by Paula Cox
I kneel down next to Bruno and click my fingers. “Stay awake, Bruno,” I say. “Help will be here soon.”
Chapter Nine
Livia
The car speeds through the city at what feels like the speed of light, surging through traffic lights. All the while, Mom screams at the top of her voice: “Fretta! Fretta! Fretta!” We sit in the back and she grips my hands, squeezing them so hard I feel the blood circulation cutting off. Mom, usually a glamorous and marble-like woman, rarely revealing her true emotions unless they’re disdain or disappointment or the constant desire for me to find a husband, is now unhinged and desperate. She looks at me with red eyes, panting.
All around us, the Italian mob are crammed into the large four-by-four, the smell of whisky and cigarette smoke from the bar thick in the air. Mom digs her fingernails into my hands and I try and dislodge them, but she just keeps squeezing.
“It was that Irishman,” Mom breathes. “It was. I know it was. Oh, God, that Irishman!”
“I don’t think—”
Mom barrels over me, ignoring my words. “It was that Irishman!”
Finally, we arrive at the alleyway behind the country club. Mom kicks the door open with her expensive stiletto and runs out into the street, for once not thinking about how she must look to everybody around her. She spins in a circle, searching the dumpsters, the trash-covered concrete. Finally, her gaze comes to rest on a dumpster a few feet away. I follow her, look down. Aedan puts his arm around Dad and helps him to his feet. Dad’s eyes are opening and closing and his chest rises and falls shallowly, as though he can’t get enough air in. Aedan holds Dad up, much as he held me up that night, the last time we saw each other, and carries him toward the car. Mom rushes forward. I follow, and together we help Aedan bring Dad to the car.
“Was it this brute, my love?” Mom demands, holding Dad’s head in her hands. “Was it this brute?”
“It was the Mexicans, ma’am—”
“Don’t you dare talk to me, you animal!” Mom roars, and I wince; she sounds exactly how I did a couple of weeks ago.
We carry Dad to the car, limp in our arms, and lay him in the backseat. Mom climbs in after, and before anyone can do anything, I follow a sudden impulse and slam the door. The driver, taking this as a sign that they’re ready to get the don to a doctor, screeches out of the alleyway, leaving me, Aedan, and five Italians. Tony, Sebastian, Michael, Steve, and Joseph, all of them with slicked-back hair, all of them with murder in their eyes.
Aedan backs against the wall, leaning down, hands on his knees.
“You got our boss shot,” Tony says, a wide-bellied man with three gold chains drooping on his hairy, exposed chest, his shirt buttons all the way down to his midriff. “You got our boss shot, man. Do you think we can let that slide?”
“It was the Mexicans,” Aedan says. He waves a hand in the direction the golf course. “Go and check. I got three of ’em…the trees, the little wooded area over that way.”
Tony turns to Sebastian, a skinny runt with a tribal tattoo crawling up his neck, and Joseph, an old man with slit eyes and a nose which has been broken dozens of times, all squashed and mangled. “Go and check, we need to see if Peter Pan here is telling the truth.”
I stand off to one side, watching. I don’t think Aedan would’ve shot Dad, but I have to remind myself that I don’t know him, not really. I met him once and we went on a date and I got too drunk—that’s all. As far as actually knowing the man goes, as far as having any small insight into who he really is, I’m ignorant. He’s just a man, just a man I almost had sex with, nothing more, nothing less.
He looks up through the Italians’ shoulders and meets my gaze. I look away. His dark eyes are too alluring, too vulnerable-yet-strong; a strong protective urge rises in me when he looks at me like that. You’re a Russo, I remind myself, and Bruno Russo just got shot, and this man might have something to do with it. Don’t forget that, never forget that.
“What do you say, Peter Pan?” Tony says, standing over Aedan. “Why don’t you admit to it now? Save us all some fucking time.”
“Have you heard of me, man?” Aedan says. “’Cause if you have, you’d know I wouldn’t be so goddamn sloppy that I’d shoot a man in the leg and then let him call for help. Goddamn.”
“Maybe it’s a ploy,” Tony says, and the Italians around him nod in agreement. “Maybe it’s some clever trick, thought up by that prick Patty. We’ve all heard about Patty and his clever ways. Everyone knows he’s working with the Mexicans.”
“That’s not true,” Aedan says simply.
Michael, the kindest of the five, a rake-thin, kind-faced man with a bowl cut, approaches me and says quietly, “You might want to take a walk, Livia, Ms. Russo, at least to the end of the alleyway. This might get ugly.”
I look at him with steel in my eyes. “I’m staying,” I say, and he backs away from me.
It’s like there’s a battle being fought within my chest. One side wants nothing more than to leap into the fray and throw my arms around Aedan, but another side knows that this would be a foolish, absurd thing to do, considering that Aedan is Irish and I’ve only ever met him once before. But that meeting was sweeter and more fun and hotter than a hundred with other men, wasn’t it? And if you’ve met him once before, you’ve thought of him thousands of times since. He’s made a bed in your mind and every time you close your eyes you see him, naked, ready to pounce on you, ready to take you.
