by Jax Hart
“No.”
“No?”
“Not until you tell me your story. And hers.”
“It’s not a bedtime story. Our story will only give you nightmares.”
“It won’t. You don’t know what I’ve seen what was done to me.” My fists clench at the thought someone dared to hurt the honey-blonde who barely weighs a hundred pounds. “Please?”
“Maybe. Will you go to boarding school and make something of yourself?”
She nods. “Only if you never forget me?”
“As if. I’m your fairy-god-whatever remember?”
She finally hands back my poem and I take her hand, turn on the remote to the gas fireplace and tell her to sit. I cross to the wet bar and make myself a scotch—neat.
“It started years ago… in Italy, Palermo specifically. My family… we were at war with the Fiorelli’s. Both of us wanted more. We were fighting on who would rule the city. We slaughtered each other’s families. Blood for blood. A life for a life. It was before the digital age grew to what it is now. It was easier to cause bloodshed and mayhem then. Not that the police could ever stop the mob when we owned them too.
But to understand my story, you must understand hers.” I reach behind the mantle, pulling a lever. A secret cubby emerges where I pick up her words. Her ink isn’t as fresh as mine. I’ve spent too many sleepless nights reading her words over and over and that’s what keeps whatever this was between us alive. Because I stubbornly refused to let it die.
“What’s that?”
“Her notebooks. She kept diaries starting from when she was twelve through high school.”
“Where did you get those?”
“I took them from her apartment. She’s been running from me for years. I almost captured her once, three years ago in Spain. Her neighbor tipped her off that three large mafioso looking men ransacked her place.”
“You stole her diaries! That is so wrong!” Chloe taps her foot angrily.
I arch a brow. “So, I did. Do you want to read her words and I’ll read mine?”
“Like reading a play?”
“I guess,” I shrug.
Chloe gingerly takes the stolen diaries from my hands. “Did you only love, her? Was she the only one?”
“I wouldn’t call what we had love. It was more of an obsession. At least I was obsessed. She… I don’t think to this day she even knows what she felt for me. I have met two other women over the years that I thought maybe there could be something…”
“What happened to them?”
“Other men found them first.”
“Ouch.”
“Exactly.”
“You could’ve taken them. I know it. Every woman who sees you wants you for herself.”
“Maybe. But I never fully pursued either. Not when the ghost of the girl I really wanted was always there lingering in the cold shadow of my frozen heart.”
“Write that down! It was brilliant!”
“Teenagers,” I mumble, but do as she says.
“So, are we doing this fucked-up Romeo and Juliet story or what?”
“Umhummm,” I clear my throat, almost smile and roll my eyes at myself for turning into such a pussy. But I begin, “Long, long ago in a land far away there was a little girl named Romina…,” I lift my hand indicating she should start with the first faded cracked leather book in her hand…
1
PALERMO 1999
“Why do I have to go?” I pouted, not wanting to dress up and attend a funeral. I hate funerals. The endless line of black cars. The weeping nonna’s burying their grandsons. Some of them so young they never married.
My father pinched me on the arm. High enough that my sleeve would cover the bruise. I stopped protesting. I was expected to fall in line. I was a disappointment to him since birth when my mother delivered a girl instead of the son he craved.
“Chin up. You’re a Fiorelli. You don’t cry, ever cower and I expect you to stare down men. Look everyone in the eye. Understood?”
“Yes, Papa.”
But I didn’t understand. Not at all. All I knew was my family was powerful and corrupt. That Papa was a bad man and expected me to understand why any of it was important.
Our guards followed us. I hated them all. They were loyal to Papa of course and witnessed how mean he was to me and never helped. Besides, I knew what they did—kill people. Papa and the Salvatore’s were in a fight for Palermo. Guards followed us everywhere; lived with us, ate with us. Papa said he had better connections than “that imposter outfit.” But I was afraid. Papa was getting older, bolder and more reckless. Dragging me to a funeral for a man he “offed” under the ruse of paying respect was out there even for him. But I had no choice. I was Papa’s heir. Girl or not and expected to toe the family line.
