Zaccaro

by Amarie Avant

  When I told Jamie I had intentions of leaving with my half-brother, my best friend slapped me all the while asking had I lost my mind. He'd reminded me that I was pregnant, as if having an innocent seed growing inside of me is forgettable.

  Now the back of my head is pressed back against creamy, soft leather. There are the Giugliano family crest and initials behind me too. The Learjet has just lifted off, and I'm clutching my purse in my hand, knuckles gray from gripping and twisting the strap so hard and thinking so hard.

  “It's gonna be a long ride, Reese.” Matteo smiles as he says my name. “I heard they call you Reese's Pieces?”

  I meet his friendly gaze, retorting, “And you can't.”

  He smiles harder. “You're just like dad when he… when…” his voice fades and he stands.

  “When he what?”

  “When Dad left for the States.” He cocks a thumb over his shoulder. “I need a drink. You want a drink?”

  “No.” I also would prefer if you stopped referring to my dad as yours too! But I'm too chickenshit to say the words. Though Matteo has been rather cordial since I kicked a concaved dent into his car, I have a feeling he has a bad side. He’s got this softness about him. A baby face really and he's a pretty brown tone. Hair so long it loops and curls at the edges, behind his ears and rests against this shoulder. There’s a bit of salting to the sides of his hair, he has to be at least ten years my senior. But my caution comes from the tattoos on Matteo’s knuckles. The words must be in Italian, as I am unable to distinguish the meaning. Though he’s in a custom suit, some type of large gun has been tatted on the side of his neck, and all I see is the end of a dark barrel until he turns his neck and there’s so much ink, I can tell this is just the beginning of a large piece of art.

  Matteo had apologized for watching me and intending to keep me safe while I kicked at his car. And he’s playing the ‘good’ brother. I don’t give a damn about his altruistic purposes, or that he’s my big brother. Never had a necessity for siblings––period.

  Matteo sits back next to me, there’s a glass of rocks and hypnotizing amber liquid. But I will not be drinking liquor any time soon. My quest is to get Giovanni Salvatore Giugliano off my fucking back, and then I’ll return home. I’ll shout how much I am in love with Evan Zaccaro until my lungs get raw. The things I must do are all for him…

  I lick my lips, and decide to gather some intel from Matteo. I ask, “So why is Sal harassing me?”

  His thick eyebrows furrow. Italian accent thick, he surmised, “You say harassing like…”

  “Like fucking harassing. Bothering. Threatening... Ruining my life.”

  “Oh no, our nonno wouldn't do that to you, Reese. You're family. You're gonna love Napl — ”

  “Does it look like I'm traveling with you for a friggen vacay?”

  Matteo gives a forced laugh. It's all in the eyes. His have diagnosed me as crazier than my damn mother. “Please, Reese. Salvatore has something to tell you. I am glad you've chosen to see him. Sal's been waiting.”

  “Waiting? Are you kidding me, Sneaky Snake Sal pops up every month. Now you're telling me he's waiting for me to come pay him a visit? Has he been given his last rites since he last bulldozed my life?”

  “No, our nonno is – ”

  “Then all I'm gonna ask him is why… why… am I pregnant.”

  Matteo's cheeks redden, he's embarrassed about such talk. I begin to turn toward the window, and glance at a gray flurry of clouds, and then he says “Oh…”

  “Oh, what?” I search his face again.

  His eyes flit. Our father’s words of wisdom about a lying rat ring blaringly loud through my ears.

  “Mie scuse, Reese, but you'll have to hold your questions for Salvatore.”

  40

  Evan

  The trailer park in Dominguez Hills, is where many middle-class senior citizens call home. The lawns are neatly kept, and most everybody sticks to their own goddamn business. It’s almost ten p.m., I’m sitting in the living room on an examination table. The shredded skin on my left ribs is one nice, long U-shaped gash. There’re paper towels with blood all over the floor.

  “Do you have a death wish?” Doctor Carson asks, the cigarette on the tip of his lips, bobbles as he speaks. The Lakers are getting their asses handed to them on a tiny box-shaped television parallel to Carson’s folding tray which holds alcohol, a thread and needle, and other supplies. Each time the other basketball team scores, the old man has a renewed strength when it comes to patching me up.