My body is a traitor. Even now, lust grips me, even when Dad’s been shot, even when all I should be thinking about is whether or not he’s going to be okay. What’s the matter with me? I wonder, as I find myself tracing Aedan’s arms.
Sebastian and Joseph jog back into the alleyway. Aedan stands up to his full height, dusting his hands off on his jeans, as though this is a settled matter now that they’re back.
“There were no bodies,” Sebastian said.
“What the fuck?” Aedan says. “That’s not possible.”
“You Peter Pan motherfucker!” Tony roars, pulling out his gun. He takes a step back, aiming it, and then gestures with the barrel. “Boys, show this Peter Pan motherfucker what happens to men who hurt our don.”
“Ask Bruno,” Aedan says, his voice calm, as though there’s not a gun pointed at his head. “Call up Bruno and ask him. It was only a flesh wound. He’ll be able to tell you the truth. Or, better still, go find the security.” He tilts his head as sirens fill the air. “Or wait for the police to come and arrest me, and then wait for them to let me go when it’s proven I only killed three men in self-defense.”
“Talk pretty fancy for an Irish Peter Pan fuck, don’t you?”
All of them lay into Aedan, Tony leading the attack by battering Aedan with the hilt of his gun. The only person who doesn’t get involved is Michael, who stands off to one side, looking uncertainly at the mess of blood and tangled limbs. I flinch, jump back, and watch in horror as Aedan is battered here and there, his eyebrow splitting, his cheek bruising, blood pouring tear-like down his cheeks. I gasp and scream and yelp as Aedan is thrown all around the alleyway. Finally, he collapses, and they start kicking him, over and over, the sound so sickening I feel bile rise in my throat.
He shot Dad, I think. He must have. But then…oh, look at them! He’s not even fighting back and look at them!
I try and fight the urge, try and tell myself that he’s just a man I don’t know and I owe him nothing, try and tell myself I don’t give a damn about him, not one single damn, but the sound of his grunts, quiet and reserved, are too much to handle.
Clenching my fists and wondering at myself, I take a step forward. “Stop!” My voice cuts through the air.
At once, the men stop, taking a collective step back, Tony chuckling meanly from deep in his throat. Aedan presses his fist against the concrete and pushes himself to his feet, bleeding from a dozen cuts. He stands up straight, squinting at the men, body thrumming with rage. He could take them, I think, as he watches them with
his dark eyes. If he wanted to, he could take them. Looking at him, you can’t doubt it. He looks like a lion staring down a group of cubs.
“This man shot your father,” Tony sneers. I’ve always hated Tony. What kind of asshole wears three gold chains? “Why the hell would we stop?”
“The sirens, for one thing,” I say. “And…” Inspirations strikes me. “Michael.”
The kind-faced man nods.
“Go and check the forest. Be quick.”
“There’s no need for that—” The panic in Joseph’s voice only serves to make me more confident.
Michael runs away, and for two or three minutes, the scene is frozen, Aedan lifting the fabric of his t-shirt and wiping down his face, the sirens getting louder in the air. Then, Michael returns. He glances at Joseph, shaking his head. “There’re dead men in the forest,” he says quietly.
I march up to Tony, hands shaking, and stare him straight in the eyes. “You’re a fucking animal,” I spit. “Get the hell out of here. Or stay, and let the police take you. But I’m taking Aedan home.”
“He’s an Irish—”
“Say one more word,” I tell him, lips trembling. I let them beat him. I just stood there and let it happen. I just stood by and watched like it was no big deal as the man who saved my father’s life was beat within an inch of his. “Please, Tony, say one more word.”
“Come on, man,” Joseph mutters, grabbing at Tony’s arm. “You don’t wanna fight with Ms. Russo. Don’t be an idiot.”
Tony holds my gaze and for a moment, I think he’s going to do something stupid, but then he stuffs his gun into his waistband and nods.
“Let’s go, fellas. Do you need a ride?”
“Um…” Good point, I think.
“I’ll get us a car,” Aedan says, and then spits a blob of blood onto the floor.
“That works,” I say.
Tony shakes his head, and then the men leave the alleyway.
I go to Aedan. Without giving any thought to what I’m going—to the ramifications of standing up for an Irishman in front of a group of Italians—I put my arm around him and help him out of the alleyway.
As he limps, he takes his cell from his pocket and holds it to his ear, sorting the car for us.
When he’s done, he mutters: “It’s good to see you, Livia.”
I swallow. You, too, I think but don’t say.
Chapter Ten
Livia
If Mom saw me now, she’d empty an entire Italian dictionary of expletives right onto my head, I think.
I’m sitting in my bathroom with Aedan, on the edge of the tub as he sits on the edge of the toilet seat, dripping blood onto my tiles. I wring the sponge into the tub, wash it with warm water, and then gently scrub at his face. He winces every so often, but he never complains. Soon, the dried blood on his face is gone, leaving only the myriad cuts and bruises, patching over him like Frankenstein’s monster.
