and my chest aching like it might collapse in upon itself. Anxiety is a horrible thing. I remember, as a girl, sitting on the edge of my bed, wondering if I was dying because my heartbeat wouldn’t slow down. I know I’m not dying now, but that doesn’t stop the feeling.
“You got it?” He places the rifle on top of a trashcan and then walks over to me, grabs my face in his hands, and holds our gazes together. “And you don’t have to do this. We can walk away right now, find another way. It doesn’t have to go down like this.”
“No.” I shake my head firmly, tighten my jaw. “I’m ready. I’m not scared.”
“You are, and that’s a damn good thing. The man who’s never scared doesn’t live for long.”
“Yeah … and what about the woman?”
He lets go of my face and smiles at me sideways. “It works for them too. Shall we get to it?”
I nod, and then walk from the alleyway like we discussed. Gabriel leaps onto the fire escape with his rifle slung over his back. He’ll have me covered with that rifle the whole time, so really, there’s no reason to fall into panic. My legs feel like the melting snow as I trudge across the street toward the Italians’ hideout. It feels strange to be approaching this place that always seemed so distant to me; the entire life did. If you’d told me before all this started that I’d be walking alone to an Italians’ safehouse …
“What the hell am I doing?” I mutter under my breath, but I press on. I skirt around a cab and then come to the unassuming door that Gabriel tells me is the entrance. I stand there for far too long, just staring at it, trying to keep my nerve. I don’t want to run, but the urge is there. It’d be overpowering if Gabriel and I hadn’t discussed a life together. Madness, making plans with an Italian I only recently met … but this entire life is madness, isn’t it, so why not make it a brand of madness I actually want?
“Okay.” I clench my fist, bring it to the door. When I knock, the icy cold works its way into my bones and sends a judder up my arm, but then it’s done and all I have to do is stand there and wait.
“Yeah?” a gruff voice grunts. “Who is it? Is it the fucking postman?” He laughs throatily.
“My name is Colleen O’Rourke. I am the daughter of Shane O’Rourke.”
“Bullshit.” The door swings open and a forty-something, chubby Italian stares at me with narrowed eyes. He wears a gray suit with three interlaced gold chains hanging down around the vest underneath. He winces at the cold, looking me up and down. “Motherfucker. What the hell do you want, missy? Come in here. Get outta this cold.”
“No,” I say firmly, telling myself over and over: Gabriel could kill him at any moment; Gabriel could save me at any moment. “I’m not here to chat, sir. I’m here to talk with your leader, Lorenzo Moretti. Send him out here. I have a message for him from Gabriel.”
“That fucking traitor?” the man snarls. “Do you really expect me to drag the skip out here, sweetheart? What sort of a fucking idiot do you think I am?”
“I escaped him!” I squeal, not having to try very hard to feign panic. “I finally got away and now you’re going to—This was the only place I could come! He … He has my parents, too! He’s taken them hostage as well! He’s going to kill them! I need Lorenzo’s help.”
Suddenly the man pauses. He was stroking his chin; now he holds his hand still. Slowly he lowers it. “Wait, Gabriel’s got his hands on your old lady?”
“Yes,” I say. We didn’t plan on this part. It just came out. But I can’t take it back now. “He’s tied them up and beaten them and …” The tears, too, are not hard to feign.
“Hmm,” the man mutters. He glances around the buildings that tower over us, not Manhattan-tall but tall all the same. The way he looks at the buildings makes me uncomfortable. Does he know that Gabriel is watching? “Wait here, miss. I’ll go’n talk with the skip.”
The door slams and footsteps recede. I wipe my eyes and press my hands together, trying to find a center of calm from which to stage this insanity. My legs will me to run back across the street, but not just my legs. My heart beats in that direction, too, and even the hairs that stand up on the back of my neck point back to the alleyway. It’s as though every part of me realizes how foolish this is except the girl who laid in that bed with Gabriel last night, the girl who wants that new life. And that girl who doesn’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t want to spend my life in a haze of fear, always backing down, always—
The door swings open and Alma steps forward in a flowing blood-red gown with fur around her shoulders, her red hair piled atop her head in that intricate way she likes, held together with golden pins.
“Wow,” she says, scowling from my toes to my head. “What is this, Colleen? Why are you telling this nice man that I’ve been taken by that Italian dog?”
“I …” My mouth goes dry as two worlds bash together. The brave world of me and Gabriel had nothing to do with Alma, and Alma’s world had nothing to do with this. Now that they’ve met, I feel myself tearing up from the inside. “I …”
“I … I …” Alma shakes her head, mocking me. “You’ve been telling tall-tales, girl. All right, get in here. Get out of that awful cold. Tell me what stupid games you’re playing.” She steps back as though I’m just going to follow her. She does it the same way an experienced trainer would do with a trusted pet, knowing that they’ll obey no matter what. She seems shocked when I stand my ground and stare at her. “No?” she snaps, ruffling her fur. It’s genuine wolf, I remember. “Now what sort of nonsense is this, girl? Why are you staring at me like some sort of moron? Speak!”
