Mobster's Angel (Mobster Series)

by Rachiele, Amy

  “Whatever, Jack-O! I don’t like to dance so can we fuckin’ get this show....” Whack! I punch him in the mouth and finish my sentence. “on the road, asshole!” He reels backwards from my hit.

  Stupid-ass! Never focus on words. Only movements.

  I don’t give him a chance to recover. I thrust and send another face punch dead center.

  Nose. Broken.

  Blood pours from his nostrils. I straddle him and punch fast, 1.2.3…in the stomach. I get up and move back.

  He’s coughing and moaning. And not getting up. I swing my leg back and kick him straight in the gut. He lies on his side with his arms wrapped around his stomach. Baby’s enforcer grabs my arm.

  “Winner!” he bellows.

  There is a deafening roar in the room. The guy never even got a hit on me. Everyone is cheering and slapping my back in congratulations as I walk out of the ring. Smoke and sweaty handshakes accost me. Many in the crowd shout, “We missed you, Kid!” and “You’re still the best, Rossi!”

  Baby sits behind his crates, waiting for me. His aged face is tight with lines and his brows are cinched together awkwardly.

  “What do I gotta do to get ya to be a regular again, boy?”

  “Nah, once in a while is enough,” I say.

  “He didn’t even get a punch on ya,” Baby says woefully, shaking his head. “What if I talked to the Boss?” he threatens.

  Baby tried before to get Mr. Delisi to order me to do Friday Night Fights when I started coming less and less. It didn’t work.

  Antonio’s Pop said, “Do what you wanna do, fight or don’t fight.” That squashed Baby’s grand scheme.

  “Go ahead. Talk to him,” I say.

  Baby knows bringing it up again will get him in some shit with the Boss. He shakes his head again in disgust. The grotesque cigar jerks side to side. He counts out two grand and hands it to me.

  “Try to make it here again next week, will ya?”

  “I’ll see.”

  I don’t watch the next bout. I used to watch. Learn moves, weaknesses, and cheer when the inferior fighter went down in a bloody lump on the dirty floor. Now, I just leave. I climb the long winding stairs to the warehouse and exit out the metal door into the alley, not feeling any better.

  Chapter 2

  Erin

  Once we’re finally back at our apartment, Joey heads out. I instantly kick off my shoes and get ready for bed. I’m pulling a long comfy T-shirt over my head when Clarissa knocks on my door.

  “Come in,” I yell.

  “Hey,” she says, and she sits on my bed. “Did you have fun tonight?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” I run a brush through my hair.

  “Oh.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “It’s nothing,” she says.

  The brush hits my thigh as my hand comes down in frustration.

  “Come on, nothing is always something,” I inform her.

  “It’s just... Well...”

  “Spit it out, C,” I encourage.

  “It’s seems like you never really have fun.”

  Uh oh! I’ve got to work on my act.

  “Yes I do. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week at school.” I pause and place my brush on the bureau. “Let me get a good night’s sleep and tomorrow night we will par-tay.”

  “Okay,” she responds, hesitantly. “You know, if you need to talk to someone, there are people here too.”

  “What do you mean? Like a shrink?” I ask, trying not to blow my cover.

  “Yeah.”

  “Trust me, C. I’m good. If you don’t let me get some sleep, I won’t be par-tay ready for tomorrow night. Shoo...” I make a motion with my hand and close the door behind her. I lean against the closed door.

  Yikes!

  *****

  The blast still wakes me up. A cold sweat outlines my skin, and I blink into the darkness of my room. I don’t think I screamed or thrashed because Clarissa would’ve been in here in a nano-second.

  It’s always the same. In the end, as the car explodes, strong hands envelope me and lift me in slow-motion. The car explodes once again, and the scene replays over... and over until it finally wakes me up. The dreams are getting fewer and farther between, but they’re still here nonetheless. Dammit!

