Sabato: The Cross

by Mj Fields

  Once inside, I sit and pour myself a drink.

  I can’t help remembering the look on her face, at the beginning of the suspension, before she left the room. She wasn’t horrified or shocked, but intrigued. That’s why I left, shortly after, to follow her back to her hotel. I had to ensure she made it home without running into my father. Without being followed by someone whose intentions were...less honorable...than mine. If that was possible.

  My carelessness in choosing the bait seems to have caused another problem. Melyssa’s interest in me is stronger than I realized. I saw her watching me from the window. I knew she wanted me, to the point of desperation.

  Strangely, I did not feel concerned by this.

  I enjoyed knowing that she watched as I pleasured the staff. I looked into her eyes as I came. I don’t know how it’s possible that she did not know I was watching her, too. After my problem has been dealt with, maybe I will allow her another indulgence in her fantasy—or even a taste of the real thing—before I go home.

  But first, I need to untangle this web of complication that surrounds my central goal. All the pieces are there, but not all are in place. Zandor Steel, my friend. Dominic Segretti, his cousin. Jules DeLuca, Benito’s wife, who very conveniently has a thing for Dominic. All of them secretly—or not so secretly—loathe my father, each in their own way. Most of them also loathe Benito, his right hand and most trusted friend.

  Benito, who has been laundering money through the company he controls, which rightfully belongs to Dominic’s family.

  Benito, whose wife is a manipulative and power-hungry woman, who yearns to fuck someone else.

  Benito, who is the weak link in my father’s chain of control—a link I plan to help Dominic and the Steel family exploit, to the fullest degree.

  I lean back and close my eyes, basking in the knowledge that all will begin to crumble, very soon. A few minutes later, I hear a sound at the door. I stand and walk to the entry, where just a while ago Melyssa stood, watching me through the window. This time, it is my father and Benito. I look at my watch, annoyed. It’s nearly four in the morning.

  My father looks angry. They both do. It gives me a sick satisfaction. I open the door and stand in their way, facing my father with cold determination.

  “We have new girls coming in,” my father says, “in two days.”

  He tries to push past me, but I don’t move, and they are forced to go around me.

  “We aren’t ready for more girls yet,” I say, shutting the door and turning around.

  “They’re already on the—”

  “I said no.” I look at him with a blank face. “This place will be run my way. The women will be hand-picked by me, and me alone.”

  “They are coming in from Eastern Europe.” He stands taller, puffing out his chest.

  “This is not Italy,” I tell him, shaking my head. “Here, there are laws.”

  “Fuck the law!” He and Benito laugh, congratulating themselves. “Now, get me a damn drink, son, and thank me for helping fund this little American dream of yours.”

  “Get your own drink,” I tell him, gesturing behind me. “The bar is right over there. I am going to bed.”

  I feel my hands begin to tremble, and I know I need to walk away soon, or I will kill him with my bare hands. I turn away, disrespecting him with my body language.

  “You!” I hear the click of a gun hammer being choked back. “Turn around, and tell me again, you little—”

  I turn slowly, and laugh. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. And one last time, I am not afraid of you. Your threats are bullshit.”

  My father’s eyes narrow, and Benito smiles, like he knows a secret.

  “Well, maybe you do and maybe you don’t. But that girl, Melyssa?”

  “Is nothing,” I finish his sentence for him. But even as I bluff the words, my heart rate increases. I feel hatred creep up like bile in my stomach.

  “You know,” I say. “I’m beginning to think you’re the one who is afraid.”

  “You.” The gun in his hand is shaking with his rage. His face is almost purple. Benito takes a step back. “You bite your tongue, boy.”

  I lunge for him then, knocking the gun from his hand. I hear it clatter on the wood floor as we exchanged blows, rolling around in a murderous heap on the ground.

  Benito moves toward us, reaching into his jacket. I reach out, allowing Salvatore to continue beating on me, as I grab for the gun. Once I feel it secure in my hand, I reach up and shove it into my father’s mouth.

