9
That’s Life
Amber
“You’re up! Let me pour you some coffee from this machine Naima got us for our 30th wedding anniversary,” Mrs. Almonte, Naima’s mother, says with a thick Haitian accent when I walk into the kitchen of her Queens’ duplex the next morning. The radio announcer quietly going over today’s headlines is soon drowned out by the talking push-button coffee machine as it grinds beans to produce a single serving of quality coffee.
I hear the scoot of a chair underneath it all, and then Naima’s in front of me, saying, “Hey girl, the table’s over here.”
I have my stick but let her guide me to a table that is clear of clutter or any of the other knick-knacks you might find in a fully-sighted family’s kitchen. From what Naima told me when she showed me to the couch last night, the Almontes live in a very humble home. But it doesn’t feel that way to me. It is refreshing to visit a place other than my apartment with completely clear pathways wherever I walk. Naima even removed the kitchen door for her parents, so all I had to do is walk right in when I woke up this morning.
Naima still lives with her parents. She says it’s because it doesn’t make sense to pay some landlord thousands to pile into an apartment with a bunch of roommates. But I suspect she doesn’t want to leave her parents alone in the house, even though from what I can sense, they’d get along perfectly well on their own.
Naima’s Dominican father, Mr. Almonte, is already at the table.
“Hola, Mami, let me lean that stick against the table for you,” he says, taking my mobility cane from me. “It is good to have you here in my home.” Then he says, “You know I was very idiot man this winter. Went out without my stick. Slipped on the ice in front of the whole neighborhood. Could hear the kids laughing as the women sent for an ambulance. Broke my leg in two places. Now they have me on this PT. You have no reason to be embarrassed in front of that rich boy.”
My face heats, because apparently, Naima’s already filled her parents in on how her hysterical friend insisted on spending the night at their place because she was so overcome with mortification. I weirdly wish I’d come up with a less embarrassing cover story.
“And if that rich boy’s serious about living with you outside the scripture, then he should at least become educated about how we be,” Mrs. Almonte adds, setting a coffee in front of me with a soft ceramic tap.
The coffee from the Almonte’s machine is infinitely better than the stuff that comes out of my Keurig, but I can barely enjoy it because I’m wondering what I’m going to do. Last night, after the Uber ride from the Upper East Side to Naima’s place in Jackson Heights area of Queens, I’d gone straight to sleep on Naima’s couch, my mind too spun and panicked to do much more than pass out.
But pain and denial time is over. Now I’ve got to figure out next steps. Naturally, my plan to take the New York Bar in September is done for. In fact, I’m going to have to contact WITSEC as soon as I’m done with breakfast and get another identity. Then probably move out of state if I want to continue practicing law. But how hard would it be to find a blind black lawyer in this country? And how much help would I be to people if I didn’t officially register with aid organizations as a lawyer for the blind?
With a sinking heart, I accept a new truth. My life is a pile of ashes now, all because I finally let myself get serious about someone. Falling in love didn’t just hurt me as I suspected it would. It’s ruined my life.
Again.
Bella… Amber… A wave of depression washes over me as I realize I’ve gone through two lives in less than 25 years.
The doorbell rings and Mrs. Almonte must have her phone out, because she says, “Siri, what time is it?”
“It’s 8:28 A.M. Good morning!” Siri answers.
“Your therapist is 30 minutes early. You having an affair, old man?” Mrs. Almonte asks, her voice laced through with French suspicion.
“Sure am,” Mr. Almonte answers. “She is working me out. Gives me all the things an old woman like you can’t.”
“Things like what? The STDs?” Mrs. Almonte shoots back.
“Mom! Dad! It’s too early for this routine of yours,” Naima says. She sounds weary. “Plus, we’ve got a guest.”
“Then tell your padre to stop flirting with all these scandalous women that come by the house!” her mother answers.
“Tell your mère to stop hating on my game! Is it my fault I am such the smooth player?” Mr. Almonte answers, sounding like a put-upon saint.
The doorbell rings again.
