The Dirty Dozen: Damsel Edition

by Kay Maree

  My father stiffens, twisting so he can glare at me. Again, my mother works her magic. She steals his attention back long enough for me to escape. The sound of their sloppy kisses follows me out of the bedroom. When I pass over the threshold, I mentally make a note to pick up a new lock for the door after I get off work. It’s a moot point—he’ll only break it off again tonight. At least it’ll make me feel like I’m doing something to fix this mess.

  A wave of wariness washes over me so I risk one last glance back. Papa is staring at me over the top of Mama’s head. Giving him an ironic salute, I ignore the heat of his glare centred between my shoulders when I pull their bedroom door closed behind me. It won’t latch, but the second they have the illusion of privacy, my father begins to shout.

  “I’ve told you. That boy needs to go. He’s nothin’ but trouble gettin’ in between us like he has any rights here. If I wanna break down my door. If I want to fuck my wife. If I want to set this goddamn piece of shit house on fire… I will. It’s none of his damn business.”

  “Hush, Gio. Angie plays his part with money and food. Now let me play mine.” Mama’s voice is low and seductive. The springs on their bed squeak, then she continues, “Just lie back and let me take care of my man.”

  Their murmurs and moans grow louder. Each sound makes me feel sicker. We all have our ways of controlling my father, but Mama’s is the worst. Hers weighs on my conscience and dulls my love for her. Her deceptive methods taint her in my eyes more than the heroin use she thinks she keeps hidden, and that eats at my conscience because theres nothing I can do to stop either habit.

  I should turn back, but I know it wouldn’t matter if I did.

  Mama’s chosen her poison tonight. Papa’s hers until he passes the fuck out.

  Passing Maria’s door, I brush my hand over the chipped cream paint. Instead of turning into my room, my feet grind to a halt and I rest my forehead on the wall next to vertical door jamb. On one hand, I’m grateful that the misery my father spreads was easily contained tonight. The other part of me burns with the need to run back in that bedroom and beat him to death with my bare hands.

  A boiling indignation churns in my gut when my fucked up brain dredges up my latent rage toward my mother. As much as she has my sympathy, she also has my contempt. In her own way, Mama’s as bad as Papa. She might not be as outwardly hateful, yet she wreaks havoc by keeping us trapped here with her bad choices. If she would leave, I could take Maria and go too. Until that day comes, or Maria turns sixteen, we’re all trapped by varying degrees of misplaced loyalty and memories of better times.

  When the churning turns to nausea and shaking invades my body, I bounce my forehead against the wall over and over. It’s not the smartest way to stop thinking about this mess I call a life, but I’ve never professed an allegiance to conventional intelligence.

  Brute stupidity masked as force is more my style.

  The snick of Maria’s latch is the only notice I have to pull my shit together.

  “Angie,” she whispers. Fisting my hands at my sides, I rest my throbbing forehead against the wall. “Are you all right?”

  “Not really.”

  My little sister steps out of her room. She opens her arms and I walk into them. Returning her hug, I squeeze her then bend down and lightly rest my chin on the top of her head. Maria is a tiny thing. She barely reaches the middle of my chest and she can’t even clasp her hands around my back. I’ve never understood how this teeny, pixie-like creature was created by the two monsters in the next room.

  A six-foot-four soulless devil like me, I understand.

  I am the cause of my parent’s downfall.

  But, Maria is innocent.

  Her arrival when I was eight and a half—a tiny, pink bundle that only stopped crying if I was holding her—saved me. She gave me a reason to try my hardest to survive our parents.

  Because if I made it, I could make sure she did, too.

  “Do you need to go hit something?” Maria’s tone is soft and understanding coats her question.

  Stepping away so I can see her face, I chuck her under the chin with two fingers and smile. “It’s scary how much you get me, kiddo.”

  Maria’s dark eyes light up. She grins wide. “There’s nothing scary about it. You’re just predictable, is all.”