  A reckless darkness overtakes me, then. Things may not have gone according to my plan, but I am ready to die. Provided I take him down with me.

  “Now you’re done fighting, you pussy?” I taunt him, watching gleefully as blood trickles out of his mouth.

  “Sabato, son, don’t!” Benito yells.

  “I’m not your son!” I push the gun in further.

  I love the surprise that blossoms in his eyes as I look into them. He tries to fight me, but I only thrust the cool steel deeper in.

  “All these fucking years,” I whisper. “You sick, son of a bitch. I blamed myself for her death, for wanting to go to the museum that day, and you let me. You encouraged me. But it was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one who killed her?”

  A sharp blow to the back of my head, and I am stunned. Benito pulls me off of him, but even at death’s door, I will not let him win. I roll to my side. Benito is aiming a gun at me, but I don’t care. The man I always wanted to believe was grieving in his own way, slowly pulls himself up, and carefully wipes the blood from his mouth with a silk handkerchief.

  “Shoot him.” He turns his back on me.

  I pull the trigger.

  Salvatore falls to the floor on his knees, as blood begins to spill out of the hole in his shoulder. The hole I blew in him, with his own gun.

  Another shot rings out, but it’s not mine. A hole appears in the floor, right next to my head. Benito is slower than I am, and apparently not a very good shot, but that doesn’t mean I’ll survive. I keep aiming, determined to put as many bullets into my father as I can, before his henchman drops me for the last time.

  “Freeze!” I look up, just as the place fills with police officers. All with guns aimed on all three of us. Benito drops his gun. I immediately drop mine, raising my hands. Salvatore Efisto falls forward, in a pile on the ground.

  A faceless police officer pulls me to my feet and jacks my arms behind my back. I can feel myself smiling, viciously. It’s over. Just like that, it’s finally over.

  But my satisfaction dies when I hear the words, “He has a pulse. The bullet went through his shoulder. Let’s get him to a hospital, now.”

  A man walks up to me then, and I hate him, for stealing my revenge.

  “Are you Sabato Efisto?”

  I shake my head, no. I am no one’s son.

  Not anymore.

  *.*.*

  I refuse to speak to anyone as they search my club.

  The policeman in charge, whose questions I refuse to answer, makes phone calls and orders a bunch of uniformed men around. I sit silently, watching my father as he is cared for by the paramedics.

  It’s not until they start to wheel him out on a stretcher, that I finally find my voice.

  “Marcisci all'inferno, bastardo!”

  Across the room, I watch his lips turn up and even though he seems unconscious, I know the fucker hears me. And once again, as always, he is taunting me.

  “Sabato!” Zandor comes toward me through the crowd of officers. One of them grabs his arm, stopping him.

  “Nick D’Angelo called me.”

  The man who appears to be in charge—Nick D’Angelo, I assume—comes towards him, nodding to the uniforms to let him pass.

  “Is this Sabato Efisto?” he asks Zandor.

  “Yeah.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, like a concerned brother might, if I had one. “You okay?”

  “He’s alive,” I tell him, through gritted teeth. “
So, no.”

  Zandor’s face fills with concern—but also warning. “Bro, you need to keep that kind of thing—”

  “I should have shot him twice, three times, as many as I could.”

  “Okay,” D’Angelo seems to have heard enough. He nods at one of the officers. “Get him out of here.”

  “Nick, man, come on,” Zandor says. “He’s—”

  “Refusing to answer questions.”

  Amelia, Rosalie, and Cassandra come in from the back, looking terrified. I feel my blood boil, as I realize they were there the whole time. In danger. Not to mention what would have happened to them after, if Benito had shot me. If my father had been left alone with them.

  “Zandor.” I nod in their direction.

  “I got it,” he says, looking over. “Don’t worry, they’ll be fine. Though, I may be on the shit list later.” He grumbles the last part under his breath.

  “They need to come in too, and answer some questions.”

