by Selena
The families always have plenty of drama and feuding, but the Valentis are pure evil. Even I know that. Growing up, that was the one family I wasn’t allowed to associate with at school or anywhere else. Because Daddy knew how ruthless they were, how treacherous. I was a child when they started this shit. They killed my brother. They’re the reason Mom left. How can Dad just decide that doesn’t matter?
“You’ve been having a lot of fun running around in the city,” Dad says. “I may not have always been the best father to you, but I do notice what you’re doing. And I think it would be good for you to rein it in a bit, don’t you?”
His voice may be gruff, but his eyes are pleading. He wants me to be okay with this. But how can I?
“I can do that,” I say desperately. “No more parties, no clubs. I’ll call up Gianna and hang out with her instead of Lizzie and Bianca. I’ll be good, Daddy. I won’t even drink. You can have Vince report back. I can be good. You’ll see.”
Dad bobs his head once. “We all make sacrifices for this family, sweetheart.”
I’m not making a sacrifice for this family. I am the sacrifice.
“Daddy, please,” I beg. “Not Al Valenti. He’ll kill me as revenge!”
“He won’t kill you,” Dad says, shifting around and glancing at the table of bodyguards, probably hoping I won’t make a scene.
Sorry, Daddy. Scenes are my specialty. How else is a girl supposed to get shit done? It’s not like I want to cry and beg in public, but sometimes, it’s the only way to get a man’s attention.
“Please,” I wail, really getting into it as I reach across the table to clutch his hand in both of mine. I’ve replayed my last conversation with Mom a thousand times.
“I didn’t even know you liked acting,” I said to her as we sat on the edge of my bed and she explained that she was going to be just across town, that she’d visit any time my father would let her. That she felt a calling to follow her own passion, and it was time to do that.
“I’ve never been in a play before, but they’ll say I’m a natural,” she said. “I’ll know differently, though. I’ve got years of experience. Ninety percent of being a mafia wife is acting.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I’d been numb since my brother died, walking around like a zombie, my body going on like usual while my mind had disengaged from everything.
“It’s what I have to do,” Mom said, wiping away a tear. “It’ll be best for everyone. You’ll see.”
“You’re right,” I said, and I smiled big at her, just the way she liked. I didn’t know about being a mafia wife. But I already knew something about acting.
I didn’t know what she meant about marriage then. I was eight fucking years old. But somewhere along the way, I figured it out. I figured out something else, too. The best actors aren’t the best liars. They’re the most honest. All I have to do is call up the seed of fear at the thought of marrying the monster who destroyed my family, and voila. There’s the start of a great scene. It only needs to be nurtured in order to grow. Give it the sunshine of your attention, dwelling on the horror of it. Add some water in the form of tears. Soon, the little seed has exploded into a shaking, tear-stained, snotty mess that couldn’t possibly be fake.
That’s the key to acting. It isn’t fake. It’s real.
I always knew the day would come when Daddy would marry me off to someone important, either a boss of another family or some old retired don who’s no longer in much danger but hides out like he’s in wit-sec in case anyone finds him. Knowing my father, with his insistence on me having three bodyguards, he’ll want me as far from danger and as guarded as possible, so that’s the route he’ll take. He’ll give me to some old geezer who paid his dues and deserves to be rewarded with a virgin sacrifice.
Because that’s what marriage is to a woman—the sacrificing of her freedom. Men in the Life get to run around doing whatever the fuck they want, shooting up their enemies and dunking their dicks in whoever they please. Wives are nothing more than glorified maids and baby factories. If I had my way, I’d rather be someone’s cumare. At least they get the passion while it lasts. Then they can walk away. You can’t walk away from marriage. It’s a noose tied around two people’s necks, two people who make a life out of looking the other way and pretending not to feel the shame of their own dirty secrets.
Wives get to sit around resenting their children and worrying about their straying husbands, worrying which night he won’t make it home. And when he does drag his ass in at dawn, he’s more often covered in someone else’s perfume than blood. I grew up in the Life. I know how it works.