  “Sure. Sure,” I joke. “I prefer my theory. You’re psychic. I like to think of myself as more of an International Man of Mystery rather than an open book.”

  “Well, it can’t hurt to live with the hope of that happening one day.” My sister swipes my chest, then dances away from me when I go to mess up her hair. She stops at the threshold of her bedroom and shoos me away with her hands. “Go, Angie. Let off some steam before work. He’s with Mama, and I’ll be locked away in here until it’s time for school. We’ll be fine.”

  As much as I want to tell her that I won’t leave her by herself, the deep restlessness in my bones tells me that she has the right idea. After too many nights in row spent fending off my father; my nerves are on edge. I’m primed to explode the next time something pushes my buttons. There is only one way to stop me from going off.

  Me. The ring at Freddie’s. And whichever unlucky soul happens to catch my eye when I get there.

  “You sure you’ll be fine?” Maria nods before I’ve finished my question. “You’ll keep the door locked?”

  She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms in front of her. “Of course.”

  Stepping into her doorway, I lift my chin in the direction of the landline telephone I had installed in her room. “Neither of them know about your phone?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not silly, Angie. My door will be locked. I have the baseball bat you got me. My phone is an arm’s length away. I have food in my little fridge and clean clothes for school. I’m sorted. I’m nearly fifteen, not five. I can look after myself.”

  I swallow down the protest that lurches into my throat with her final statement. Maria’s been pushing back against my overprotectiveness lately. It kills me to step back, but I don’t want to fight with her. Plus, I know I need to burn off this hostility before it flares into something I can’t control—into something that scares her.

  Memories of the first and last time I lost control in front of my sister flood my head and I swallow down the bile that threatens when I remember the fear in her eyes as she watched me pummel the face of the guy who’d tried to break in here to a bloody pulp. Despite my borderline gulping, the burn in my throat persists. Eventually, I stop trying to ease it; instead allowing the fire to remind me of a path I never want to travel down again.

  “Go. I know you need to—I’ll be fine.”

  Since I don’t trust the words that will come out of my mouth if I speak, I incline my head and wordlessly cede her point with a solitary nod. Snarky satisfaction fills her eyes. Maria pops one hand on her hip and points toward the front door with her other.

  “Go.”

  “Promise you’ll ring Freddie’s if you need anything?” I demand, heat in my voice.

  Running my gaze over her face, I wait for the smallest inkling of uncertainty to enter her expression. I’ll change my mind if I see the slightest hesitation that Maria is scared to be here alone.

  “I promise.” Tossing her hair over her shoulder with classic teen snark, she continues, “Geez, Angie, take an hour to yourself for once.”

  With Maria’s frank demand bouncing off my skull, I head for my bedroom. Once I’ve got my things, I stop by my parents’ door long enough to confirm their preoccupation with each other before I pop back into Maria’s bedroom.

  “Lock up. I’m going now.”

  My sister follows me to her doorway. She closes the door almost all the way, pausing to peer at me through the crack she’s left.

  “I love you, big bro.”

  I open my mouth to return her sentiment, but the words get stuck in my throat. Instead, knocking my knuckles against her door with long and
short raps, I spell out the words I’ve never been able to say.

  Maria’s smile widens. She blows me a kiss and closes her door. I wait until her lock engages, then I close my eyes and lay my palm on the chipped surface. The promise I made to her the moment I understood that I was big enough to control our destiny leaves my lips in a steady murmur.

  “Keep the faith and He’ll keep you safe, Maria Genova Carlucci. You’re meant for better things and I’m here to make sure you achieve them.”

  Out loud, I call back to her. “Ring Freddie’s or the old library if you need me for anything. Anything, at all.”

  I don’t wait for her response. Maria knows I’ll be back here in a heartbeat if she needs me. I’ve done it before and the only thing that would stop me from doing it again is death… and maybe not even then.

  Trying my best to ignore the urge to take out my growing rage on the two rutting animals in the room across the hallway, I instead do as Maria instructed and begin to jog to Freddie’s gym on the other side of our dirty and desolate outer Western Sydney suburb.