“Mom, are you getting the door, or am I?” Naima asks.
“I will get this door,” her mother answers. “Abraham di sètase. It is time to let this girl know about herself!”
“I’m so sorry,” Naima says to me with an exasperated laugh. “My parents have no chill switch when it comes to acting a fool.”
“It’s fine,” I assure her, laughing too.
But our laughter comes to an abrupt stop when Mrs. Almonte calls back to us. “Naima! There is a man here who says he has your jacket.”
My heart freezes with dread.
10
Forget To Remember
“Take me to the door,” I say to Naima as soon as Mrs. Almonte makes the announcement. I try to keep my voice calm. “Please.”
“No problem. I can’t believe it took Powerball this long to come get you,” she says, helping me to my feet.
But I can’t smile. Or even pretend to. Because I already know who’s here who it is.
Jake might be the son of someone specializing in “disaster clean-up,” but Luca Ferraro is a straight up Mafia prince. Poised to take over the Ferraro crime family, probably as soon as next year when he finishes his degrees. Of course, he’d send someone else to do his dirty work.
“Oh,” Naima says, not bothering to hide her surprise when she finds Big Italian Tony standing on her parent’s front porch. Doused in Drakkar Noir rather than the expensive scent Jake wears.
But I say, “Okay…can you give Naima her jacket and I’ll come with you back to Jake’s?”
I keep my voice casual. Calm. But I can tell Naima is weirded out by my sudden decision to go off to leave with my boyfriend’s humongous friend.
She clings to me as we hug goodbye. “Are you sure you want to go?” she asks, seemingly not so eager for me to reconcile with Jake now. “You can stay here as long as you want.”
I smile at her in a way I hope looks reassuring. “I’m fine,” I tell her. “It’s time for me to go.”
I can only hope she will drop this when I’m gone. That she won’t go out of her way to seek answers after my disappearance. The last thing I want is for my father to inadvertently kill another person I love.
I can almost sense her eyes on my back as Big Italian Tony guides me to the car. The wrong way. Grabbing my arm and pulling me toward what turns out to be the back seat.
I hear the metal whine of him opening the door for me, but I don’t immediately get in. “They’re innocent, and I didn’t tell them anything,” I say to him. “They don’t even know who I am, and if they try to look into it, WITSEC will kill the investigation. Promise not to hurt them, and I’ll go with you quietly.”
A tick passes. Then Big Italian Tony says, “Alright, fine. Just get in.”
Two hours later, I’m Bella again.
I’m back in a desolate forest. I can’t see it, but I can smell it, feel it, taste it. Pine needles and sharp, biting winds that sneak up your nose and down your throat. And though these woods aren’t as far away as Massachusetts, it feels like I’m walking through the same woodland where I grew up. The same place where I lost my sight. Where my mother ignobly lived and died…
I keep my stick at a diagonal, feeling for obstacles while I walk straight ahead like Big Italian Tony commanded. He’s right behind me. I can hear his shoes crunching over the fallen leaves on the forest ground. And I can sense the gun in his hand—the one he’s going to shoot me in the head with before
he buries me.
We seem to be heading someplace specific, so he’s already dug the grave. That’s why he didn’t come after me last night. This guy’s a pro like my dad.
I walk stoically toward my pre-prepared hole in the ground, not wanting to give Fake Jake any more of my pride than I already have.
But I say to Big Italian Tony, “After we’re done here, please make sure to let Luca know his whole mission was pointless. My dad would never have come out of hiding for me. He set up that account with me when I was ten. Told me that no matter what happened, I’d always be able to reach him there. I’ve sent him dozens of emails since I learned how to use a computer again. Know how many he’s sent back? Zero. You guys slaughtered his entire crew, and I’m only the secret daughter nobody was supposed to know about. He doesn’t give a shit about me. He’d never come out of hiding for me.”