And now I’m being resigned to the same fate. Al Valenti is three times my age, but it’s not enough. I’d rather have someone five times as old. Still, Al’s a don. He could go at any time. He has at least as many enemies as Dad.
“Calm down,” Dad orders, yanking his hand from mine and casting furtive glances around the bistro. Lucky for him, there’s only two other tables occupied by strangers. “Al’s not interested in marrying again.”
“So… Who?” I ask, wiping at some of my tears.
“A relative of his,” Dad says. “Don’t worry, he’s a made guy. We both thought it would be a good match. You’ll be meeting him next week.”
So, this is it. The day I knew was coming, the one that made me party hard and try to forget. But that’s all over. Too soon, I’ll be slaving away in some man’s kitchen and his bedroom, waiting for him to keel over dead or get whacked by some hired muscle like Tommy Fatone.
Maybe I could get Tommy worked up into a jealous rage, have him do it…
If I’m lucky, it’s Al’s old man or something, someone too old to get it up more than once or twice a year. One too many Italian feasts will catch up to him, and his heart will give out if a hit doesn’t find him. I’ll bury him with gravitas, mourn like a good little wifey for six months, and then I’ll be a free woman before I’m twenty-five. By then, I won’t have the lure of virgin flesh, and my father won’t get to marry me off. That’s the best-case scenario.
I won’t think about the worst.
I’m sure as shit not going to make the mistake of getting married again after my husband croaks. I don’t want to be owned by any man. I want to be my own woman, living life as I choose. And I’ll choose exactly what my mother did—freedom. I don’t blame her for leaving any more than I blame my brother for getting killed. It’s not Mom’s fault that she left. It’s Al Valenti’s. Dad may be ready to forgive and forget, but I will never forget what that family took from mine.
five
King
I sit with my back to the wall watching a pretty blonde walk into the bar, a swanky little joint in midtown with potted plants hanging above the polished wood bar. The hostess catches my eye and smiles, but I’m not looking for women here. My hand is already promised, and the last thing I need is word getting back that I’m not taking this shit seriously.
The blonde sits at a table for two, though it’s just her. I check the other patrons, wondering if my guy is already here, if he’s casing the joint or checking to see what I’ll do. I don’t do anything. I just wait.
“Can I get you anything?” a waitress asks, coming by my table for the second time.
“Water,” I say, tossing a five on the table. “Thanks.”
The waitress smiles and asks if I’m sure. I don’t even look at her. I’m sure.
She leaves, stopping by to take the order of the blonde at the table by herself.
A tall, dark-haired guy enters and glances around, his eyes landing on me. He swaggers over, giving me time to size him up. He’s got Al’s athletic build and Roman nose, but he’s thinner and not as hard looking.
“You the little punk I’m babysittin’?” he asks, sliding in across the booth.
“King Dolce,” I say.
“No kiddin’,” he says. “Any relation to Donny?”
“He’s my uncle.”
“No shit,�
� he says, flashing a smile and slapping his thigh. “Donny’s been cuttin’ my hair since I got too big for Ma to put a bowl on my head and embarrass the shit out of me.”
I smile. “Sounds about right.”
“Well, I know you know who I am,” he says. “My tombstone will say Alfred De Luca, but everybody just calls me Little Al.”
Of course they do. He’s Al’s grandson, next in line for the Valenti throne unless one of Uncle Al’s cousins steps in and snatches it out from under him. I don’t know if it’s a good thing that Uncle Al is keeping me close, or if it means he doesn’t trust me and wants to keep an eye on me.
“How does this work?” I ask. “You going to train me or something?”
“Listen, don’t take it personal,” Little Al says, dropping his voice and leaning forward so as not to be heard by the booth behind him. “My grandpa is paranoid as fuck, and with good reason. You know half the city wants him dead. Everybody gets a partner. Keeps us in check, right?”
“So I’ve heard.”
The waitress stops to check on the blonde, looking somewhat annoyed.