  I start to object, but Zandor makes a face at the detective. “Look, Nick. They were clearly sleeping when all this went down. This is his place, and those two fucks were clearly not welcome—trespassing, even. Do you really need to treat them like a bunch of suspects?”

  “Fine, I’ll question them here.”

  “Le ragazze non parlano inglese,” I say then, glaring at the cop.

  “E 'una buona cosa che parlo italiano,” the detective responds with a growl.

  “If you dare try to trap them, or manipulate their words, you will pay.”

  “Jesus! Shut the hell up, Sabato!” Zandor is pissed, but it still sounds like a plea. “I’ll check back in with you when this is taken care of.”

  “Spero che muore,” I tell him, as they cuff me and push me out the door.

  *.*.*

  Two days later, Zandor picks me up from the police station and brings me back to the club.

  “Sei a casa!” All three of the girls greet me enthusiastically.

  “Sono a casa.” I nod. “Ho bisogno di un bagno. Unitevi a me.”

  After our shared bath, and much needed releases by all, I send them off to rest. They haven’t slept since I left, I can tell. They no longer feel safe here. Soon, I know I will have to send them back. The sooner the better.

  They aren’t happy when I tell them they are going back, but I make it clear that the subject isn’t up for discussion. I book them on a flight, to leave for Italy in the morning.

  They will be safer there, if not completely safe.

  I decide I will send them to a man who is better than me.

  Amelia, Rosalie, and Cassandra had already been employees of my father’s, at the very first club I took over. I did my best to change their lives, for the better. They were still so young, and so damn afraid of everything. And as long as they are in a position where my father can reach them, I realize now they will never stop being afraid.

  The next day, I say goodbye to them for the last time, and return to an empty club.

  Finally alone, as I should be, I stand in the middle of the floor and look around. His blood is still on the floor, even splattered across some of the chairs. I decide I will spend today fixing that, since I could not fix his fate.

  First I fill the hole that I assume held the bullet that failed to kill him. The police took it away, as part of their investigation. I would have loved to keep it as a souvenir. Zandor seemed close to the detective; maybe he could pull some strings. In the meantime, I need to busy my mind. I can relax for a bit, but only for a moment. Even though I know he can’t come after me this second, I know damn well it isn’t over.

  I decide to try and drown my anger with music—loud, harsh music. I go behind the bar and slide through my playlist. Lacuna Coil fits the bill. With the music pounding in my ears, I grab a bottle. I will drink, work myself into exhaustion, and then sleep.

  There is nothing else I can do, not now anyway.

  I grab the putty, tools and paint I need to fix the floor. Then I decide, fuck it, I’m just going to paint the entire room.

  Red.

  Blood red.

  Lacuna is on repeat as I work through the rage. When the music stops suddenly, I turn around, welcoming the threat of an intruder.

  “Lacuna Coil?” The girl smiles and walks up to me with her hand extended. I look at Dominic, and then back to her.

  “Valentina Segretti.”

  “Sabato Efisto.” I hold up my hands. “Paint.”

  “I’m not afraid.” She smiles and pushes her hand closer.

  “Good to know.” There is something about her, something familiar.

  “Valentina?” Dominic comes up quickly behind her.

  “Lacuna Coil,” she continues. “I love that song, ‘I’m Not Afraid.’ I saw them live three times. They’re amazing.” She wraps her arm around Dominic’s waist, which immediately seems to put him at ease.

  “I remember the pictures on Instagram. I also remember being relieved that Franco was there.” Dominic laughs.

  Ah. That’s where I knew her from.

  “Sabato, this is my sister, Valentina.”

  She smirks, and I know she remembers me too. I wonder if Dominic knows his sister has a taste for the dark side.

  “What brings you here?” I pull a handkerchief out of my back pocket, wipe my face off, and then tie it around my head.

  “Just came in last night, and wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  “Fine.” I walk past them to the bar. “Drink?”

  “It’s nine thirty in the morning,” Dominic laughs. “We’re all set. Where is your staff?”

