Skins

by Laura Rossi

  The truth was I couldn’t wait to fall on my bed and get a good night sleep for once.

  Three fights every week, I needed the rest.

  And the one woman I really wanted in my bed that night, had stood me up and left the club.

  Andrea, Andrea. Sad Eyes.

  I threw in my bag and slammed the door shut.

  Slowly I removed the shirt, wincing as it slipped off my face.

  My eyes were on the reflection in the mirror.

  Bruised, my tanned face was bruised. My jaw was swollen but I never let anyone hit my eyes. My dark brown eyes were still untouched.

  I kept staring at myself in the mirror, but all I could seem to think of was Blondie and her blue, mesmerizing eyes.

  And it wasn’t just about the looks. She had seemed scared, not just sad. I realized it later, when I noticed the men following her out of the club.

  There was a loud knock on the door but I gave no importance to it.

  It was probably Joe, not giving up on the fact that he was on his own for the night. I knew him too well by now. He wanted my help with women. He was taking advantage of the situation, taking advantage of my reputation to get girls to sleep with him. And I let him do it. I didn’t care.

  “Yeah,” I said and heard the door creak open.

  I turned, surprised I didn’t hear his petulant voice beg me to help him out for once, and saw it wasn’t him at the door.

  It was Andrea.

  With her back to the door, she closed it shut quickly and swallowed hard. She didn’t have the courage to speak. I could tell her mind was racing, her chest was moving fast.

  Had she been running?

  “They’ll notice that I am gone soon,” she told me and I nodded, walking towards her.

  Andrea took a step back but didn’t ask me to stop, to keep away. I stood in front of her, inches away from her, waiting for Andrea to say something else, but she just stared at me.

  “Who will notice?” I asked, keeping my hands to myself, but dying to touch her.

  “I can’t tell you,” she murmured, as she averted her eyes.

  Her fingers brushed against my abs then, as she tilted her head back a little, her breathing still fast.

  “Why are you here?” I asked and touched her soft red lip, wiping away some of her lipstick. How great it would have been to smudge it off her, to kiss her hard.

  Every muscle in my body seemed to clench. I knew what she wanted. I knew why she was there. And I knew I wanted her to tell me. I wanted to hear her say it.

  Her breathing quickened, as she took hold of my wrist and kissed my thumb, taking it in her mouth.

  “I am taking back what’s mine,” she whispered. “Set me free,” her voice was soft like a gentle plea against my lips.

  My hand was in her hair in a second, a little rough. I held her in place as my mouth went down on hers, thirsty for her lips.

  Everything inside me was aching, I needed to have her now. I would have fucked her on that counter in the bar before, I would have. And now I could.

  My hand slammed on the door behind her back and I turned the key. Locked. No interruptions, no one walking in on us.

  As I kept kissing her- my hands drifting down to her waist, down her lower back- I wondered how she had eluded the two men, how Andrea had made her escape.

  “I have to be back in a couple of hours,” she murmured against my mouth and I pulled back a little. “If they notice that I am gone, they’ll come looking for me and they will kill me.”

  “Who will kill you? Who?” I asked but she shook her head.

  Why?

  “It doesn’t matter,” she shook her head and pulled me closer.

  “Two hours?” I ran a hand across her chest, inside her dress and I felt her body quiver, I adored how her lips were shaking. “I want you all night.”

  “I don’t have all night” Andrea shook her head, as I gently pushed her against the wall and pinned her hand behind her head.

  “If only I could have you all night, Andrea…” I whispered.

  As my hand slowly moved down her body.

  She tasted exactly as promised: soft and innocent.

  Addictive.

  I brushed my lips along her back, kissed every inch of her legs. I adored each and every little moan that came from her lips.

  Our night together wasn’t just about the moves. Our bodies swayed, touched, searched for one another under the sheets, with a certain need, a certain rhythm. Perfect, our rhythm was perfect.

  No show, no eagerness to get to the point. None of us wanted to let go.

  Andrea held on to me, moved with me, like I was her last.

  “Stay the night,” I said, pulling her down on my chest.

  “Forget about me,” she whispered and then her lips were on my neck, brushing against my skin.

  I took her chin in my hands, so I could look her in the eyes.

  Never -I thought.

  “Why?” I asked but I knew I wasn’t going to get an answer from her. Not the truth, anyway.

  I held onto her, to her beautiful, soft hips for a while longer, as her body rocked on top of me.

  “Don’t look for me. I was never here.”

  That was the first and last time I saw Andrea.

  She never walked inside the club again after that night and I often wondered if she was still alive, if she had made her way back to her friends, her guards in time, before they had found out about her sneaking out.

  I remember every little detail of that night, every little detail of her body- her tattoo, her birthmark under her breast. I remember everything she told me, every little moan that had escaped her glorious lips, the way her beautiful, fragile body had tensed when I had made her come.

  She never explained to me how she had managed to elude the two men after her, how she had justified her absence to her friends.