“I’m not coming, Alma,” I mutter, the words taking something vital from me.
“You’re not coming?” It really is as though her prized pet has just done a trick she did not train it for. She watches me closely, as though trying to work out where I learned it. “You’ve been in the care of some wretched Italian dog for far too long, and now you’re standing in the freezing cold with snow melting in your hair—your messy hair; you must be more careful—and now you’re telling me that you …” She looks even closer, and then smiles. “Ah, I see. Well, fine, what is a mother to do when her daughter doesn’t know even the most basic things about men?”
I need to turn around and give Gabriel some signal that Alma is off-limits, but surely the fact that she’s not dead yet is a sign that he already knows that. No, he wouldn’t shoot her. But that means I’m defenseless and truly alone; I don’t have my guardian angel looking over me anymore.
“What did you let him do to you, you silly slut?” Alma laughs, high-pitched and unpleasant. “What have I told you, time and time again? Men are beasts and will behave like them if we do not keep them in their cages. We cannot allow them to run rampant and do any random thing that pops into their heads. They are disgusting dogs and it’s only women who can keep them tame. What did you do? Did you let him unleash himself on you, huh? Did you let him go for a sick ride? Colleen …” and her voice becomes almost hysterical, her face bright red, her lips scowling more than ever “… are you still a virgin?”
The barrage catches me unaware. I take a stunned step back. I try to remember how I felt when I was lying in bed with Gabriel, the smell of sex and the p
romise of the future in the air around us, and I can’t. All I know is Alma’s judgmental face, the acid in her words; all I can feel is an unfair shame that I’m no longer a virgin. It’s a contradiction, knowing that it’s unfair and yet still feeling the potent shame, and yet my entire life is one big contradiction so it’s nothing new. I lift my chin; I want to be strong.
She looks at my raised chin the same way she looks at dog mess on the sidewalk. “You’ve always been weak,” she mutters.
“Don’t be so hard on the girl.” Father walks out and stands beside Alma. He rubs his hands together and then stuffs then into his pockets. “Enough silliness, tyke, it’s time to come back to your family. Don’t worry about what that sick bastard did to you. You’re still our daughter.”
It’s a lie; his words are not genuine. He has never called me a tyke before and he has never spoken to me in this caring way before. I take another step back, just out of his reach. His face tightens almost imperceptibly, but I perceive it, and I hate it. Just like Alma, he expects me to do what he wants when he wants, and he does not care if I have thoughts of my own.
“Fucking hell!” he snaps, swiping his hand through the air. “Will you just get in here, you stupid girl? What sort of game is this? Are you Italian now? Your grandfather would be disgusted.”
This is one of his favorite barbs. A grandfather who died before I was born would hypothetically disapprove of my behavior, which means I have to do whatever they tell me; that’s the game.
“She’s always been slow,” Alma mutters.
“I know,” Father agrees quietly. “Well, what’s he going to do, really? He won’t shoot her old man.”
When Father steps out into the street, my daughter instincts override everything else and make me throw myself forward on the small chance that Gabriel really might shoot. I stand in front of him, shielding him. Father laughs, grabs my wrist, and drags me roughly inside. Alma slams the door and they both wheel on me, shouting over each other, each raising their voice so that they can be the one to berate me.
Finally, when they’ve got me backed up against the wall with tears pouring from my eyes—this is the worst they’ve ever shouted at me, and anybody who says words can’t hurt doesn’t know a single thing about life—they nod in unison, a job well done.
“Come on, dear,” Alma says, softening artificially. “I’ll get you a nice warm cup of cocoa. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Chapter Seventeen
Gabriel
“Fuck!” I roar, as her old man drags her inside, as the door slams behind them, and as I’m left up here like an asshole with my dick in my hand. I throw the rifle across the roof, where it smashes against a miniature chimney, the scope coming loose. “Fuck!” I snarl, only my Family instincts quieting me. I’m a fucking idiot; that’s the first thing that comes into my head when I’m calm enough to think anything at all.
I run to the fire escape and leap down the steps, taking them several at a time. I scoop up the gun on the way but leave the scope. The plan was stupid, stupid, stupid. It seemed to make sense when we were lying in bed together, discussing it, because all we were really thinking about was what we’d do afterward. Running off to California … it seems like the rantings of a madman now.
I go around the back of the Italians’ place and search for an opening, even though I know that there won’t be one; the place is guarded, as it always is. There isn’t a chance in hell I’ll get in there without hurting myself or, worse, Collen. Maybe I could shoot my way in, if all I wanted to do was kill as many bastards as possible, but that’s not an option.