  “I sent them back to Italy. Didn’t want them to get caught up in the storm.”

  “The storm?”

  “Father is being released from the hospital tomorrow.”

  “And going to jail,” Dominic adds.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You don’t seem too sure of that.”

  “My father has ways around everything.”

  “Benito does, as well, but he’s in jail.” Dominic folds his arms. “And he’s staying there.”

  “That’s wonderful.” I fill my glass with whisky and drink it down.

  “You’re painting? So, you plan on staying?”

  “The wall had a hole in it, and blood stains. I thought I’d fix it. Not much else to do today.” I pour another drink. “You sure you don’t want one?”

  *.*.*

  I am glad Dominic got what he wanted. But I am still angry at myself for not killing the man whose sole purpose on this Earth is to make my life hell.

  After I finish painting, I decide to install a security system. Next time, when my father appears, I will kill him in self-defense. I will not go to jail again.

  When I am done, there are cameras in every room. Very few areas cannot be seen by those cameras, but if there is a God, the areas with blind spots will serve my purpose well.

  Now I sit at the bar, as I have since I finished, and I look around at the results of my work. Looking at it now, you would never know that this was where I drew first blood against my enemy.

  I glance up at the window and I meet her eyes again. I have had a lot to drink and now I consider that I may have drank too much. This may be an illusion, and when they disappear, I assume I’m right. I hit ‘random’ on my iPhone, and Arctic Monkeys begin to play. The song makes me think of fucking and I want to fuck.

  I look back to the window and there are eyes again. I decide to go the find out if my eyes are deceiving me, or if it is really Melyssa staring at me with those curious eyes.

  I am quiet in my movements, cat-like, and drunk.

  I stop dead in my tracks when I see her outside, squatting down with her hands fisted in her hair. She is frustrated, and so am I. I assume for the same reasons.

  I open the door quietly; slip out until I am standing above her. She is unsuspecting, and I like that. When she looks up, she jumps and screams. I grab her, and she tries to pull free.

  “I am
not in the mood for games.”

  “I’m not playing one,” she hisses.

  I lift her and stumble back through the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t feel like doing this outside,” I tell her. “There are people.”

  “Your father!” She sputters. I immediately set her on her feet and step back. I say nothing. I am angry now.

  “It’s on the news.” She looks around, confused. “You painted.”

  “Good observation,” I say, icily. “Is that the reason you were looking at me through the window?”

  She doesn’t say anything, but her face burns brightly. This amuses me.

  “Yes.” Melyssa looks down and straightens her blouse. “You were gracious enough to invite us for dinner, so, I thought I would, um....” She stops and looks up, squares her shoulders and clears her throat. “I wanted to repay the kindness. I’m new here, too. I just thought maybe.” She stops and her shoulders begin to turn in again. She tugs once again on her blouse.

  “How about we cut the shit, Melyssa,” I say. “You want me to fuck you.”

  Her mouth drops open. I reach up and close it for her.

  “You Americans.” I shake my head. She looks confused. “I need to fuck as well. So let’s just get to it, shall we?”

  I take her hand and lead her to the ‘playroom.’ Then I turn to her.

  “Where shall we start?”

  She appears stunned, too stunned to respond.

  “Melyssa, I am exhausted and have had too much to drink. I do not wish to play games. Remove your clothes.”

  She doesn’t move though, so I give her what she needs: instruction. “Now.”

  She stands straighter, and I step to her, my body an inch from hers. I watch her eyes, and they tell me what I need to know. She’s nervous, excited, titillated, yet unmoving. I watch her eyes, waiting, waiting, waiting until her pupils react.

  She finally lets a bit of tension release in a slow exhale of sweet mint.

  “You want me?” She attempts to open her mouth to speak, and I hold my finger just in front of her lips. Not touching, not yet.

  “Your breasts are tender, there is a knot in your lower abdominal area, here,” I let my hand slowly fall away from her mouth. Her lips move towards me, as if magnified.