* * *
I’m awakened by gunshots. I throw aside my blankets and jump out of bed. Nonna meets me in the hallway. She looks worried and frightened. I go to the window and peer outside. Vincent is outside of my house with several of his guys. Vincent has a gun, and he’s firing it into the air. He’s clearly drunk, because he’s stumbling around on the lawn, and his speech is slurred when he yells, “Come out here, Olivia.”
I can’t believe this. Coming to my house in the middle of the night, scaring my grandmother like this? This is a new low, even for Vincent. It’s pretty clear to me that Vincent is nothing more than a liability to the family.
“You scared, little girl?” Vincent taunts from the lawn. “Come out and face me!”
Unfortunately, my gun is in the glove compartment of my locked car, which is parked in front of the house. If I go outside to try to get it, I’ll have to confront Vincent before I can get to my car. Vincent probably won’t hesitate at taking a shot at me. Of course, he’s drunk, so his aim might be off, but I’m not sure if I want to take that chance.
As much as I hate to admit it, seeing all those guys out on the lawn makes fear knot up in my stomach. They’re here to kill me. I’m sure of it.
“Olivia,” says Nonna. “Let me call the police.”
I shake my head. “This is family business, Nonna. The police don’t need to be involved.” If there is anyone I should call, it’s Tommy, but I don’t want to rely on the rest of the guys to get me out of this situation. Just like everything else, this is a test. I have to prove that despite my gender and despite my age, I’m the person for this job. I have to. I go to the door, my hand on the knob.
“No!” Nonna says. “Don’t you dare go out there, Olivia. They’ve got guns.”
“I have to,” I tell her.
Just then, a rock sails the window next to the front door. Glass shatters everywhere. I leap back from the door. With the window open to the outdoors, it’s easier to hear them as they laugh and jeer at me, daring me to come out.
We’re not going to lose anymore windows. I thrust the door open, step outside, and shut the door behind me.
Vincent and the boys stop talking or moving and stare at me. It’s as if they didn’t expect me to come outside after all. I also realize I probably look ridiculous. I’m wearing pajamas and my hair is messy from sleeping. I pretend like I don’t look stupid and fold my arms over my chest. “Hi Vincent. Your father would be proud.”
Vincent staggers forward, waving his gun haphazardly in my general direction. “Shut up about my father. You practically put a gun to his head.”
He’s off-balance and slow to react. I can see that now. So before I lose the element of surprise, I dart forward, my head down like I’m a football player. I drive my head and shoulders into Vincent.
As I predicted, he’s too drunk to react in time.
We both go down on the sidewalk leading to my front door.
Vincent huffs. I guess I knocked the wind out of him.
I don’t stay down for a second. I’m on my feet, my foot on Vincent’s wrist, trapping the hand that’s holding his gun. I apply pressure to his wrist.
Vincent howls.
“Drop the gun,” I say.
“You bitch,” Vincent mutters, but he lets go of the gun.
I scoop it up with one hand and tuck it into the elastic waist of my pajama pants. I kneel over Vincent. I grab a hunk of his hair and yank his head up so that our faces are close. “You’re out, Vincent,” I say. “You’re out of the family. Done.”
“You can’t make a decision like that—”
But I don’t let him finish, because, using my grip on his hair, I slam his head backwards into the sidewalk.
Vincent cries out.
I do it again.
Vincent reaches up for me, clawing at my shoulders, my face.
I slam his head against the sidewalk again. And again. And again.
His eyes go dull. I’ve knocked him out.
I look out at the guys who came with Vincent. I put my hand on the gun. “Get him out of here.”
They troop to Vincent warily, eyes on the gun. One tries to say something to me, some kind of apology, I think, but I don’t let him talk. When they’ve dragged Vincent away, I go back into the house, where Nonna is waiting for me, wide-eyed. “Maybe there’s more than a little of your father in you,” she says softly.
Usually hearing that makes me feel good. Coming from Nonna, however, it sounds ominous. “It’s just important you’re safe,” I say.
The Toil and Trouble Trilogy, Book One Page 29