  All I knew, was she had come to me. She had come for me and I couldn’t shake her out of my head for a long time.

  One-night stands, I quickly forgot all about those. But not Andrea, I just couldn’t.

  Not the way she spoke, not the way she made love to me.

  She was an ocean of secrets that no man was allowed to sail.

  “Forget about me,” she had told me, while I was still inside of her.

  I hadn’t. I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t forget the wonders of her body, just as I couldn’t forget how her tears had felt on my face, when they had rolled down her cheeks.

  All I could do then, was wipe them off but I didn’t dare ask her why.

  Why had she been crying? Why had the smile disappeared from her lips, once we had finished fucking on my bed?

  Andrea had simply straightened up, her face red with tears, and had slipped on her dress quickly.

  The sink near the mirror had washed away her sadness and her iron shield was back on within seconds.

  It was over, whatever it had been, it was over. She was back to being Sad Eyes- no smile, no tears. She had simply turned and kissed me passionately, her slender arms tight around my neck.

  “Thank you,” she had mumbled and I hadn’t said a thing, not one single thing. I just kissed her back, knowing for sure it would be our last.

  If I would have died then, it would have felt right. It would have been the right moment. I had never experienced something like that, so deep with someone I had just met.

  Maybe it was because of all the emotions Andrea kept inside her- everything in my life had been so damn meaningless and empty until that moment.

  Maybe it was because our one-night affair had meant something for her. Rebellion.

  It had meant something to me too, only I had no idea what.

  All I knew was that I had never fucked anyone else like I had fucked her that night.

  It had been a little over three years, but still I kept having dreams of her.

  Sometimes I dreamed that she was doing fine, that she was happy somewhere. But sometimes the dream turned into a nigh
tmare and she was dead, caught cheating, caught fleeing from her life.

  Chapter 5

  The Market and the Gangster

  It was one of her nightmares that woke me up that morning, three years later.

  I sat up in bed, my hands curled into fists, as I registered the surroundings.

  Home, I was in my apartment, in my bed and I wasn’t alone. Two naked, blonde women slept beside me, their arms snaked around my body.

  Blondes, brunettes or redheads, it didn’t matter. It all felt great at night after the fights, after a few drinks in the dimness of the club, but in the daylight things changed.

  Something felt off, the sight of them rubbed me the wrong way.

  They weren’t what I was looking for. They weren’t Andrea.

  Air, I needed some air.

  I gently peeled them off, feeling suddenly the need for a glass of water.

  Naked, I strode past the living room, past Joe- who was sleeping on my couch with two women beside him- and entered the small dark kitchen.

  The water felt so fresh in my mouth, I gulped down two glasses. I'd had one heck of a night.

  Three years and still fighting. I hadn’t lost a single match. I was the only fighter in the city to hold the record and rivals from all over the country came looking for me, to challenge me in the ring.

  My opponent from the night before had been tough. They called him Scarface, because of a long, ugly scar that cut through his left cheek- from his neck to his left eye. I recognized the hands behind that horrifying piece of ‘art’.

  The Mafia.

  And it meant one thing and one thing only.

  Scarface had been punished for something big, something serious. The scar had been his yellow card. Next time, he wouldn’t have had a scarred cheek to cry on. Next time, they would have taken his life.

  Scarface had been hard to beat, one of the few fighters that had put on a real, extenuating fight against me. My reflection on the kitchen cabinet said it all.

  I had been hit several times, my face was black and purple. My chest was either tattooed, bruised or scratched- slits of dried, dark-red blood meshed with my abs.

  “Motherfucker, you are going down” Scarface had snarled at me, slapping my hand on the ring before the fight, refusing to shake it.

  I had stared at him, emotionless as always, not giving away the slightest bit of resentment or anger.

  “Your face is going to look pretty once I am done with you” I had told him. “Fresh, new scars” I had said to him at the very end, when I had kicked him down to the floor, his face smeared with blood.

  I never did the cocky talk first, I always kept cool until the very end, until I knew I had the other fighter in my hands – doomed.

  I opened the freezer and took out some ice. Slowly, I placed it on my cheek and cringed.

  It burned my skin.

  I was still Sebastian the Killer, nothing had changed. It was the same story every morning after a fight. And it was late. The clock said one pm.

  Without making much noise, I showered and dressed, leaving my short black hair a little wet.

  I needed to take a walk, I needed food. The house was a mess and I didn’t want to be around when the girls were going to wake up.

  Joe would have showed them out, maybe fucked them a little more, if they were still eager and willing. I would be home late anyway. I planned on staying out all day, doing nothing but clear my head and maybe train.

  First though, I needed my breakfast.

  The sun hit my bruised face and the burning feeling was back.

  It was still February, cold and windy, but the sun was out and it had started getting a little warmer.

  As usual, I took a seat at the bar, just one block from my house.

  Café Luigi.

  “Ristretto, no sugar, honey croissant,” the man there knew me too well.

  He served me breakfast and handed over my usual newspaper.

