by C. D. Reiss
“You say this is a small thing.”
“It is,” I protested.
“In America, yes. You can have your personal life. You marry for love. But that’s not where you’re from. Not with the job you have. You don’t own your life.”
I cleanly slashed the rabbit’s center muscles from gut to neck. Green-grey organs spilled out onto the mesh. I realized I was wound tight from fingers to core. I switched the knife hand and flexed my fingers.
She was a skinny thing, the donna, but she was formidable, ruthless, and protected. Too many men had made the mistake of underestimating her. Even though I knew my fingers could break her neck, those fingers would be attached to a dead man before they even touched her.
“You, consigliere, are part of something bigger than yourself.” She picked up the hose. “You are a man of traditions. And you are not just any man in this tradition. You are a prince. Do you think a prince can just marry anyone he wants? He has his king to consider. His country. The blood of his children. His own future.” She sprayed the rabbit carcass down, and the grey entrails fell onto the mesh. “You want some sweet pussy, you keep it. But you don’t marry it. Everyone knows this. You don’t contaminate your family or your business.”
“Let me worry about my business. You worry about yours.”
“I am.” She took the carcass from me. “You’ve heard about my granddaughter and Patalano?”
“Suspected.”
“Well, I wanted to be the one to tell you anyway. Paulie Patalano is taking Irene. He’s going to be a powerful man. You ready for that?”
“I can handle it.” My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Otto.
“Good. Come inside,” she said.
“Un momento.”
She went and left me. I picked up. “Otto.”
“I’m sorry, boss. I lost her.”
I closed my eyes. Jesus Christ. Where could she be going? Why would she sneak away? I cursed everything: my vulnerability, my love, my powerlessness. The only thing that kept me from leaving to sniff her out was the knowledge that Paulie wouldn’t do anything while we were supposed to be negotiating a truce.
“Find her. Just find her.”
seventeen.
theresa
he Downtown Gate Club was in the middle of the city, down a turn to the left on Venice Boulevard and a right on Ludwig Street, where the streets took on a little curve, and the trees shading the rare brick row houses stood farther from the curb. A couple of blocks of oddball houses in the last sweet corner of downtown made the perfect enclave for those daring enough to make that neighborhood their home.
A person from the north might pass it by without noticing it. But old-money Angelinos who found Bel-Air tacky, those born into a level of privilege it might take decades to wean from, knew better. They knew to turn down the driveway of a brick building with stonecarved window treatments that sat ten feet from its neighbor. The building had been one of a row of businesses as early as the eighteen-fifties, complete with basements and stone foundations.
“Miss Drazen,” the guard said as he pulled out his clipboard. “You here for the LA Democratic Summit?”
I was, and I wasn’t, but I needed to get past the gate, and if he looked at the clipboard and found I wasn’t there, he’d let me in but not check me into the Heritage Room. “I’m here for Daniel Brower.”
“I just saw him.” He opened the gate.
The DGC was visible on satellite, but from the street, it was surrounded by enough houses and foliage that passersby wouldn’t notice an eighteen-hole golf course. Transplants didn’t know it existed. LA natives knew it was there, but few had been inside. The club didn’t try to go stealth; it simply wasn’t glamorous or flashy. It wasn’t a desirable place to be, outside of certain circles, and the board did everything in its power to stay under the radar.
I left my little blue BMW with the valet. He eyed the dent on the passenger side and said something polite before coasting away. A tall man in a uniform opened the glass and brass door for me.
The Heritage Room was as old as the club, somewhere in the order of one hundred and fifty years old. The walls and floor were stone, and the ceiling crisscrossed with beams the thickness of a ship’s mast. The "Heritage" in question was the heritage of success, which tended to follow all its members. Glass cases held trophies, medals, photos, certificates, and plaques from elite tournaments. When my father had brought me there at the tender age of eight, I’d been impressed by the shiny artifacts, the high ceiling, and the marble. I’d stared at the pictures of my father and grandfather, trying to discern the real men through the oil paint and how their own moods and words came through the canvas. But not much came through. The men were painted to erase their Irish heritage. They looked like mouse-haired WASPs. I hadn’t thought about the dulling of the fire in their hair since I was an adolescent, and seeing it again irritated me anew.
“Theresa!” Gerry came out in a light-grey suit and dress shoes, smiling at the dozen straitlaced politicians dotting the room. Gerry was Daniel’s political strategist. I’d spilled my guts to him one night, when he picked me up from set, and I’d been wondering about the state of my sanity.
“Hi, Ger.”
He kissed my cheek and gently led me to the doors that opened out to the golf course, where we couldn’t be heard. “To what do we owe this surprise visit?”
“Wanted to talk to Dan.”
“He’s in the conference room.” I stepped toward it, and Gerry put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. “Wait.”
“Yes?”
“Let me get him.”
“It’s fine. I know about Clarice. It’s not going to be a scene.”
He twisted his face into a half smile that meant he was going to say something difficult. “I know you’d never make a scene. Neither would he. And Clarice isn’t here yet. But it’s not that.”