As soon as we entered the building, the stench of fragrant flowers started to make me feel sick. Funeral flowers. They masked the scent of death with the perfume from their powerful petals.
“How dare you?” A woman pointed at Papa.
Guns were drawn.
More death was coming. I felt it in the air.
I slowly backed up, keeping my back pressed against a wall until I noticed a door from the corner of my eyes.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
My hands flew up, covering my ears.
I ducked low and ran, opened the door and hid behind long coats.
Screams and shouting. It felt like it went on forever, much like death. Then the quiet came with new smells. Burning metal, blood, and gun smoke. I knew Papa was gone. I just did.
He terrified me but he was also my father. My mother was killed years earlier by them and now I feared Papa walked straight into the same fate. He was too arrogant to think it wouldn’t ever happen to him.
A shadow moved under the door. I held my breath.
“Where did she go? Fiorelli’s brat must die with him. We’ll bury them both right next to his wife. Their reign is over and ours will begin. But his line must end with the girl.”
“Check out back. She couldn’t have gone far.”
I waited until the footsteps went away then slowly creaked the coat closet door open. I knew if I stayed, I’d die. They’d find me. It’s what families like mine were good at—the killing—the death.
I crept out from the shadows and toward the carnage. I saw Papa. He was lying in a pool of his own blood. His eyes widened with shock.
Men were everywhere. Out front. Out back. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.
I backed up, hitting something. Jerking around, my gaze met his. I did what Papa told me. I kept my chin up. I looked him in the eyes. I never showed him my fear.
He stared down at me as if I was dung. Because, to him, I was.
“Do it.” I challenged him. I’d rather this boy with his sea green-bluish gaze and perfectly shaped lips take my life instead of the monsters who’d do much worse to me before taking it.
A lock of his hair fell across his forehead. My eyes never left it. That one single, perfect ebony curl.
He was perfect.
The most perfect monster dressed to the nines with a body transforming from a boy to a man’s.
“I dare you.” I goaded. Knowing we were trapped in a moment where mere seconds would decide my fate.
“Go.” He nodded to the front door.
“They’ll mow me down with bullets the second I step outside.”
“Chicken?”
He leaned down. His peppermint breath landed on my baby lips. “I’m not afraid of the devil himself. Run, little Fiorelli. Live while you can. One day I’ll come for you. And finish this. It’ll be much sweeter to take your life when you’ll want more to live it. I won’t kill a child. But a woman—there’s much more interesting ways to punish one.”
“Coward,” I breathed. “I bet you’ve never even been with a woman. You’re barely older than me.”
He tucked his gun in his holster and grabbed me by the throat. The door burst opened. “End her, Roque, for
family honor.”
He leaned in closer, dragged me back to the coat closet and shut the door. But he flicked on the lights. Maybe he was a pervert who wanted to watch. He wanted to witness the moment he stole my life. Before the dots started to swim and my vision began to fade, all I could see was the gold flecks peppered in with his stunning colored aqua pupils. He whispered words to me about angels and death. He held me close. He was a beautiful monster. He smelled good. His words were hushed murmurs tickling my hair. Could an angel of death seduce?
Air. I needed air. I clawed his arms, but he wouldn’t let go. They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. Mine didn’t. It was too short. All I saw were all the thing’s I’d never do.
Kiss a boy.
Swim naked in the ocean.
Go to college and get stupid drunk.
All the stupid, little things many take for granted—I’d never do.
Dots clouded my vision. It wouldn’t be long now. His aqua eyes darkened as I slipped closer to the darkness. At least all my family was there waiting. I won’t be alone.
“I’ll see you on the other side, Little Red.”