  Instead of responding, I grab the Wild Turkey at my side.

  “Zaccaro, I don't suggest you take the pills with that, I've seen some crazy shit…” he warns, and catches his cigarette from falling from his lips.

  “I'm not. Keep your damn pills.”

  He chuckles. “You're gonna continue taking that prescription crap the sombitch at the hospital gave you yesterday? Well, I’ll tell you, last night’s little tit-for-tat has nothing on what tonight’s bastard did...” The doctor’s voice trails off, waiting for me to elaborate on what he assumes is a kickass story. Carson wants to know what brought me here tonight, instead of the very first hospital from Reese’s apartment.

  “Keep talking, I'll bring your ass in for those miracle pills.” My teeth are bared in a quasi-smile.

  “Take me in, Zaccaro. I ain't practicing no more either so how are you gonna explain these stitches. Impeccable if I do say so myself.”

  I raise my bottle to the doctor who’s had his medical license revoked, and then I let the whiskey burn down my throat. Agitation and the feeling of being out of control clutch at my heart. “Hurry up.” I’ve gotta find Reese…

  “Don't get us confused. Zaccaro, you're the wannabe Superman with a death wish. If I go any faster, and skip a stitch, one of your organs will fall out.” He laughs at his own joke.

  It's almost midnight as I step out of Carson’s house. A plume of smoke follows. He insisted that I take a bag of Famous Amos cookies and a 100% Apple Juice box for my energy. These days the good old doctor just spends his time watching his grandkids or patching up criminals who don't want the harp of answering questions about battle wounds at the local hospital. I've promised that the boys on the beat will leave his block alone for a while and I chuckle to myself. This shit would have never flown in the past.

  “Straight and narrow,” I mumble. Not anymore.

  If I hadn't almost bled out, there'd be no need for Carson. Now I get into my Audi. Under the pale light from the streetlamp, I notice the leather is caked with blood. I get into the driver’s side, toss my bottle of whiskey into the back and give my face a few slaps. I dial Reese for the hundredth time. No answer.

  I leave another voicemail.

  Then I try Tony. My pops takes his ass to sleep at a decent time. I scroll through my text messages for Lolita's number, recalling how she'd texted me and a good number of people, with photos of her nuptials.

  I dial her number. No answer. Even if she's asleep, she's going to have to wake her ass up. There's no trust for that woman.

  Outside of the car, in front of my father’s house, I reach into my pocket to grab my prescription meds. Nothing is there. I pat my blazer pockets, but none of them holds my bottle. I took them to Carson’s. I had to have taken them to Carson’s…

  “Fuck!” My fist swipes out at the crisp air as I walk up the long passageway and to the front door. I rub my hand over my face before pulling out my key ring to sift through all the extras for Tony's house.

  Only the moon’s illumination from the skyline above guides my path toward the stairs.

  The sound of moaning diverts my direction; I backtrack down the stairs and down the hall. Through the sunroom that divided half of the house, the sounds of sex get louder.

  I stop at the entrance to the sitting room. Tony is reclining against a chair with Lolita straddling him. She's in a silk robe which falls over her shoulders.

  “Tino!” Dad shouts.

  “I ne
ed to speak with your wife. And I have no intentions of waiting.”

  Lolita second-guesses climbing off of him and chooses to cling to his thick body.

  “What the heck is your problem, Valentino? You come into my house, demanding to speak to your step—my wife!” His thick jaw shakes and he adds, “I've raised you better than this.”

  “I'm a little over being polite. In my field, I've seen more ass than should be allowed at illegal drug labs and what not so needless to say, I’m not looking.” I turn my gaze onto her shocked one. “Lolita, get presentable. I need to speak with you.”

  She arises abruptly, tying her knot before turning around. “Sounds like you have something to say. Say it?”

  “Lo,” Tony chides. “Go upstairs, pay us no attention. I'm gonna go kick the ass of this ungrateful son of mine.” Then my father looks me up and down. “Looks like somebody beat me to the punch.”