It’s a huge thing to admit. That I’ve been catfished and marked for death because of a man who couldn’t even be bothered to return even one of my emails over the last ten years. But no tears come to my eyes. I should never have bothered writing those emails because my father was never going to return and whisk me away to whatever tropical island he decided to hide out on when he narrowly escaped getting caught by the Ferraro family. I should have accepted that a long time ago.
But then Big Italian Tony says, “Don’t know about that. Danny had a special place in his heart for you, and his real kids were spoiled as fuck. Ungrateful as shit, too. Plus, I guess, he had a big heart on for your mom, or else he wouldn’t have taken my deal. If there was anything could have brought that fucker out of hiding it would have been his precious Bella. Nah—this ain’t an invitation to shoot the shit.” When I stop, he nudges the gun into my back. “Keep walking.”
I do as commanded, but ask, “How do you know my father?”
The forest is deathly quiet. Funny, I’d forgotten about that aspect of living in the woods. That on windless days after the morning birds stop singing and before the insects start their nightly song, you can barely hear anything, save yourself. It feels like Big Italian Tony and I are the only people in the world right now, our footsteps the universe’s only sound.
And I’m just beginning to think he’ll never answer when he says, “We worked together. At least we tried to. He was supposed to kidnap the kid. Make it look like this one New York gang did it. Keep him out here for a while then put a couple of bullets in his brain and send him back to the Ferraros in pieces. You see, Luca’s father started talking about going legit, so I needed a way to convince him not to. And nothing’s more convincing than a war. It was a good plan, but Danny missed a camera at the fancy boarding school he kidnapped the kid from, so suddenly everybody, including the police, knows it’s him a few days later.”
“This was all you?” I ask, shaking my head. “My father kidnapped Luca because of you? The Romanos and Ferraros battled for years because of you?”
“Hey kid, I was only trying to keep Luca’s father from making a bad call. And your dad said he needed the money to move someplace safe from the Romanos with you and your mom. Know how long it took me to save up a million for that deposit? Only to have him fuck it up? If you think about it, I’m the one who got gypped in the at deal.”
Wait… “He was going to take us somewhere? Like, to live? As a family?” I ask. My heart trembles in my chest with an ache that feels as old as me. I spent my entire childhood wishing that Mama, Daddy, and I could be a real family. And now, Big Italian Tony is telling me that’s what my father wanted, too. That he risked everything to make it happen. I can barely believe it.
“Yeah, stupid fuck thought he was going to get a happy ending. Should have known—guys like him don’t get happy endings.”
Oh, God…everything I thought I knew about my father begins to rewrite itself. “You killed my mom and bombed our house to cover your tracks?” I whisper, a great swell of hate and rage rising up inside of me.
“He called me that day, you know. Told me he was going to kill the kid then take you and your mother someplace you wouldn’t be found. He was trying to keep up his side of the deal. What he didn’t know was me and the crew were already on our way there. That’s what you get for being honorable.”
He makes a disgusted sound. “And I guess this is what I get for leaving loose ends. Thought it was strange when your pops came after me later, screaming about me killing his moolie and his daughter. I thought you were with him since we didn’t find you in the house. But Danny and I didn’t exactly have time to discuss all the specifics seeing as how I had to kill him before he killed me. But now that I think back on it, the kid must have lied. I guess he was stupid from the start when it came to you.”
Daddy… my chest fills with sorrow. Because he wasn’t a good man. But he was my father, and I didn’t realize how much he truly loved my mother, loved me. Until now. And suddenly I get why I kept writing. Because I knew. Deep down I knew he hadn’t lied to me about that account. I knew he would have answered me if he was out there.
But he wasn’t out there. And that was why he hadn’t written back. Like a gas light flipping on, my body becomes hot with rage against the man who orchestrated all of this and manipulated us like fools.
“What is it about you anyway?” he asks from behind me. “After all that effort he put into using you to get to your father, Luca was ready to let you go. Said we should leave you be and let you live your life. That you’d already been through enough. The kid commanded me not to lay a finger on you, like you was some precious moolie treasure.”