But he won’t. This one with his eerie gaze and dark as pitch hair will only go straight to hell and if he dares to even find me and disrupt my peace—I’ll cast him down into the pits of hell myself.
I’m not sure if I fainted, died, or maybe a mixture of both.
I awoke sometime later in the woods. He left me by a small stream with a note and one of those funeral flowers tucked into my hand.
Today wasn’t your day to die. Live while you can, little one. I’ll come for you one day.
My throat was on fire. I knelt by the stream and drank the cold water. It soothed the burn for a bit, but I knew I needed to get out of the woods. The darkness was almost upon me. I refused to let it win. He was darkness… death and somehow, he let me escape its clutches tonight.
I’d do what he said. I’d survive. I’d live. But as I stared up at the stars playing peek-a-boo through the branches on the trees, I vowed he wouldn’t find me. I might still be a child, but I know way more about adult stuff than I should. I know how he meant to hurt me.
I followed the stream, my dress shoes crunching over fallen twigs and leaves. It was almost twilight. In the distance I saw lights flickering through the dense forest. When I reached a clearing, I knew exactly where I was. He left me in the woods a few miles from the cemetery.
I stayed hidden in the shadows, sheltered by trees as I followed the road. Shadows would become my friend. And my favorite thing to wear. I was tired, hungry, and hurt. But I never wavered. I knew I had to go home. The Salvatore’s weren’t looking for a dead girl who rose from the woods.
When I reached the street by my house there were no sleek cars or lights left on. It was dark. Just like my new world. I used the hidden key in the garden and slipped in the back door.
I didn’t bother turning on any lights. I didn’t need them anymore. Not when I was a girl who blended with the night. I washed my hands and made myself supper. Then I went upstairs and packed a backpack. I knew where Papa had his hidden safe and what the combination was. I emptied it. Took all the money and my passport and birth papers. I stuffed it all in under my stuffed kitty. I grabbed some jeans and boots and put them on. Went back to the kitchen for snacks and then to my father’s study. I took his gun.
“Someday, little-man Salvatore… I’ll spill your blood just as you spilled mi famiglia’s.”
With hands shaking with rage and fear, I picked up the old rotary phone on Papa’s desk.
“Zio?”
“Romina? We thought… I had a frantic call from Palermo earlier. I thought… they said you were all gone. That Roque personally killed you himself.”
“No, Zio. I got away.”
“Where are you, child?”
“Papa’s study.”
He swore in a string of Italian.
“Wait behind the garden shed. Don’t make a sound. I’ll send somebody.”
“…Zio? Are they all gone? My aunt’s and cousin’s?”
“Yes. You and I are the only Fiorelli’s left.”
The Salvatore’s probably forgot about my Zio John. He wasn’t part of the outfit. He was ex-communicated. The truth was Zio was angry that Papa was the number one and Zio never wanted to be number two, so he left one day without a trace. Rumors spread that Papa had him killed for his insolence. But I knew the truth. Papa saved Zio. Helped him hide. Maybe deep-down Papa always knew his days were numbered.
Instead of math problems, Papa always drilled in Zio’s number into my head. He said if an emergency like today ever happened that I should call.
I waited long into the night, by the time the old woman from the café came for me my heart was as frozen as my feet.
“Mrs. Ponchetti?”
She nodded. “Your uncle was my favorite. I used to bounce him on my knee and feed him cannoli cream. Come child. I’ll keep you safe until your uncle can make arrangements to smuggle you out of here.”
I followed her out of the dark and into the back of her old VW. She fed me warmed biscuits and hot chocolate in the morning. She explained Zio was working old connections to smuggle me out of Italy to the USA… someplace called Brooklyn.
“Here, it’s your Zio.” She handed me the phone one day.
“Zio?”
“Little Romina… I can’t get you out of the country with your passport. The Salvatore’s have eyes and ears everywhere even in customs. You need a new name, I figured I’d let you choose.”