  “Reese is missing. McGregor… he's after her.” My eyes lock onto Lolita's, though I'm calculating and analyzing her entire body language.

  Yet her body reads no discomfort at the thought of someone wishing ill upon her daughter. “If McGregor is searching for her, then she's fine. Perfectly safe.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Gianni Giugliano has to have taken her.”

  And in this instant, the pain that's threatening to consume me is dead. No need for Carson’s magic narcs. No, Wild Turkey will do. Two months ago I told that motherfucker to leave us the fuck alone.

  “Elaborate,” I say through gritted teeth.

  Her pupils slide to the left. Either Lolita is preparing a sordid story of deception or it's because my father, my motherfucking blood has transformed into her strongest alley.

  “Evan, give Lo a moment to go dress,” Tony reprimands.

  “No!” I shout. “Lolita, tell me what the fuck is going on here!”

  Her voice is its usual sultry rasp, no worry for her only child. “Well, I can't tell you how McGregor found Reese. That man is a bum. It isn’t as if she and I have been in hiding. He has never gone after her, though he's threatened us a few times over the years.” She shrugs, dawdling on her words, “Guess being the partner of a known drug lord took its toll. The day DEA cracked down on Milo, that was the day McGregor became the laughing stock of the LAPD, and then he was fired. The Union wouldn't even touch him, moreover speak on his behalf about the pension owed to him. Nobody was sure if McGregor worked for Milo.”

  “Alright, I don't give a fuck about McGregor. Why does Giugliano have her?”

  And then Lolita Dunham does what she does best. Lie.

  41

  Reese

  Tunnel vision aligns my path as we touched down at a private airspace in Naples. A young woman in a sports car that cost a fortune, greets us upon arrival in the wee hours of the morning. Holding mounds of high-end apparel shopping bags in her hands. She must've greeted me in Italian and said something about the clothing fitting me. Then she proceeds to fuck Matteo's face with her bright red lips.

  Since I’ve been up for almost an entire day, I almost fell asleep standing there holding the bags as they kissed. Legs locked about the calves, I shook myself awake each time my chin dipped. I rub my face and yawn as a fresh breeze trails over my skin. Evan…

  I reach into my pocket for my phone. And then I put down the woman’s bags of clothing to check my satchel.

  “Matteo, my cell phone is missing?”

  “You left it on the jet, let me go check,” he pulls himself away from the ditz’s embrace.

  “No, I did not.” I fold my arms. I needed to call Evan but refused to have a conversation within earshot of my half-brother. “Did I leave it with Jamie?”

  “Just let me check,” he holds up his hands as if pleading me not to argue. I nod my appreciation and Matteo heads up the steps.

  “Here are your things,” I tell the woman, waking up much more.

  “They’re yours. Sal, said to grab you a few items. I do believe the items will fit, like I said a few minutes ago,” she says.

  I start to refuse the clothing but Matteo is sauntering down the steps, holding up my cell phone. “See, no need to worry.”

  Lips tensed, I wonder how he easily found my cell phone. Matteo’s lady lingers while I get into the passenger seat of his JEEP. And then I’m out again…

  Birds chirp, and wind rustles. Sheer white drapes bellow in the soft wind. The sound of the ocean crashing against the rocks below has awakened me.

  I place my hands against my tiny womb, one day my hands won't be able to fully cover it. I've gotta tell Evan we're expecting. My lips spread into a smile, and then my eyes water again. Oh God, I love him.

  My fingers fly away from my stomach as if just the touch will singe off my fingerprints and palm prints. What if I’m a mother like my own? And if Evan becomes the very father I loved yet feared? Can I have his baby…

  “Evan,” I breathe his name, as if just the mere murmuring of it will rouse a bit of sanity. I glance around. There’s a milk glass vase, it’s filled with exotic flowers. The room has posh furniture, a couch at the end of the dark wood bed.

  I’m still dressed in the jeans and shirt I went to the Dr. Saadat’s in yesterday afternoon. Or was that yesterday afternoon? The sky is turquoise, mirroring the sea, yet it’s sunny. How long did I sleep and where the heck am I?