  My nightmares aren’t always about the blast. Sometimes, they are vivid images and replays of being held hostage in my kitchen with my mother and sister, Megan. A long slender gun points down at us, held by some psycho who was after my father for killing someone. Then they flash to brazen images of Connor with some girl. I catch him first-hand kissing her neck and watch his hands trail greedily over her breasts. I think he expects to get what I gave him. I kick myself for my stupidity. I shouldn’t have let things go as far as they did. I should have saved myself for a non-asshole.

  My eyes hurt from straining in the darkness. The only time the dreams got better was when Vito slept beside me in South Bend. He calmed me just by being next to me. I could actually sleep for hours without waking up. Or actually get rest when I slept, instead of feeling like I went ten rounds in a boxing ring by the time I woke up.

  I shut my eyes and try one of my ridiculous tricks for falling back to sleep. I imagine a fence, an old style rail one. I start counting.

  One. Vito hurtles the fence.

  Two. Vito hurtles the fence.

  Three. Vito hurtles the fence.

  Four. Vito hurtles the fence.

  Seeing him fly over the fence reminds me that I’ll always have someone looking out for me, lifting me out of the debris. Someone to save me from the explosion, or whatever new danger I may face in the future. My eyes get heavy, my heart rate slows, and I’m off into sleep.

  *****

  I hate this part. It always makes my heart race and my fingers tingle. The anticipation of being hurt is awful. I know Joey would never hurt me on purpose, but my body reacts the same way regardless. It's the anticipation.

  He finally throws his punch and I swing to the side, avoiding it. He nods in approval and returns to his original position, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  I asked Joey to teach me how to protect myself, thinking that it would help me to overcome the trauma of the past year. I hated myself for my weaknesses. But I knew I had wallowed in my self-pity for long enough. It was high time that I empowered myself.

  I'm doing much better than I did before. Now, at least my head automatically goes down when I know I have to duck. The reaction has become commonplace and normal for me; I now can react as opposed to simply shrinking back in fear.

  Joey’s arm swings out and I duck again. I evade his attacks. My thick red hair is up in a ponytail that sweeps against my neck as I move.

  “Good!” Joey praises.

  Joey throws another punch my way, and I slip to the right. Being small has its advantages when you know what you’re doing.

  “Awesome!” he says. “Why don’t you hit the bag, then we’ll take off. I’m going to run on the treadmill.”

  We’re at a gym near the dorms. It’s not a fancy one. It’s probably been around since the seventies: I can tell by the paneling and floor tiles.

  I walk to the bags hanging in a row by the windows. I stand on the mat beneath one of them and start punching. I practice all of the different punches Joey has taught me. I concentrate on the position of my fingers and slam my fists repeatedly against my imaginary enemies, getting a good rhythm going.

  I’m so focused on the bag that I don’t realize that a black limousine has pulled up in front of the window. I shrug it off because there are a million limousines cruising around in this area, especially with all the private security. Some of the students even have their own drivers. But a person standing in the window soon captures my attention. I have to look twice. Brice!

  Ugh! What does he want?

  I pretend I don’t see him and keep punching. My punches become faster and harder, probably out of the aggravation of seeing Brice. I steal a glance and he is gone, but the
car is still there. A niggling at the back of my neck starts up. I feel someone standing behind me.

  “Looking good,” Brice says. Ugh. So slimy.

  I plaster on my practiced phony smile and turn towards him.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He waits a minute. We just kind of look at each other.

  “I thought I could take you to get something to eat. You must be starving after that work out.”

  This is the first time he has asked me out. What sparked this?

  “Thanks, but I need a shower, and I’m kind of tired.”

  “But you need to eat something. It’s dinner time.” I shudder at the thought of having to sit through a meal with him.

  “Um... like I said... I’m tired.”

  “Okay. I could pick up something and take it to your apartment. Enough for everyone. Is Clarissa going to be there? What do she and Joey like? I could get pizza. Or thai, if you’d prefer that?”

  I don’t have a chance to answer before Joey comes over, smiling. My hopes of escaping Brice are crushed instantly.

  “Hey Brice, what’s up?” They shake hands in a brotherly way.

  “I was just asking Erin what she’s like me to bring over for dinner. You included, of course.”