Little Al twists around toward her. “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls, raising a finger to get her attention and pointing to our table. “Get me a beer, would you?”
He turns back to me. “You read the Bible, King?”
“Sure,” I say.
“You know who the most hated man in the Bible is?”
“The devil.”
“Well, yeah, you’ll meet Il Diavolo soon,” he says. “We aren’t him. But we’re the most hated profession.”
“Tax collectors?”
“That’s the one,” he says, sitting back in his chair with a grin and pointing a finger at me. “You’re gonna be fine, kid. I can tell already.”
“Because I know the Bible?”
The waitress sets a beer down in front of Little Al, and he waves her off before she can ask if we want food.
“Look, my nonni filled me in on what you been livin’ like,” he says to me. “You’re new to this, so I’m gonna spell it out for you. Don’t come in here with any big ideas about ascending through the ranks too quick. You’re a soldier, just like me. And you know who my grampa is.”
I nod.
“He don’t do any favors to any of us, even family. We all start at the bottom. And everybody who works for us, for our family, they hate us. Just the way it is, kid.”
“Because we come to collect,” I say, realizing what my job will be. Beyond marrying a Pomponio, that is.
Little Al downs half his beer in a few swallows. “We’re like two cops on the beat, right? Except if we meet cops, they get beat.” He laughs and finishes off his beer.
“My uncle’s a cop.”
“Oh, yeah,” he says. “There is a Dolce on the force and in our pocket, isn’t there? Don’t worry, I’m joking. We don’t beat cops. We just avoid ‘em. Don’t need ‘em. We make our own laws, and we enforce them ourselves. You eating, kid?”
“I already ate,” I lie. I wasn’t sure what kind of work we’d be doing, and the last thing I wanted to do was look like a little pussy by losing my lunch on my first day.
“That’ll cover us both,” Little Al says, nodding to the cash I threw down. “Let’s go, kid.”
I toss down another bill and follow him out, glancing at the blonde who is looking at her phone with an irritated expression. She got stood up, I decide. New York is like that. You can pass a hundred people in a day and never see them again, never know their stories or struggles.
“Where to, boss?” I ask. I notice the way Little Al swells when I call him that, the way his shoulders square just a bit, and he stands a little taller.
“Gonna pay a little visit to Jimmy the Nose,” he says. “He’s late with the rent again.”
“Okay.” I took a taxi here, as most people in the city do, but he must have driven, as he heads for the nearby parking garage. It smells like exhaust and tar cooking under the sweltering summer sun.
“You don’t say much, do you?” he asks.
“When I’ve got something to say,” I answer honestly. “I’ve got a lot to learn before I run my mouth.”
“Then watch and learn, kid.” Little Al gets behind the wheel of a flashy, souped up Porsche, and I slide into the passenger seat. “Two rules when you ride in my car,” he says. “Don’t touch nothin’ and don’t say nothin’ about the music unless you’re givin’ up the pussy tonight.”
I nod in agreement and watch the streets go by, memorizing the way. Uncle Al showed me a map with our territory marked out with pins, real old-school, to show me the places we do business. But being here makes it real, and I want to get a feel for the real place.
“I hear you’re tying the knot with Eliza Pomponio,” Little Al says as we make our way into a smaller neighborhood with little shops along each side of the street.
“So I’m told.”
“Makes me wish I wasn’t married,” Al says with a grin. “I’d pop that cherry so hard you’d hear it in the next county.”
I tense. “What?”
“All the daughters gotta be virgins, bro,” he says. “It’s our reward for services rendered, you know?”
“I didn’t know.”
He laughs and slaps the steering wheel. “Don’t tell me you been fuckin’ around,” he says. “You gotta save yourself for her, too.”
I don’t say anything.
“You have been saving yourself, right?”
“No,” I say, glowering at him.
He hoots with laughter and reaches over to slap my shoulder. “I’m just kidding you. Relax. How you supposed to show them who’s boss if you don’t know what you’re doing? I got so much pussy before I was married. Still do, if you know what I mean. But Eliza Pomponio? Shit, man. I’d love to make that bitch bleed.”
