The Beautiful People (The New Mafia Trilogy)

by Fechenda, E. J.

  “She’s…she’s dead,” I stammered, the last part coming out in a hoarse whisper.

  Dr. Russo set down the gauze and iodine bottle and looked at me. Small, silver glasses framed his eyes, which were kind and sad.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you mind if I ask how she died?”

  “Suicide.”

  “Ah, such a shame. She couldn’t get past that night could she?”

  “No.”

  “And now you’re in here with a gunshot wound,” he turned away to remove the surgical gloves and wash his hands in the small sink. “That’s how the mob works. Once you’re in their grasp, it’s hard to escape.”

  He said this with such conviction; I suspected he too was trapped. Curious, I waited for him to face me again before I asked, “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

  Dr. Russo glanced at the closed door. “Yes, you could say that,” he answered in a hushed voice. “I used to have a thriving private practice up on the Mainline.” I’d only been up to the Mainline once. The affluent suburb was beautiful and reeked of wealth.

  “What happened to it?”

  “I have a gambling problem and racked up quite a bill with Marco. I lost everything: my wife and kids, the house. I managed to convince Marco I would be an asset to his organization. He agreed and I walked away with my life and medical license.”

  “Surely you’ve paid off your debt?”

  “Probably, but I’ve seen and heard too much. The Hippocratic Oath doesn’t mean anything to Marco.”

  “So you have this South Philly practice instead?”

  “Yes and I see my kids every other weekend. Although they’re both in high school now and don’t come as often.” Dr. Russo sighed. “You seem like a nice girl, Miss Ross. I’m sorry for this trauma you’ve endured.” Dr. Russo patted my good shoulder. It was more of a fatherly gesture than a clinical one.

  “Thanks, but none of this is your doing.”

  “I think you’re well enough to go home. I don’t see any signs of infection and your bed at home is probably more comfortable than this.” He lightly slapped the side of the examination table I was perched on. I couldn’t imagine anyone taller than me being able to sleep on it. Their feet would hang off the edge. “I want you to come by on Monday so I can take another look.” He handed me written instructions on how to care for my wound and a white paper bag, like what you would pack a school lunch in, that was full of gauze, antibacterial ointment and a lot of pain reliever.

  “How long until Dominic is able to come home?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s hard to say. He lost a lot of blood and was in shock. Once he regains consciousness I’ll know more.”

  “Shouldn’t he be in a hospital?” I asked, hoping I didn’t offend the kind man.

  “Yes, he should. Nobody wanted to hear it. I argued with them for close to an hour, but Marco refused. His parents listened to Marco. End of story.” It didn’t surprise me that Marco had something to do with it. Dr. Russo helped me down off of the exam table. “Your brother will take you home. Please take it easy and don’t exert yourself. We really need to stop meeting like this,” he said with a smile.

  He left the room so I could get changed. Someone had brought me clean clothes; a soft, cotton button down shirt and sweat pants. I didn’t recognize them and assumed they were Miranda’s since we wore the same size. I was relieved to get out of the hospital gown and into the comfortable outfit. I winced a few times as I slipped my injured arm into the shirt sleeve, but managed to put it on and the fabric was soft enough, it didn’t irritate my injury. Thank God I didn’t have to put on a bra, that would have been near to impossible and torture.

  Clutching the paper bag and my purse in one hand, I walked down the hall to the waiting room. Grant was dozing in one of the plastic chairs. I hadn’t noticed until now just how ragged and run down he looked. He must not have slept since I pulled up in front of his house like a NASCAR driver pulls into the pit. I nudged his foot with mine and he jerked awake. His eyes were bloodshot, usually how he looked after smoking a joint, but I knew he wasn’t high.

  “Hey, the doc released me, ready to take me home?”

  “Yes, sure.” He stood up and took the bags from my hand.

  “Thank you Dr. Russo,” I said as we were almost out the door. “Oh, wait! How much do I owe you?”

  “It’s already been taken care of, you just focus on healing,” he answered from behind the small reception desk.