Neither of us has said anything since Aedan’s Irish friend dropped us off at my apartment. I just took him in here and starting tending to him as though it was the most natural thing in the world. It’s strange, stranger than strange, but I don’t feel self-conscious around him like I do around other men. All my life, my sheltered upbringing has made me nervous, standoffish, all-too-aware that there’s a wealth of experience out there other women have access to, but which I do not. But now, in this moment at least, I am at ease—or, almost at ease—or…Let’s face it, Livia. You don’t know what you are, do you? Let’s get down to the truth.
I know one thing for sure, though. Despite the blood and the cuts, Aedan looks hot as hell. And I’m thankful to him, as well, since his story was clearly true and he saved Dad’s life.
After I’ve wrung the sponge out the last time and cleared the crimson water down the plughole, I say: “Why didn’t you fight back, Aedan?”
He smiles with bloody, cracked lips. “And kill your dad’s men, after I just saved his life? Nah, and anyway, in this life you take beatings every now and then. It’s no big thing.”
“It was horrible,” I whisper, wondering if I’m saying too much, revealing too much about myself. He can’t know I give a damn, I think. He can’t know I care! “They just went at you.”
He looks me in the eyes and I wonder what it’d be like to have him look me in the eyes as we’re writhing, bouncing, losing ourselves in each other. I wonder what it’d be like to grip those shoulders and look deep into those eyes as he emptied himself inside of me. Stop it. He’s an Irishman; the Irish killed Luca. But now, Aedan saved Dad. Doesn’t that balance the scales? Dammit!
“That’s the life.” He shrugs. “You got any whisky?”
“Um, maybe.”
We go into the living room. Aedan drops onto the couch and leans his head back, clicking his neck from side to side, and rolling his shoulders. I go into the kitchen and find a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“No whisky, I’m afraid,” I say, pouring the wine, all the time wondering why the hell I’ve brought him back, and all the time knowing it’s because of those arms, that belly, his carefree attitude, his hitman capability, and because there’s just something about him I can’t help but be drawn to.
“That’s alright,” he says, sipping his wine. He cocks his head at me, grinning. “This is a seventy five, if I’m not mistaken,” he says, and then winks.
I giggle, can’t help but giggle. He just had the shit kicked out of him and he’s making jokes. “You have no clue, do you?”
“None at all. Does that make a classy lady like you despise me?”
“A little,” I say, blaming the wine for the way my body grows warm at the sight of him, all battered and bruised and looking dangerous and like he needs somewhere to care for him at the same time. “There’s blood in your beard,” I note. “I couldn’t get it out.”
“Not the first time,” he says casually, “and it won’t be the last.”
“Do you really think you could’ve taken them?” I ask. “If there was nothing to hold you back?”
“I have a feeling you want me to say yes,” he replies, lust dancing in his eyes. “I have a feeling you’d get something out of that.”
“Well—don’t,” I snap, not meaning to, but unable to stop myself. My feelings toward Aedan are a pendulum swinging between clit-tingling desire and fist-squeezing repulsion, always between the two, knowing that I should despise him on principal, but unable to stop the attraction in reality.
He shrugs. “Okay.”
“How are you always so relaxed?” I demand. “You never seem to care about anything.”
“Oh, I care,” he says. “Just don’t see the point in crying about it, is all; it’s just a beatin’. I’ve given my fair share, I’ve taken my fair share, and it won’t be the last time, anyway. That’s just the life.”
“I think it’s a front,” I say, and then take a long, hot sip of wine. “I think it’s all just a front and really you’re a scared little boy.”
He flinches, and then looks hard at me. So hard I feel like his hands are on me, like my dreams have become real and he’s touching me, stroking me. His eyes roam down to my legs, bare in my dress, and up to my chest, and then linger on my face. Wherever his eyes settle, a steamy feeling follows, a feeling like I want his cock instead of his gaze. I swallow, refill my wine, and do everything I can not to look him in the eye, lest he see what I’m feeling.
“Maybe it is,” he says. “Maybe not. I don’t know. I don’t tend to spend too long thinking about myself like that, wondering at it. I just get on with it.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say. “And I don’t trust you. I don’t think I could ever trust you.”
Aedan looks at me silently for a long time. I hold his gaze, but then he just keeps staring and it becomes too much.
“I don’t believe you,” he counters. “You trusted me when I said it was the Mexicans, not me, who shot Bruno, didn’t you? You trusted me enough to send another man to check on it. You trust me enou
gh to have me alone in your apartment. You trusted me enough to help you, drunk, up to your apartment. It seems to me, Livia, you trust me a damn sight more than you want to admit to. Maybe a damn sight more than you can believe.”
“What, are you a psychologist now?” I snap.
“No, not usually. But I find I understand you easier than most women.”
I jump to my feet without meaning to, spilling wine over the rim of the glass onto the floor. Anger, confusion, resentment that this man presumes to know me, resentment because he’s closer to the mark than I’d like—emotions whirl through me. How can this man have such an effect on me? How!
“You don’t know anything about me,” I say, staring daggers down at him. He just looks back up at me calmly, which annoys me even more. “You don’t,” I insist. “We’re strangers, Aedan, complete strangers, and saying you know me is nothing more than a stupid lie.”