I crossed my arms. “Describe it, then.” A fake laugh echoed through the room. I recognized the ex-mayor Rubin right away.
Gerry took a deep breath, calculated to let me know the conversation was hard for him. “Who you’re seeing is going to get out. Eventually.”
“Oh, you’re kidding—”
“You can’t pretend it won’t have a negative effect on his candidacy. And I’d hate to say this thing is in the bag so soon, but if—no, when—he wins, it’s going to be a pressure point, even if you don’t keep showing up.”
“Theresa?” Daniel had found me. He put his hand on my shoulder.
“Hi, Dan.”
He kissed me on the cheek, and Gerry cleared his throat, looking around to check if anyone had seen.
“Take it easy, Gerry,” Daniel said, his hand still on my bicep.
Gerry smiled and folded his hands in front of him. “This is lovely. So happy we’re all getting along. Now”—he opened a wooden door with a window set into it and dropped his voice—“get the fuck out of sight.”
He pushed Daniel past the door but did it gently, by the hip, so it didn’t look like he was being pushed. Then he closed the door.
The office belonged to the Heritage president, and some of the oldest medals in the club’s possession were shelved there.
I wanted to break all of them. As soon as the door clicked, I turned on Daniel, keeping my voice at a low growl. “Do not ever, ever send your team of pit bulls after my friends. If you want to know something, you come to me.”
“This is about the director?”
“Don’t play games,” I said.
He sat down on the leather couch as if I’d said nothing at all. He’d learned something from me, apparently. I was the one who got calm during a fight, and he was the one who flew off the handle. Well, that was about to change, because I suddenly understood what it meant to deal with a passive aggressive.
“You went to Katrina about Antonio. That is not acceptable.”
“You should sit down.” He sat back with his arms in front of him. But I knew all about his strategies and body lang
uage: the position of his arms and what it transmitted, how he could speak without speaking, and how he could say two things at once. Adopting a pose was a big part of what Daniel and I did together, and hands in front was meant to project a simple honesty, even when it was a lie. “My office is following leads on a money-laundering scam through a restaurant in San Pedro. It’s public knowledge.”
I remained standing. “I don’t want you harassing my friends.”
“I don’t want you fucking a known criminal while I’m running for office, but we don’t always get what we want.”
I didn’t know what I’d expected. The visit was impulsive. I hadn’t prepared Daniel, and I hadn’t prepared myself.
“You’re turning your professional bailiwick into a personal vendetta.”
“Give me a break. You want a personal vendetta? I’ve got your sister Margie on wiretapping. Your brother has a few shady real-estate deals in his portfolio. Another sister’s got two potentially illegal adoptions. And the other one, fuck. What the fuck happened at Westonwood sixteen years ago? And as for your father, don’t even get me started on his disgusting personal tastes, which everyone knows and no one talks about. I’ve had a personal vendetta to protect you and your family, and let me tell you, it’s wearing thin. I could take your entire family down faster than I could take Antonio Spinelli down. But I don’t because of what we had. Because I respect it. So don’t come in here and tell me how to do my job.”
I threw my bag down next to him and stepped forward until my knees were in front of his. “Daniel, let’s talk about respect. What it means.”
I leaned over, putting one hand on the arm of the couch and one on the back, bending until my lips were at his ear.
“Tink, please.” He tried to push me away, but the effort was halfhearted.
“Respect isn’t treating me like I’m made of sugar. Because I’m not. I’m made of cum and saliva. I’m made of salty sweat, and I taste like fucking. I sound like an orgasm that’s so hard you can’t even scream, and I fuck like a closed fist.”
He turned to me until his breath was on my cheek. I heard him swallow.
“Do you want me?” I knew the answer. “I can feel your fingers twitching. You want to stick them in me. You want to see if I’m wet. You’re confused because I don’t usually make you this hard. Because you respect me. Women you respect don’t make your balls ache.”
“Jesus, Tink.” He was barely breathing.
“You’re hard.”
He reached for my breast, and I caught him at the wrist and pinned it to the back of the couch.
“If you knew me, you’d respect me. If you respected me, you wouldn’t threaten my family. And you wouldn’t even breathe my lover’s name.”
He deflated, though his dick was still rigid under his trousers. I stood straight.
“Since we’re doing threats, let’s talk about the illegal campaign contributions, the filthy texts. There’s enough borderline stuff I know about you to sink your career. But if you fuck with me, it’s going to be my civic duty to tell the LA Times about how I helped you with your struggles with overseas taxation.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Fuck with me,” I said. “Please. I want you to. I want to shed a tear, telling the Times about how we opened accounts for the express purpose of your tax efficiency two weeks before you lobbied to pass laws against them.”
I crossed my arms and set my mouth. We stared at each other.
“This sounds like an impasse,” he said.
“Then we understand each other.”
I backed up and reached for the knob. Quicker than I would have thought possible with that rod of an erection, he got up and put his hand over mine. “How is he going to react to you being here? Is he going to be able to hold himself together long enough for you to win his war for him?”
“You’re implying I’m being used?” I asked.
“Implying?”