  I skipped all the national news, I didn’t give a damn. What really interested me, was the local section, what was going on in Rome and who had been caught doing what.

  As I drank my coffee outside, I observed the life around me.

  Beggars, camping on every angle of the streets. Prostitutes, wiggling their asses in the middle of the day. Dirty men, coming back from constructions sites, trying to earn some money with temp jobs.

  The buildings seemed the perfect setting for a Second World War movie. They were battered, old and hideous. The streets smelled of urine and dirt.

  A drug dealer walked back and forth, right in front of a bus stop where kids were getting off after school.

  Welcome to The Market, the neighbourhood of lost souls, the abandoned part of Rome. The side of the city no tour guide talks about, but always the first to be mentioned in the news line up.

  I watched a group of tourists exit the metro station and gape at the surroundings.

  That’s right people, I thought. It’s shit. Welcome to hell.

  Their puzzled faces made me wonder, what would become of them if they had wandered around The Market for a few hours. The least that could have happened was being robbed.

  After a moment of confusion, I saw they went back down the stairs, back into the metro station.

  “Wise,” I mumbled and finished off my coffee in silence, observing those that surrounded me. Same people as always, I knew everyone and they knew me.

  Rome had been my home for over three years now and even if I had often changed apartments, I had never left the neighbourhood.

  The Market was my home, everyone knew me, everyone respected me. I was a quiet one – with the eyes of a demon, I heard someone say about me once.

  I was calm and kept to myself, until I was in that ring during fights or until someone crossed me. That’s when I became a whole different person- hard, rough.

  The Killer.

  I had spotted the black car parked at the curb in front of Café Luigi, a good half an hour before someone dared to step out of it. It didn’t take me long to realize someone had been spying on me. Must have also been because I had the feeling of being followed around all week, but I had known better that to make the first step.

  Low profile, low key. I had learned the lesson by heart by now.

  I had been living on the streets since I was five.

  The lesson had kept me alive and strong thirty years later, so I knew better to confront someone until it was absolutely necessary.

  Two well-dressed men, with designer jeans and jackets, clean shaven -and with the stance of those who know they had their back covered- crossed the street and walked towards me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I examined their stride. It was slow, calm, confident, not aggressive or menacing at all, but my hand gently slid under the table ever the same.

  I kept it on my hip, where I hid my knife. For a minute, I cursed for not taking Joe’s advice, to always take my gun with me.

  I hated guns, the sight of them made me angrier.

  Growing up, seeing my friends die in the crossfire in the streets of Naples, I had developed this hatred towards firearms. I thought they were weapons for the cowards, for those too afraid to engage in real combat.

  You didn’t need to be strong or smart to fire and win a fight. You just needed a gun and a little training. Physical combat was a whole different story. All the muscles and training in the world didn’t mean shit, if you didn’t use your head.

  The two men stopped right in front of my table and I saw a few people sitting around me, dash inside the café.

  Better safe, than sorry.

  I looked up from my newspaper, pretending to see them for the first time, not giving away a single emotion, my hand steady on the knife.

  “You must be The Killer,” one of them said and I cocked my head at him.

  “That’s what they call me,” I nodded. “Who wants to know?”

  “You need to come with us. Someone wants to speak to you,” the other one said, his voice flat,
like he was bored and didn’t want to argue about it.

  “Can’t this person sit here with me, at my table?” I asked but they both let out a breath. The tallest one rubbed his chin.

  “It can’t be discussed here. For safety reasons. You need to follow us to the car.”

  Who’s safety? Not mine.

  My eyes went to the black vehicle again. The passenger’s window was slightly open, but I couldn’t see anyone behind it. The glass was tinted.

  As I stood and walked towards it- knowing I couldn’t argue about this, without getting into trouble- I examined every little detail of the car and noticed it was bullet proof.

  Fuck, I cursed under my breath.

  I knew only two kinds of people that had bulletproof cars. People escorted by the police and powerful gangsters.

  Just before I stepped inside the car, I felt one of the men grab my shoulders.

  As a reflex, I pushed him back but the other one had already placed a gun behind my neck, the barrel pressed against my nape.

  “Don’t move, motherfucker. We need to get weapons off you, before you step inside,” and theirs hands were all over me.

  They found the knife on my hip, the one on my ankle and then I was pushed inside.

  “Buongiorno,” “Good morning,” the husky voice was immediately familiar.

  I had never spoken to him before but I knew the man in front of me.

  I had heard of him, seen him around, heard about his drug trafficking and prostitution in The Market, but never had I spoken to him directly.

  Alejandro De la Crux, the leader of the most powerful clan in The Market – the De la Crux family- was staring at me in his three-thousand-dollar suit.

  Dark, Colombian man in his forties, his family had moved to Italy many years ago and they had taken over that part of Rome in just a few years. His father had earned the nickname ‘The Bloody Colombian’. He hadn’t spared men, women, children.

  “I am sorry for interrupting your breakfast,” he told me, taking a drag from his cigarette.

  I shook my head a little.