I wanted to be strong. Invincible. Something that stood for something but yet still felt like me. I remembered the Greek stories from mythology Mama used to read to me before she too was gunned down by the Salvatores. “Diana. Call me Diana. She was the goddess of the hunt. It will fit who I will be now.”
“Diana Palermo. That sounds good and Italian enough.”
“Palermo?”
“Yes. So, we never forget where we came from even though the Salvatore’s drove us out…Palermo will always be in our blood. I changed my last name to Palermo when I left. I’m working on getting you a new passport and papers. As soon as it’s done, I’ll send someone for you. I can’t come myself in case I’m recognized.”
“I’m going to live in America, with you?”
“Yes. You’ll be safe here.”
“Zio? I don’t want to be safe. I want vengeance.”
He breathed deeply into the phone. “So, do I. One day, little one. One day. Until then we will be patient. We will plan, but more importantly, we will train.”
2
“ZIO?”
My arms found his waist. I couldn’t fit around him but as he lifted me in his arms, I knew I was home. I hadn’t seen him since I was five, but I remembered his full beard peppered with gray and his thick hair. He was solid but his age showed in the deep lines around his eyes and face.
“Welcome to New York, bella.”
It had been a long three weeks travelling in hot trunks while hiding; always hiding as I snuck out of Europe for the freedom this country called America always promised to offer.
I looked around with wonder. I heard so much about America. Some good, some bad. But the tall buildings that rose high above the sky, the people, the traffic…I felt as if I could be anybody here. As if I could be a chameleon and make myself into whoever I wanted to be. I wasn’t the orphaned girl from a crime family who saw more blood and death than a doctor working in the ER. I was Diana. Solid, strong, and determined.
“When do we start?”
“Your training?”
“Yes.”
“Today.”
“Good,” I nodded.
Zio drove us in his Cadillac from the airport over bridges where I could see all of the New York skyline.
“It’s just like I imagined.”
He grinned. “There’s lots of Italians here. They think I’m from the coast, a fisherman’s son. You are my niece. Your father died
in a storm. Your mother ran off with a wealthy man.”
I sat back against the leather seats. “I’m not here for a dream…I’m here to become someone’s nightmare.”
“Did you know he’s next in line to inherit everything? He will be the next Don of his family. They’ve already started grooming him.”
“I know.” I tell Zio in detail what happened at the funeral and how I woke up with a note and a wilted flower in my palm.
When I’m finished the look in his eyes echoes the vengeance making a permanent home in my heart. He stroked the top of my head and held me close. “Someday, little bella, he will pay for not only his sins but the weight of the sins of his entire family.”
“Promise.”
“I swear it to you. The Fiorelli’s might be down but it’s a big mistake to count us out. The future of the entire familglia, rests on you little one. You have the blood of Roman soldiers in your veins. Your bloodline tells a story of war and vengeance. Honor and duty. You cannot fail, Romina, when it’s your destiny to win.”
Zio’s words made me feel invincible. I was a Roman and like my name, will conquer Roque Salvatore. When I’m done with him, he will beg me for mercy, but like my ancestors—I won’t give it.
3
I thrust my balled fists into the pocket of my trousers. I’m only fifteen but I already dress like il sovrano… the ruler of the family. My shoes are handmade from the finest Italian leather and they silently tread on the marble floor as I eavesdropped on my Uncle Franco, eating dinner with the heads of three different crime families.
He pretends otherwise, but I knew my uncle yearned to rule. But I’m my father’s eldest living son and it was my turn to reign next. That is if my Zio Franco doesn’t off me to take his shot. He and the rest of the made men held council as they drank red wine and boasted about our latest victory. It took a while for all the men to gather while the police and the government condemned the latest blood bath. We even caught the consternation of the Vatican in Rome, so the celebration over winning the war had to wait. But tonight, The Fiorelli’s are no more. We drove them out of Palermo and extinguished their flame. Only I knew one tiny candle still burned.