  “That’s cool.” Joey looks to me for confirmation.

  My fake smile doesn’t fail me.

  “Yeah. Pizza sounds great.”

  “I’ll be over in an hour,” Brice says and walks out of the gym very pleased with himself. I internally groan and grab my workout bag off the floor. Bits of my hair fall in my face, and I thrust them back behind my ear.

  “Ready?” Joey asks.

  “Yup. Let’s go. I need a shower,” I answer, trying not to sound curt. I got out of a date, but I still have to be in the same room with him.

  *****

  The shower is hot. I spun the shower handle to the hottest setting before I got in. Thick swirls of steam fill the bathroom as the scalding water scorches my skin. It runs down my curves and into the drain in the floor. I revel in the heat. The lather of the soap trails along as I scrub off the day’s grime. The pain and redness invigorates me. It reminds me that I’m alive. My hair feels lighter and softer as I rinse the shampoo and sweat away.

  The door opens and Clarissa calls to me, “Brice is here!”

  “‘Kay,” I call back. I continue to take my time. Knowing Brice has arrived isn’t going to rush me. In fact, it slows me down.

  I twist the faucet to off, grab a towel, and dry myself. I wipe the condensation off the mirror, but it partially steams back up.

  The fogginess stops me from seeing my entire face and body: half of me is cloudy, blurred. I am half of myself. Idly, I wonder if the other half will ever return. Can I just wipe away the coating and reveal the old me? Or should I keep the other half of me covered, obliterating everything... the lies, the horrors?

  Knock...knock...

  “Come on, Erin, before the pizza gets cold!” Joey yells, his mouth obviously stuffed full of pizza.

  “I’ll be out in a minute!” I yell back.

  My clothes and underwear are neatly folded on top of the toilet seat. I dress and run the hairdryer for a few minutes. Suddenly, it’s time. I can’t stall any longer. I leave the bathroom and walk with heavy steps to the living room by our little kitchen. Clarissa and Joey clap as I enter.

  “Eh! Finally,” Joey jokes. “I ate all the pepperoni, so you’re going to have to settle for veggie.”

  I smile wickedly. Joey knows pepperoni is my favorite. “That’s fine. I wouldn’t dream of depriving you.” I say with sarcasm. “I hope you get agita tonight.”

  “You like pepperoni, Erin? I can go get another pizza,” Brice offers.

  “No. Veggie is good too.”

  I reach for a slice and Brice jumps up from his chair. He takes a paper plate and gives it to me, sidling up behind my back and wrapping around me to place it in my hands

  “Thanks,” I say awkwardly as he invades my personal space.

  He stands so close you could barely fit a piece of paper between us. I’m uncomfortable, and I move forward a few steps, placing my pizza on the plate he gave me. I turn to lean against the counter and enjoy the sweet taste of tomato sauce, cheese, and my favorite part, bread.

  Vito makes a mean pizza. When we were in South Bend, he did a lot of cooking for us. He definitely paid attention to someone who had a knack for cooking, maybe his mom or grandmother. I never asked him where he learned.

  “Erin? Erin?”

  Brice brings me back from my trip down memory lane.

  “Yeah?” I say.

  “I asked you, how’s the pizza?”

  “Oh. It’s good.”

  I use my hip to push off from the counter and join Clarissa and Joey in the living room. I feel Brice right behind me. I sit in the chair Brice was sitting in because I don’t want to sit next to him on the couch. Too bad the chair and couch are so close that it doesn’t end up mattering. Brice sits on the very edge of the couch by me, practically in my lap.

  “Brice.” Joey asks. “How’s the team this year? I saw you practicing. It looks like you’ve got some good prospects on the field.”

  “I think we’re going to clean up,” Brice says, animatedly.

  Good Joey, talk to him about baseball. Keep him out of my hair.

  Nope. Doesn’t work.

  “So did you have a good work out?” Brice asks, leaning towards me. “It looks to me like you did.” He trails his eyes up and down my just showered body. I cringe. Yuck! Now I need another one.

  “Joey knows how to train,” I inform him.

  “What are you training for? You look great to me,” he adds.