“Dan, you don’t know the half of it. And it’s not my responsibility to tell you anything.” I pushed my bag farther up my shoulder and faced the door, putting my fingers on the seam at the jamb. “But I will tell you this: he is genuine. Maybe not in the ways you care about, but I’ve never been loved the way he loves me. He loves me recklessly, to the misuse of everything else in his life. What kind of woman would I be if I let him get careless for me?”
“He’s playing you.”
“He’s not. I’ve been used before, and it didn’t feel anything like this.” I stole a glance up at him. I’d hit him just where I wanted to.
A soft knock came through the wood of the door. I looked through the frosted glass to the light-grey shadow of Gerry.
“We’re on,” Gerry said.
Daniel opened the door.
I said a few hellos to the people I’d known in my past life as they filed into the conference room, and I walked out unscathed.
eighteen.
antonio
could smell the rabbit cacciatore from the yard, where I swirled a jelly glass of sweet wine and walked along the rows of hutches. A slinky mink nibbled on the wire of her cage, and I leaned down to stroke her nose. Paulie was due in fifteen minutes. We’d make a cautious peace. He’d marry Donna Maria’s granddaughter and run an empire. And then?
Then, I’d make the impossible happen. I’d get out. It had to be done. Even if I got out of Los Angeles to avoid Paulie, I’d be expected to continue in the life, and Theresa would never fit. The only option was to secretly unwind everything in my life and live the rest of it out with her. I didn’t know when or exactly how. I didn’t know if it would be done during peace or war. But I knew it would be done. Then my Contessa could be released from the cage I had to put her in.
Far in the front of the property, I heard a car engine get louder then stop. It was Paulie, undoubtedly. I didn’t react to knowing he was there, close enough to shoot at me again.
Fabric rustled behind me, and I turned. “Hello,” I said to the girl before me. Her mane of dark curls contrasted with her white shirt. She had Donna Maria’s brown eyes, without the hardness.
“Hi. Grandma said I should come and see if you wanted anything.”
“Anything?”
She shrugged and smiled. “Sure.”
I handed her the empty jelly glass and spoke to her in Italian. “You’re from Sicily?”
“Si.” She took the glass. “I mean, no. I was born here, but I’ve lived there since I was six.”
“And you’re how old now?”
“Twenty.”
She looked about that, with her lips parted in a smile and skin so smooth she looked like a painting. She looked as if she’d never cried a day in her life. She reminded me of Valentina, my wife, and I was blindsided by the memory. She had been one of the truly beautiful things in my life, before I became everything my mother tried to stop me from being.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Irene.”
“I’m Antonio.”
“I know. Grandma said.”
“What else did she say?”
She smiled and looked away then looked up and swung her hand out, speaking English in a thick Italian accent. “‘Go find the man outside and get him something. Stand up straight. He is Antonio Spinelli, a prince. Treat him like one.’ Then she threw me out.”
“I’m no prince.”
“Camorrista from a long line? Kind of prince-like.”
“A bastard son.”
“Or just a bastard?” She kicked a hip out and shot me half a smile.
“For such an innocent-looking girl,” I said, “You flirt shamelessly.”
“At home, I don’t get to. My mother won’t let me look a man in the eye. Here, it’s expected. I kind of like it.” She looked me in the eye and waggled her brows. She was cute. We walked back to the house slowly, hands in pockets.
“What you’re doing is very dangerous,” I said. “If you pick up bad habits here, the boys back home will start talking. Then they’l
l start doing. It’s not flirting anymore after that.”
“You sound like my father.” She flashed a pout worthy of a 1940s Hollywood drama.
“He’s a wise man.”
“All business.” She waved me away. “Cigarettes and gasoline. But he won’t let me smoke or drive.”
I laughed. Poor kid. Then I realized she’d told me her father’s businesses, and thus, her lineage.
“You’re Calogero Carloni’s daughter?”
“Yep. The Princess of Sciacca! I want to die. Jesus.”
“Hey, watch your mouth.”
She puckered it in response.
“Why did you come here?” I asked. “To Los Angeles. College?”
She laughed. “You don’t know?” I stopped and she stopped with me. We faced each other. “There’s a wedding in a few weeks. I’m expected. So are you, I’d think.”
“I never miss a wedding if I can help it.”
“I got a light-blue dress,” she said. “What color are you wearing?”
“Haven’t given it much thought.”
She shrugged and turned on her heel. I noticed her feet were bare. “Someone else was here for you. Should I bring the wine to the dining room?”
“Please.”
She went ahead of me, her hips flirting with me while her face was turned away.
I walked back to the house. As if a box had opened and giggles came out, it was suddenly populated with children. Three ran past, screaming and bumping, none taller than waist high. They joked in pidgin Italian from deep in the south of the boot and colored with Anglicisms. I swore I heard one say, “Dude,” before rattling off a series of baseball stats.
“Don’t shoot.”
I heard Paulie’s voice but didn’t need to look around. “You’d be dead if I wanted you dead.”
“Yeah, yeah. I don’t expect an apology.”
“I don’t owe you one.”