by Paula Cox
“I couldn’t let you hurt her, Dad,” I say quietly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Livia smile. Just a little smile. A scared smile. But a smile all the same and at the moment that’s worth more to me than gold.
“Sweet, sweet, sweet,” Carlos sings, hopping from foot to foot. He’s so big, the tables around him tremble; a glass slides to the floor and shatters. “Tie them up and put them at the end of the line and make them watch. I want them to see what I am going to do to them, when it’s their turn.”
Five Mexicans seize us, pressing guns into our faces, into our chests. I hear Livia breathing desperately beside me, sucking in big mouthfuls. When we’re pushed to our knees and our arms are tied behind our backs, I glance at her. Her face is red and her lips are parted. Even now—even when the world’s gone crazy—I can’t help but feel a swelling in my chest when I look at her. The sight of her scared terrifies me, but it also reaffirms how much I care for her. I wouldn’t give a shit if she was scared if I didn’t care, after all. I can’t let them hurt her. I glance at Dad, a few heads down, and then back to Livia, and something strange happens. I choose Livia. Right now, I choose her. If it comes between saving Dad and saving Livia, well...
You evil boy! Mom cries. You scum!
No, I think. No, not now. Not this time. Livia can’t die. I won’t let that happen, ever. I’m sorry, Mom. But I choose her.
Mom keeps screaming in my head, but all it takes is one look at Livia and I forget about all that, forget about the pain and the self-loathing and the desire to please a dead woman. Dad doesn’t really love me; the realization hits me like a truck. He doesn’t and he never will. But Livia, maybe, over time... maybe she could feel something. And Bruno; I can’t kill him. I swallow, feeling like a changed man. I’ve picked a side.
Now it’s time to save her, I think.
The thing about tying a man’s hands behind his back is that most men are damned shit at it. A couple of loops of rope, and they think that’s enough. Anyway, it’s not like any mad bastard is going to try anything with twenty Mexicans in the room. I smile to myself, working the knots as Carlos paces up and down the line.
“You are a weak people,” he says, scowling and grinning, his mouth somehow capturing both in the same mad twist. “Very weak. I take your corners, take your stores, and you give me a few bodies in return. A few! How many of you people do I have to kill to get a real fight? How many of you do I have to kill to have a little fun?” Carlos darts down and grabs a man by the collar. It’s Mikey, one of the low-lever hitters, a twenty-year-old with a tuft of red hair and a tiny moustache on his upper lip. He squeals as Carlos heaves him up and carries him in one massive paw to a table. I work at the rope, widening my arms, tensing my muscles. Beside me, Livia lets out a little moan.
I’ll protect you.
Livia screams as Carlos casually blows Mikey’s head off, his brains and fragments of bone scattering across the room.
I work at the rope, again and again, thinking, You fucking Mexican bastards. Make my woman scream. You fucks. You won’t touch her. You won’t.
Carlos giggles, leans down, and scoops up a piece of Mikey’s brain, holding it up to the light and grinning at his friends. But even they look worried, freaked out that they’ve aligned themselves to this giant madman. He flings the brain across the room, and then walks up and down the line again, muttering under his breath, “Who shall I take? Oh, who shall I take? Who’s the lucky boy today?”
The Mexican’s don’t know that there’s a shotgun above the bar, hidden behind a false portion of wall. Smash the lever—the shotgun falls, already loaded. I strain at the rope. I’ve almost widened the loops enough now to slide my hands free. I just have to keep going, and then I’ll be able to make something happen. I feel a stab of guilt when I think about taking Livia to safety while Patty remains behind, but I’m the sort of man to stick to his choices once he’s made them. Most of the time, anyway. In any case, this is a goddamned choice I’m going to goddamned stand beside.
Then Carlos stops in front of Patty and all my resolve seems silly and small.
“You were the big man, weren’t you, Mr. Patty?” Carlos says. A few of his men laugh at that, the idea that this wiry clean-suited man could be any kind of big man too much for them. “The big man, Patty. The big scary Irishman. The man who leads New York. You come to Mexico, my friend, and I will show you big scary men. You look like the man who delivers my post.” Another round of laughter. Carlos grabs Patty by the scruff of the neck. “I will show you and your men what sort of hard man you are.”
“No!” Patty screams. With a shock, I realize he’s crying and his pants are stained with a big blooming puddle of piss.
Come on.
A few more seconds and the loops will be wide enough.
“The big strong leader man.”
Just a few more...
“The big scary Irish leprechaun man.”
Come on, come on, come on.
Finally, the loop is wide enough. I slip my hands from the ropes, but then everything happens very fast; it seems like time speeds up.
“The big boss man, the big Irish boss man, the Irish boss man, he-he-he.”
As I slide over the counter, Carlos places his gun against the side of Patty’s head and pulls the trigger. Blood showers everywhere and a piece of me dies, just goes and dies stone-dead inside of me, turns to a black husk of a thing. The part of me which has spent years now trying to gain Dad’s approval. If it were not for the Mexicans, and Livia, maybe I’d cry. Maybe I’d fall to my knees and cry as Patty falls like a boneless thing to the floor, his head a mess of matted crimson hair and disjointed and fragmented insides.