“That’s my wife you’re talking about,” I growl, wanting reach over and knock the shit out of this guy. I’ve never met my socialite fiancé, but that doesn’t mean I want her disrespected.
He just laughs and whips the Porsche into a parking spot. “Relax, bro. You know her?”
“No,” I admit, still glaring as he throws the brake and hops out.
Little Al laughs again and shakes his head as we approach a nearby shop. “You’ll understand once you do,” he says. “I would tap that ass in a sec, but marry her? Nah, man. That bitch is nothing but trouble.”
He stops at the end of an alley and gestures down it. “Jimmy the Nose likes to run like a little bitch,” he says. “You take the back door. I’ll go in the front and flush him out. Don’t get any ideas about being a big shot. Number one rule in our business: A dead man don’t pay. We’re just here to collect.”
“And if he doesn’t have the money?”
“Of course he don’t have the money,” Little Al says. “You think he’d hold out on us if he did? Get hard or get had, kid. We can’t be soft on nobody. They’ll all take advantage the moment you show weakness. If Al wants him gone, he’ll send an Enforcer. Then you’ll meet Il Diavolo.”
I nod, heading down the alley while Little Al goes in the front. I hear shouting, and not two seconds later, the back door bursts open and a forty-ish guy with a beer gut and crazy eyes comes shooting out like he’s propelled by rocket fuel. I grab him and throw him to the grimy asphalt without thought, catching him around the neck before he can move. That’s when I see where he got the nickname. His nose is blunted, the nostrils showing like a skull’s, a scar forming the end of what’s left of his nose.
“Don’t kill me,” he shouts, grabbing at my arms and flailing wildly.
“Nice job,” Little Al says, stepping out the door. “We ain’t here for your life, Jimmy. We just want our money.”
“I don’t got it,” Jimmy says, his voice going high with terror when he sees what Al’s holding, some kind of clippers, like a small pair of garden shears you could hold with one hand. My stomach starts to turn, and I’m glad I didn’t eat.
“Then what’s it
going to be today, Jimmy?” Al asks, snapping the clippers open and shut, a malicious gleam in his eye. “You know what happened last time you didn’t pay.”
“I can get it by tomorrow,” Jimmy says. “I just need one more day. My ma’s been in the hospital. She’s been real sick, or I would have gotten you the money already. I’ll have it first thing in the morning, honest!”
“It wasn’t due first thing in the morning tomorrow,” Little Al says. “It was due yesterday.”
“Please,” Jimmy sobs.
“What do you think, kid?” Little Al asks, holding out the shears. “Want to do the honors?”
I know what I have to say. It doesn’t matter if I think this guy is telling the truth, if I think it’s crazy to cut someone’s nose off for being a day late on payment. This isn’t the world I grew up in, where pardons were acceptable. This is a different world, a different life. One where I have to prove myself worthy. If I’m not capable of violence, I might as well sign my own death warrant.
I steel myself, closing off the place in my chest that aches, the place in my stomach that twists at the thought of those clippers. There’s no place for pity or feelings in this world, and if I have them, there’s no place for me.
I stand and aim my foot at Jimmy’s knee, delivering a swift kick. My heel connects with precision and effectiveness. My chest is hollow of emotion. The only thing I feel is the bone give way, his kneecap separating from his knee.
“Next time, you won’t run,” I say.
“We’ll be back next week for the money,” Little Al says, stepping over Jimmy’s writhing body. “With interest.”
I turn, and we exit the alley, leaving Jimmy howling behind us.
“Damn, kid,” Al says, slapping my back. “For a second there, I thought you were going to puss out on me. But we’re going to get along just fine. I can tell already.”
As I slide into the passenger side of Little Al’s Porsche, I know this is where I belong. It’s easy, really. All my life, I cared too much about my family, my name. I thought that mattered. Here, none of that matters. Brothers kill each other without blinking. Couples marry without feeling. What matters is survival. The slightest hesitation, the slightest emotion, is a death sentence.