  I need my head back on straight asap or I’m no use to either of us.

  Chapter Two

  Jennifer

  “It’s time to rise, Miss DeLuca,” my assistant calls as she bustles into my bedroom. “First up, we have exercise, then you have hair and makeup before your seamstress arrives to complete your fittings for this weekend’s events.”

  Tugging the cord that opens the heavy drapes that cover my window, she continues over to the light switches, flicking them all until my room is lit up brighter than a ballroom. With an agitated jerk, I cower with the covers over my head and breath through the nasty words that demand verbalising as I face another day of her unfailing efficiency.

  Of course, my reprieve is only temporary.

  Phyllis jerks the material away from my face and reprimands me with a curt cough. “Miss DeLuca. We have a full day ahead of us. There is no time to dilly-dally. I have scheduled fifteen minutes down time after your charity lunch. Until then, we must keep moving.”

  Opening one eye, I half-heartedly glare at her until her professional façade breaks and she offers me a sympathetic look. Despite my best efforts, I find my lips lifting into a tight smile. I fight to school my mouth into a pout, but when Phyllis crosses her eyes at me, I give up completely and push myself upright, giggling like a loon.

  Once she’s passed me my breakfast tray, Phyllis settles herself on the plush stool in front of my vanity and begins reading my schedule off her tablet. I take a sip of my English Breakfast tea and try my best to block out her waffling.

  It’s not like I need her to explain my schedule to me. My memory is not a sieve; it’s simply the unyielding extravagance of the life I’m forced to lead bores me to tears. While my friends from High School are enjoying their first year of University, I’m stuck in this never-ending recital of charity and networking events designed to assuage my mother’s guilt at being born the daughter of a mobster.

  “The charity lunch benefits children in need of school supplies. Dinner tonight is to aid Doctor’s Without Border’s. While your weekend activities are a combination of charitable and professional with one personal affair scheduled as a late dinner on Sunday evening.”

  “What?” I splutter around a mouthful of hot liquid. “I didn’t arrange a personal dinner.”

  Always efficient, my assistant slides her finger across the screen to find the details I want. She frowns. Dark foreboding invades me when she says, “It seems your father has organised an intimate dinner between your family and the McMahon’s.”

  Doing my best to ignore the agitation that’s creeping through me at the confirmation of my father’s underhanded tactics, I dab at my lips with my silk napkin until I’m certain anger won’t cloud my response. “Ah, yes. Silly me. I forgot Dad mentioned we were having dinner with his friends.”

  It’s highly unlikely that Phyllis buys my act, however she simply inclines her head and launches back into her run down of the activities I’m being outfitted for this morning. I finish my tea, placing the delicate china cup on the saucer and dig into my perfectly cooked Eggs Benedict. All the while, I’m inwardly fuming at the thought of spending an evening deflecting the annoyingly fawning and disgustingly pawing attention of Ambassador McMahon’s eldest son, Desmond.

  If my mother’s need to make up for being the beloved daughter of the Boss of the Imbruglia Syndicate by social climbing her way through Sydney’s charity scene wasn’t a big enough cross to bear, my father’s glaringly obvious attempts at courting a political alliance by pushing me toward Desmond more than takes the cake. Mum desires acceptance. Dad seeks power.

  I am but a pawn in both their games.

  “Jennifer… start listening. We have much to organise,” Phyllis’s sharp tone cuts through my miserable musing.

  Blinking fast, I swallow down the last of my toast and my self-pity. My voice is hard when I retort, “Please repeat your last comment. I swear I heard you say something about resigning.”

  Her eyes widen and her lips thin when she presses them together tightly. Naturally, she refrains from correcting me because everyone in this household knows that I am above rebuke. Neither of my parents would accept a lowly assistant criticising their perfect offspring. Of course, everyone assumes their attitude extends to me, so people rarely bother to deal with me like I’m an actual normal person.