  “Oh. Okay, thanks!” I waved with my good arm and followed Grant out into the street. The sun burned my eyes and I had to squint and catch my bearings. Grant went ahead and pulled his Lexus up to the curb. He hopped out and helped me into the car. I felt like a helpless child as he fastened the seatbelt for me.

  Grant spoke to me as soon as he was driving down the street. “Natalie, I am so sorry you were shot. I should never have gotten you a job at Crimson.”

  “Grant, please don’t blame yourself. You warned me and I didn’t listen,” I placated him.

  “I thought I could keep you out of the major stuff and you would have a job until the end of summer…you know save up some money? It all went wrong so fast and spun out of my control. You getting shot is my fault; if Dom and I hadn’t killed Luigi and his boys, this would never have happened.” I could see the torment on his face. Grant was always going to be my protective big brother; I just didn’t realize how much he was shouldering the blame.

  “Grant, you can’t control everything, especially me.” I paused, dreading the next question I had to ask. “I need to know something…now that I killed one of the Genovese soldiers, are they going to come after me?”

  He didn’t say anything, but I could read the answer on his face, especially when the fine line of sweat formed on his upper lip. The answer was clear. While I had successfully defended us, a target had been placed on my back as well. Now Grant, Dominic and I were wanted. How could they protect me now?

  Grant must have felt the stress and panic radiating off of me in waves. “Don’t worry Natalie, the Grabanos are on the offensive now and won’t let anything happen to you, or to Dom and I.”

  “You can’t guarantee that. If that was the case, Dom and I wouldn’t have been attacked in the first place!” I stopped to calm down, my breathing was accelerating with my heartbeat and it made my headache worse.

  “You might have to lay low for a few days, which you need to do anyway…doctor’s orders.” I groaned, once again I was going to be cloistered away in the condo, afraid to go outside. I didn’t know which was worse, the idea that people wanted me dead or the guilt that I had taken a human life. Being alone in the condo without any distractions was going to magnify these two concerns and that was a daunting thought. “Marco and the boys are figuring out their next move. Everyone is on full alert and waiting to hear any news from New York and what plans are being made there,” Grant informed me.

  This alarmed me. “What do you mean next move? Marco’s not planning on retaliating, is he?”

  “Hell yeah he is! The Genovese’s tried to kill his nephew; they might as well have attempted to take out Marco. You don’t mess with his family.”

  “But, you guys started it!” I yelled.

  “No, the second they messed with you and Brittany is when it started.” Grant replied, his voice flat.

  “But Marco let them get away with it…he fed us to the wolves!” I choked, the tears were building up. This was ridiculous. Reasoning with mafia logic was like trying to reason with a room full of preschoolers.

  “That’s the way it’s done and has been for decades. Just stop worrying, everything will be worked out,” he said with more annoyance in his tone than reassurance. I wanted to believe him, but the bullet hole in my shoulder contradicted his statement. I didn’t say anything to that effect, it would be a low blow and I could tell Grant was already stressed to the max.

  We were silent the rest of the way. The doorman opened my door and looked alarmed when he saw m
y arm in a sling. Like the last time I stepped out the car looking battle worn, he kept his mouth shut. Experience must have taught him that the less he knew the better. I wished I knew less; I would definitely be better off.

  Grant got the door to the condo and held it open for me. The garbage had turned rancid in our absence and the odor permeated the apartment. Grant immediately snatched the bag out of the can.

  “Where does this go?”

  “Down at the end of the hall there is a garbage chute,” I instructed. Grant left and I dumped the contents of the white paper bag onto the counter. The short ride had left me drained and in pain. My shoulder ached, a deep, throbbing burn that couldn’t be ignored. Reluctantly, I swallowed a pain pill.

  Grant returned moments later and surveyed the condo. “Is there anything else you would like me to do? Are you hungry at all?”

  “No, I’m not hungry, but I feel nasty. Could you, um, help me take a bath?” I was mortified that I would have to ask my brother to do this and my cheeks grew hot. He seemed just as embarrassed and froze at my request.