Fuck … I drop down onto the concrete in the alleyway, leaning my back against the trash can we were just standing beside, together. What sort of a fool am I? I had her right here. She was safe. We were together. And then I willingly just let her walk across the street … dammit, the Italians and the Irish have clearly made some sort of deal without me. The whole time we discussed this plan, neither of us guessed that one of her goddamn parents might come walking out.
“Fuck!” I slam my head against the trash can, gritting my teeth so hard my whole face trembles.
I don’t know how long I sit here, only that the sun begins to set and a homeless man wanders into the alleyway and glares at me like I’m in his spot. I climb to my feet and walk to the mouth of the alley, gun—emptied of all ammo—hidden in the trashcan. I need to leave this area; I can’t linger around here, unless I want to be caught. What are they doing to her in there? I can’t shake the thought that they’re pouring bullshit in her ears, telling her I twisted her, telling her I …
What the hell is the matter with me? I ought to just leave. What have I been telling myself this whole time? She’s nothing, just some Irish girl I hardly know. I shouldn’t be crippled at the idea that she’ll turn against me. It doesn’t matter; the journey is over. Fine. I can go to California on my own and find another woman. It’s not like there aren’t more sexy pieces out there. But those thoughts ring hollow, like I’m playing a role and playing it poorly. I can tell myself that she means nothing to me all I want. It doesn’t make it true.
I return to the alleyway and sit down opposite the homeless man. He’s got a massive gray beard that reaches right down to his midriff. Or maybe it was gray once; now it’s gray-brown, gray-yellow, gray-green, stained all over. He rubs his hands together in his fingerless, hole-marked gloves.
“Rough day?” he wheezes and spits.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “You could say that.”
“Well …” he shrugs and points to the sky, as though to say it’s all in God’s hands, and then takes out a small pouch from his pocket and rolls a cigarette.
I return to the mouth of the alleyway, the street pitch-dark now except for the streetlamp at the end. Every time the city installs new streetlamps here, the skip orders the boys to smash them up. The Family prefers darkness. How long has it been now? I check my phone; goddamn, three hours. I’ve been pacing around and feeling sorry for myself for six goddamn hours.
Screw this … let what’ll happen, happen.
I walk across the street, knowing it’s a damn fool move but not really caring much right now. I’ll start with the doorman, gets my hands on him and drag him out here, take his gun and hope to hell that he’s somebody important, somebody’s cousin or uncle or nephew. That’s the way the Family works, or is supposed to work; blood matters. I take out my pistol and knock on the door with it, and then step to the side so that I’ll have the jump on him.
But when the door opens, it’s not an Italian who walks out. It’s Colleen’s mother. She’s changed her clothes since I spied her through the scope. Now she wears a long black coat that buttons up right to her neck and black gloves to match. She reminds me of that lady from the Dalmatians movie, the evil one.
She raises her hands in mock concern when she sees the gun. “Are you going to shoot me, young man?”
“Maybe I will,” I mutter, but I’m already lowering it. I can’t kill her mom. No damn way.
She nods in satisfaction. “That was the right move. Maybe you are not as stupid as your reputation would lead me to believe. Now, will you follow me like a gentleman, or shall I have my associates bring you in? Or you could go back to pacing up and down that alleyway like a lunatic. The choice is yours.”
“You’ll kill me,” I mutter.
“No, no,” she says, wagging her finger like I’m her goddamn kid. “We will not. You have my word. Now, come with me.”
I’m too tired and I’m too pissed off to do anything other than follow her. If I was thinking clearly—if I was thinking like Gabriel the enforcer—then maybe I’d grab her and use her as a hostage instead, bargaining Colleen out that way. But whatever Colleen feels about this woman, the fact remains that she’s her mother. I don’t think I’ll be winning any points with Colleen if I take her. So I follow her into the hallway, through the mostly-empty bar, and into the backroom. I expect Lorenzo to be there, or Samuel, but the only people in the r
oom are Colleen, her father, and her mother, who closes the door behind me. The naked bulb lights up the old bloodstains on the wall; this is a storage room that the boys have used for a torture room more’n a couple times.
“Please,” Shane says, gesturing at the chair opposite his. “Take a seat.”
Colleen sits right next to him, dressed in an elaborate gown that looks completely out of place here … it’s the gown her mother was wearing. Her mom changed out of it and put her into it, why? Because she wanted her to look pretty, I guess. Which she does, except for the way she stares stubbornly down at the table, unwilling to look at me. And except for the big purple bruise on her neck. It’s new, already turning yellow.
“You’ll have to drop that gun,” Shane says, holding a gun of his own, aimed casually at me. “Unless you want to start shooting with my daughter in the room?”
I drop the gun and take the seat. Colleen’s mother walks around to the Irish side of the table and stands behind her daughter, her hands on her shoulders, her head held high with dignity.