  As much as I like to push the boundaries in an attempt to make them break down and snap at me, the invisible wall that separates me from the people who run my life remains unbreached. Phyllis probably comes the closest to acting like I’m human with foibles and deficiencies. She, at least, reacts when I let my inner brat loose.

  She doesn’t let me down, snapping me out of my head with the comments she delivers next in a fake apologetic drawl. “Oh, it’s not a problem, Miss DeLuca. I was merely mentioning that your anonymous request to spend time assisting with the rebuild of the old library in Western Sydney was approved. It has been added to your calendar as WSL, which happens to be the initial for law offices where Mr. Desmond McMahon recently accepted a position.”

  In my haste to put my tray aside, the dishes from my breakfast almost slide off the tray. They crash and rattle against each other but narrowly avoid hitting the floor. My feet pad across the lush carpet and I throw my arms around Phyllis’s neck. Planting a kiss on her softly wrinkled cheek, I let go of her and spin around with my arms open wide.

  “Oh, I don’t know how to thank you,” I exclaim, dropping to my knees in front of her. “How did you know it was me? How did you manage to get it past Bernard? Why are you helping me?”

  When I loudly pepper her with questions, Phyllis hushes me by placing a finger against my lips. “Firstly, before I confirm my compliance with this little adventure, you need to promise me two things.”

  “Anything.”

  Creases bracket her mouth when she grins at me. Taking my hands in hers, she rubs her thumbs over my knuckles. “Now, I know it’s been hard for you, what with being kept in this mansion with no one your own age to spend time with. Your schedule would challenge the Duchess of Cambridge with all its waving and smiling and fake pleasantries so when this request came across my desk I knew it must’ve been yours so I kept it from Bernard and filed it from my home address.”

  I squeeze her hands. “I don’t know how to repay you. I’ve been so bored since school finished.”

  Phyllis nods. “I know you think I’m an old fuddy duddy, but I have certain rules to follow if I want to keep my job.” When she trails off, my heart drops to my stomach. I raise my eyebrows and widen my eyes, silently pleading with her not to rescind this opportunity. “This library is not in a nice area, so my first condition is that you need to promise me you’ll take my great-nephew Hayden with you to these working bees.”

  “I will.”

  “My second condition is the hardest,” Phyllis declares. I hold my breath, waiting anxi
ously for the other shoe to drop. Dear Lord, I hope it’s something I can promise. I don’t want to have this snatched away at the last moment. “Your mother and father will be over the moon if they believe you’re spending time with Desmond McMahon. They won’t question your absence if they think you’re with him. You need to promise me you’ll find a way to get him to verify you’re with him if they happen to ask. I can only fudge with your scheduled obligations to a certain degree without your parents becoming suspicious.”

  Sucking my bottom lip into my mouth, I will away the tears that well behind my eyes. Her second condition will be next to impossible to fulfil. Desmond is a leech. He likes to rest his hand on my thigh when we’re at the dinner table, sliding it higher and higher until I’m forced to feign an urgent visit to the ladies’ room. He goes out of his way to corner me in dark places whenever he can so he can accidentally grope me.

  I can’t possibly ask him for a favour. The price he’d demand would be too high to pay.

  Phyllis must read the defeat in my face. She pats my cheek, an uncustomarily affectionate action, and offers me a lifeline of sorts.

  “You still have a few days until your dinner with him. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  I do my best to fake a confident smile. Lifting my chin, I straighten my shoulders, and state in a matter-of-fact tone, “I hope your great-nephew is ready because from next Monday he’s mine for two whole weeks.”

  As certain as I sound, I can’t help but give into the first seeds of worry that take root in my mind.

  How does one strike a deal with the Devil without selling their soul?

  Chapter Three

  Angelo

  The lights to Freddie’s are off when I arrive. After glancing around to make sure he’s not down in the dusty storage room, I make my way across the street to the old library that Freddie and his wife are trying to renovate. They have some crazy idea that if they can get it reopened, it’ll give the kids in the area something to do other than join the Carlucci Clan, but I have my doubts.