  “Err, sure,” he answered, lacking his usual confidence.

  “I would ask Mom, but since she doesn’t know I was shot, I don’t have anyone else.”

  “What about one of your girlfriends? Wouldn’t it be better if one of them…or Miranda?”

  “None of them know about this…besides I’ve kind of lost touch with them and Miranda’s well, I’m more comfortable with you.”

  “Oh. I guess so.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you if there was anyone else. I’m not thrilled about having to be naked in front of you because that’s just weird and wrong on so many levels. You won’t have to like, wash me or anything. I just need help getting in and out of the tub.”

  I saw relief wash over his face at this, “Ok, I can do it and you’re right, it is going to be weird,” he said with a laugh, running his hands through his hair and looking nervously in the direction of the bathroom.

  I filled the tub with steaming hot water and extra bubbles. Grant waited until I was ready to step into the tub to assist me. He averted his eyes as much as he could while I concentrated on not slipping. To say it was an awkward moment for both of us would be an understatement. By the time I had finished cleaning up, the pain medicine had kicked in and I was drowsy. Grant helped me out and I managed to dry off with one arm. Grant pulled one of Dominic’s button-down shirts out of the walk-in closet and helped me to put it on. Then he helped me with the sling.

  “I need to head to the club and get ready for tonight. Will you be okay here on your own?” He asked.

  I yawned. “Yes, I’m ready to crash.” I slid into bed. Dr. Russo was right; it did feel good to be home.

  “Well, call me if you need anything. I’ll stop by later to check on you.”

  “Okay,” I yawned again and was asleep before he even left the bedroom.

  I walked up the stairs at The Speak. Even though I didn’t want to go up, some invisible force propelled me forward. I knew Mr. Genovese would be waiting for me behind the door on the left. Instead of heading there, my body turned to the door on the right. I expected to see Brittany on the floor and braced myself.

  The scene was different and it took me a few moments to make sense of it. Brittany was on the floor, her naked body propped against the far left end of the sofa. Her head hung forward, limp against her chest. Her legs, mottled with bruises and smeared with blood, splayed out in front of her. She reminded me of the way Raggedy Ann dolls would sit. Just one glimpse convinced me that life no longer existed in her body. The three men that Grant shot months ago sat next to each other on the sofa, their bloodied bodies leaned against one another like drunks trying to support one another. This was silly though because they were all dead and missing part of, if not all of their heads. On one of the club chairs, across from the sofa, sat the man I had shot. A dried stream of blood ran from the hole in his forehead, down the side of his nose and down the rest of his face, by his mouth. The rusty stream had dripped off of his chin and pooled into a giant brown stain on his gray sweatshirt. His cloudy eyes stared out ahead and he still had the same surprised look on his face. I wanted to run from the room, but the invisible force kept me glued in place.

  What was going on behind the macabre audience of corpses had my attention. Instead of Brittany being brutally raped, with the gun forced into her mouth, it was me. I watched myself get violated time and time again. First by the driver of the car that had parked alongside us and shot up the Mustang, then by Marco, then some other rough looking thug types I didn’t recognize. One after the other, they had their way with me and had the audacity to high five one another when they finished. I couldn’t look away. I wanted to yell at myself to do something, but my other self’s eyes were empty- indicating that I had mentally retreated to some far off place and couldn’t hear myself.

  Marco walked up in front of me again and gestured to the man holding the gun in my mouth. The man nodded in understanding and pulled the trigger.

  I woke up screaming.

  My heart was racing and my whole body shook violently. With every tremor stabbing pains bit at my gunshot wound. It took a while for my screams to taper off to a whimper. Thankfully the walls were thick in this place, or the neighbors probably would have come running.