  Can I throw up now?

  “Life,” I quip.

  Brice looks at me strangely, but shakes it off.

  He doesn’t push. Smart.

  After thirty minutes of wishing Brice would leave and mindlessly staring at the T.V., Joey gets up. He stretches, lazily standing in the middle of the living room.

  “It’s time for me to hit the road.”

  Clarissa and I watch him in silence. Brice is watching me. Ick!

  “You ready, Brice?”

  “What? Oh.” Realization dawns on him. Joey is leaving; he needs to leave.

  Brice gets up reluctantly.

  “Thanks for the pizza,” Clarissa says with a sincere smile. I wonder why she doesn’t see the same thing that I do when I look at Brice. Her upbringing makes her typically a pretty good judge of character.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Joey kisses both Clarissa and me on the head. He and Brice move towards the door. Joey opens it. “Good night,” Brice says, turning to look directly at me.

  I plaster on the best smile I have and wave. “Good-bye! Thanks for the pizza!” I can even here the sarcasm in my voice; it didn’t come out right. Brice makes a face and the door clicks shut.

  “Still can’t stand him, huh?” Clarissa asks.

  “He’s not my type.”

  Vito

  It’s Saturday morning. I spin into a tight spot in the parking lot of a tattoo parlor right outside Palmetto. I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I have this impulse to get a tat. Is it because I’m crawling out of my skin or because I’m just that bored? I don’t fuckin’ know. Last night’s fight didn’t do the trick like I had hoped. I pull open the door and a little bell attached to it rings.

  A girl comes out from a back room. She smiles.

  “Can I help you?” she asks with a thick British accent. A Brit chick tattoo artist.

  She’s about six feet tall and has some major sleeves going up her arms. They’re intricate with lots of color. But of all things, her red hair catches my attention the most.

  It looks dyed and fake, but it doesn’t stop the image that invades my mind anytime I see red hair or anything red for that matter. I am a fuckin’ douche.

  “I’m thinking about some ink, but not sure what,” I answer.

  “
Let’s see.” She pulls out a huge binder and places it on the counter. “These are our most popular. Why don’t you look through this?”

  She goes into the back room. I stand at the counter and flip through the plastic pages. This chick has a ton of stuff - dragons, fairies, hearts. A ton of freakin’ pansy-ass hearts. They must like hearts in England. I flip and flip, but nothing is really me.

  At the end of the book is the alphabet, A through Z. Several versions of twisted and scrolled initials are available. My eyes zoom in on the letter E. That’s it!

  Wait, no! I can’t do that. Although they’re elaborate and hard to read, people will still ask me, what the hell does that stand for?

  The girl comes out again.

  “Did you find anything?” she asks.

  “Yes and no.”

  She glances down at the page of letters.

  “Do you want some lettering? Maybe for a girlfriend?” I shake my head.

  “No girlfriend.” She gives me a once over.

  “If you tell me what you’re looking for, then I can help you,” she offers. “Boyfriend?”

  “I’m not fuckin’ gay!” bursts out of my mouth. “It isn’t what, it’s where…,” I tell her.

  “Oh, you don’t want anyone to see it,” she says, grinning. “I can help you with that.” She points to her hipbone. “Most men who want a tat no one is going to see, unless they’re in a clinch, get it right here.”

  “What the hell is a clinch?” I ask.

  “You know? Shagging?” she says like I’m simple-minded.

  “Huh? You lost me.”

  “Sex! Intercourse! Shagging!” She laughs at me.

  First she thinks I’m gay, and then she makes fun of me for not being a Euro-dude who knows what a clinch is.

  “Oh,” I say, deadpan. Since, I haven’t been with anyone in the past year, nor have I wanted to, I doubt it’s going to be a problem.

  I point to the letter E on the page.

  “That one,” I say.

  “Let’s do this!” she exclaims and I follow her to a side room with a cot or some type of medical bed in the center. “Lay down right here.”

  I do it, and I look up into some intense lights. In this position, I feel vulnerable and kind of stupid. What the hell am I doing?