Somehow I keep walking, keep moving forward, but everything inside of me is bursting with the knowledge that Fake Jake might have catfished me, but he didn’t sic his gorilla on me. Which meant, what exactly? That he loved me like I thought I loved him? Maybe… not that it matters much now.
Big Italian Tony tsks, “I don’t know if that one’s going to work out so well when he takes over the family. Him telling me not to off you proves he’s too soft. Might have to figure out how to off him, too—oh, stop right there. We’re at your hole.”
And that’s how I find out you can’t just will love away. Forget to remember, like a Frank Sinatra song. My heart thunders with the need to do something. Because after this guy kills me, he’ll go back to the city and kill Luca, too. Maybe not right away, but eventually.
I can smell the grave beside me. Moist, fresh soil in stark contrast with the packed dirt underneath my feet.
“I have one last request,” I suddenly say.
He gives an irritated grunt but must be curious because he answers, “Alright. What is it?”
“I want to crawl into the grave and then get shot. Not the other way around.”
He lets out an appreciative chuckle. “Dignity, huh? Don’t see much of that these days. Especially among your generation. Alright, sweetheart, hole’s right in front of you.”
“Right in front of me?” I make a big show of stepping forward.
“No, right in front of you on your side,” he answers.
I step in the opposite direction of where I know the hole to be. “Right here?”
“No, turn around.”
I turn…in the exact wrong direction.
“Oh, for Chrissakes…fucking Stevie Wonder!”
I hear him come forward to point me in the right direction. But before he can touch my arm as intended, he gasps when I reach out and shove him in the exact direction of the hole.
A gunshot goes off, and then I hear, “Fucking TROIA!”
With the sound of him calling me all kinds of bitch in Italian, I take off running in the exact direction we came from Tony’s car. The scrabbling sounds of Big Tony hauling himself from the grave give rise behind me. And I gasp, increasing my speed. But he’s right behind me, his breath bellowing like a raging bull.
I don’t have his keys, but I heard other cars when we got out, so he must have left it parked near a road. If I have to, I’ll stand in the street and wave someone down—
I slam into a chest and almost go flying backward…except, a pair of arms wrap around me.
“Jake!” I breathe out, inhaling his familiar scent. “Oh God, how did you find me?”
He doesn’t answer. His arm kicks and a gunshot explodes right behind my head.
The next thing I hear is faint ringing in my ears… and the thump of a massive body dropping.
“Wait here,” he says, and then he’s going.
Leaving me behind with a chest full of thunder and a head full of storm.
I could not wait there. I could run. Back to the road. Try to get a ride directly to WITSEC. Try for a new life.
But in the end…
The melody for “Somethin’ Stupid” plays in my head as I turn in the direction of the wingtips crunching over the packed dirt and leaves.
The footsteps stop. And this time, I don’t even flinch when two more gunshots sound. Ending a lie that began eight years ago.
11
The Second Time Around
Instead of running, I listen—dry-eyed— to the sound of the Ferraro heir shoveling the rest of the dirt into a grave meant for me over the body of Big Italian Tony. And then I’m underneath Fake Jake’s arm as he guides me out of the forest.
“How did you find me?” I ask again as we head toward his car.
“Naima called, using the number on the card I gave her. Said Deltano showed up at her door and left with you. She had a bad feeling. I got your location off the tracking device I planted in your cane. Thank God you took it with you or this would’ve ended a whole lot different.”
Thank God… Big Italian Tony was right on my tail. If Luca hadn’t gotten that call from Naima… If he hadn’t put a tracking device in my mobility cane… If he’d gotten there even a minute later… I would be dead.
We don’t talk anymore about what happened on the drive back into the city. He walks me into his building. A voice calls out a cheery hello to me. The daytime doorman, I realize with a start. So much has happened, my world’s been turned upside down along with everything I thought I knew. But it’s not even time for the night shift yet.
LUCA - Her Ruthless Don (Ruthless and Obsessed Duet, Book 1): 50 Loving States, New York, Pt. 2 (Ruthless Tycoons 3) Page 8