  There I lay on the bed, curled up in a fetal position on my good side. Trembling, sweating, whimpering in pain, and alone. There was no better time than the present for a pity party. Tears rolled down my face and I sobbed, for what seemed like hours, before I pulled myself together. It seemed like every other month I was facing a crisis and the cumulative impact was having a devastating effect on my overall well being. Instead of dwelling on the fact that I was alone like it was a bad thing, I decided to take advantage of it for some serious, uninterrupted soul searching. I didn’t know how much more stress my body could handle. Now that I’d taken a life, I could feel my moral fiber beginning to fray and I needed to fix that before the damage became irreparable. I was a murderer. Instead of inspiring people through art, I was contributing to the violence I so despised. I could go to prison or get gunned down in a dark alley and become another statistic – just a blip on the headline news.

  I got out of bed to get a glass of water and didn’t bother turning on the light; the darkness provided a veil of anonymity that was comforting. I moved through the condo like a ghost. The pain medication bottle was barely visible in the faint light provided by the kitchen appliances. Even though the bottle called to me, I ignored it. Soul searching shouldn’t be done in an altered state.

  I moved away from the counter and from the temptation. As I did this, my arm bumped my purse and it went flying off the counter. Its contents spilled across the tile floor. Sighing, I flicked on the lights to clean up. I kneeled down and began picking up the miscellaneous items; my cell phone, wallet, keys, gum, lipstick, lighter and random pieces of paper. Two pieces caught my eye; Agent Phillips business card and Chelsea’s business card. I paused and contemplated putting them back in my purse. Instead, I set them on the counter. An idea was forming, just on the outside of my brain, I could feel it.

  I finished picking everything up and hung my purse on the back of one of the barstools, grabbed the two business cards and went to the bedroom. I flicked on the bedside lamp and sat cross legged on the bed with the two cards laid out in front of me.

  I needed out. If I didn’t escape I was going to be consumed and would probably wind up hanging from a noose like Brittany. Like many others before me, I could turn myself in to the FBI and ask for witness protection in exchange for evidence. The only problem there was that I was now a murderer and the only evidence that I had implicated people I loved. I couldn’t clearly tie Marco to any of the crimes; he conveniently orchestrated things, but was never directly involved.

  My eyes shifted to Chelsea’s card. She lived on the other side of the country and had no connection to the Grabanos. Dominic, Grant, my mom, even Chelsea’s mom all kne
w that we had a falling out. If I showed up on Chelsea’s doorstep, would she turn me away? I didn’t think so, we had been friends since the first grade; I had faith that she would be there for me, especially considering how dangerous my situation had become. Was this feasible? I had plenty of money saved up, thanks to my mom, who taught me not to live beyond my means. Plus, the fact that Dominic paid for everything helped.

  A plan began to form. Dominic wasn’t going to be home for a few days and Grant was going to be working for the next couple of nights. Sneaking away would be easy, but staying undetected would be tricky. How would I keep the mob from looking for me, from hunting me down? This was a question I didn’t know how to answer. And the question kept me awake until Grant came to check on me. I heard the front door unlock and quickly set the business cards in the night stand drawer. I grabbed the latest issue of Cosmo and was pretending to read when he came into the bedroom.

  “You’re awake.”

  “You’re observant,” I cracked at him.

  “And feeling better as your sarcasm is returning,” he replied with a grin. I was feeling better. I was mapping out a different future for me and felt somewhat in control again.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No. I’m good. Any word on Dom?

  “He’s doing better and regained consciousness about an hour ago. His dad told Miranda that the doctor thinks he’ll make a full recovery.”

  My sigh came out as a big whoosh. “That is excellent news!” It also meant that I needed to speed up my plan. I might not have the courage to leave once Dom came home and seeing him again would just make it harder.

  “Natalie, you okay?”

  “Huh, what? Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “You kinda zoned out there for a bit.”

  “Did I? Must be the meds.”

  “So you don’t need anything?”

  “Nope. You don’t have to hang out, I’m fine.”

  “Okay, call me if you do need something.” I listened for the front door to close before I pulled Chelsea’s business card out. She was an assistant costume designer for Warner Brother’s studios.