  I bite my lip, attempting to think. And then an image of a towering villa comes into mind. The white stucco mansion with its dark wood doors, yes, I remember getting out of Matteo’s Jeep. When we arrived, there were gunmen at the wrought iron gates. Matteo lined up all of the staff and introduced me to them. He, along with a maid, carried the bags his girlfriend brought me.

  I glance at the closed door, and the glossy expensive apparel bags are set on a chaise next to the exit. As soon as I entered, my head kissed the pillow.

  My purse is on the dresser next to me. I grab my phone from it, and see all the missed calls from Evan. I take a deep breath, and dial his number. My hand is back at my stomach, as if massaging my flat womb will settle my baby’s nervous jitters. As the tone connects, I lick my lips, hoping he isn’t angry with me for being out of reach so long.

  The call connects.

  “Evan,” my eyes brighten, excitedly I declare, “I've gotta tell you…”

  “Where are you, Reese?” His voice is calculated and devoid of the love I'm used to. I bite the bottom of my lip. This is perhaps an awful time to mention that we've made a life.

  “Reese, tell me where you are?”

  “I… I can't.”

  His mannerisms soften somewhat. “Send me the location of your phone.”

  “I can't…” Antsy as I am, I swing my legs over the bed and stand up. Rubbing a hand through my hair, I endeavor to use the right words to explain, “Evan, I’ve gotta—”

  “You can't send me your phone’s location because someone… is someone monitoring your phone calls?”

  “No.” I gasp at the absurdity of his question.

  “You don't know how?”

  “I refuse, Evan,” I take a deep breath and it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I'll be home soon. Not sure how soon, first, I want the truth from Sal. But Evan doesn't give me the chance.

  “Listen to me, beautiful, you're angry. I get it.” He is livid, “But before we fucked thirty-seven hours ago, I told you exactly who you fucking belong to.”

  I match his fury, “Whatever, Evan.”

  “No, fuck whatever. Reese, listen to me loud and clear: Wherever you are, I will find you. I will bring you home. Do you understand?”

  My mouth tenses, cheeks puffed out. “Evan, if you would just listen to me…”

  CLICK.

  He hung up!

  I rub my index finger over my thumbnail and consider what the fuck just happened.

  Evan. Dismissed. Me.

  Does this mean he plans to find me or I've pushed him away too much… Jamie’s words about my man growing weary of my standoff
ish behavior stain my cognition. All the secrets I have ever kept aren’t even worth not wanting him to know the real me. The bits and pieces of me that I hate weigh down my shoulders.

  I plop down on the bed, push myself toward the headboard, and sit with my legs to my chest. I wrap my arms around my limbs in self comfort, and tap the cell phone to my calf. I should call him back. I should explain why I’m staying… Sheesh, my dumbass should have never left.

  Shoving a hand through my hair, I realize second-guessing the moves I make are of no use. Besides, I don’t want to need Evan, at least, not unless it regards love and our child. He isn’t safe near the Giugliano crime family, and the longer I attempt to settle his spirits over the phone, the weaker I’ll come. He’d come and get me for sure.

  That is, if Jamie was wrong all along and Evan hasn’t grown annoyed with me and all my baggage.

  There's a knock at the door.

  “Yeah,” I respond.

  “May I enter?” The voice is feminine, Italian accent. It could be anyone. Besides the arsenal of foot soldiers surrounding the perimeter, and the numerous servants needed to keep this fortress afloat, I recall Matteo said the rest of our family lives here, along with a few uncles and aunts and their own brood.

  The door opens. There's a frown on my face unyielding to the stranger’s politeness. My palms are itching, compelling me to dial Evan’s number. And if he had finally knocked some sense into himself, and chose I wasn’t worth it?

  The woman is as round as she is tall. A gray streak divides her stark black hair which is in a severely pulled-back ponytail. She's dressed in black lace that rumples at various fat rolls. She appears in mourning, yet the politeness is gone. Something tells me that her old ass won't be baking any cookies anytime soon.

  An ethereal speed is on her side as she lunges at me. A scream is perched at the tip of my tonsils…