But I have to be the hitman, the man I’ve always been, the man Mom and Dad made me.
“What the—”
I smash the lever, the shotgun falls, and I go into kill mode. I don’t think. I just fire.
It’s a pump-action shotgun and I pump it so hard my forearm starts to burn. Spent shells fly into the air around me, landing at my feet in a big pile. The Mexicans start to fall and it’s like I’m not even inside my body. I feel numb, looking at Dad out of the corner of my eye as I gun down Mexican after Mexican. Soon, they have fled to the other side of the bar, ducking down near the door behind a booth.
“You fucks!” I roar. “You Mexican fucks! You Mexican fucking animals! Do you know who we are! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” With each word, I fire. One second, there are only a few bodies on the floor. The next, the floor is filled with dead Mexicans. They retreat near the door, crouching low, and then the shotgun runs out of shells.
Shit.
I slide over the bar, doing my best to ignore the thumping of my heart in my ears, and lean down and untie Livia as quickly as I can. “Untie everyone,” I whisper fiercely.
The Mexicans are poking their heads over the booths, but careful, because as far as they know I’ve got another gun hidden somewhere and they’ve never seen shooting like that, mayhem shooting, the sort of shooting you’re only capable of if you’ve spent your whole damn life gunning people down. I hear Carlos yelling as we untie everyone: “Somebody take a look. Somebody take a goddamn look. Somebody take a fucking look!”
Soon, everybody’s untied. But there’s a problem. Though the room is filled with the stench of death—and Patty’s there, among them, Dad’s right there, dead and cold like the Mexicans I’ve just killed, faceless from the bullet, faceless and bloody and dead—the remaining Mexicans, around eight or nine of them, are blocking the door, the only goddamn exit.
“To the backroom,” I say, not willing to think further ahead than that. I just need to get Livia to safety.
Without waiting for a response from any of the Irishmen, I grab Livia by the arm and lead her toward the back.
When we’re through the door, Carlos screams, sound oddly girlish: “Follow them! Follow those bastards! I want blood! I want their blood!”
Chapter Nineteen
Livia
My heart
is pounding so loud I barely hear the gunshots. I’ve been aware of the life since I was a girl, I’ve been an integral part of the operation, but to see it, to be there right in the middle of it, to have bullets cracking off all around me—that’s something else entirely. When Aedan shoves us all into the tiny backroom, with the crates and the refrigerator, I feel as though I am a million miles away. I barely feel anything. I realize tears are sliding down my cheeks. Come on, I tell myself. You’re a Russo. Don’t forget what that means. And then: Aedan saved me. Despite everything he saved me. And then: But it’s not over yet. Not even close to over.
Aedan grabs the refrigerator, yanks it from the socket, and drags it across the room. He shoves it against the wall and then grabs a crate, lifting it as though it weighs nothing—just like he lifted me, just like he lifted me when his hands were firm and hot all over my body, when his cock was hard and pressing against my clit, when lust erupted between us, oh, God, this is so fucking messed up—and drops it onto the refrigerator.
Outside, the Mexicans gather.
The room seems small with so many Irishman in here, all backed against the wall. They’re big, tough men, and I can’t help but feel a note of pride as they all look to Aedan for leadership. It’s absurd, considering what I learned about him only around twenty minutes ago, but it does make me proud. I shake my head, trying to calm myself. My emotions refuse to do as I say, hopping from pride to fear and—as ridiculous as it is—to lust, as though seeing Aedan dispatch a dozen Mexicans in the space of a few seconds turns me on. That’s messed up, I know, and yet my body doesn’t give a damn.
“Little pigs!” Carlos calls. “Little piggies! Come out! Come out! Don’t be shy! I don’t want to get huffing and puffing.”
“The man’s insane,” one of the Irishman says, a young kid wearing a green jersey. “He’s crazy. Did you see what he did? To Patty... he killed...”
“Don’t talk about that,” Aedan says. “It’s—just don’t.”
They all stare at Aedan with awe. “You’re the boss’s son, Aedan,” a large man says, with a thick mane of ginger hair which flows down to his shoulders. “All this time, you’ve been the boss’s son. And he’s dead. I’m sorry, man.”
“Focus,” Aedan snaps. “There will be time to cry our goddamn hearts out later.”
The man flinches, and then nods.
“Oh, little piggy pig piggies!” Carlos cries, giggling.
Aedan approaches me, places his hands on my shoulders. I want to push him away, tell him I don’t want anything to do with him. He was going to kill my father. I should despise him. I do despise him, I tell myself, but I know it’s a lie. I could never despise Aedan. But I should! As soon as he lays his hands upon my shoulders, I begin to calm down, as though his very touch is some kind of medicine. I find myself reaching up and laying my hand upon his, running my finger along his knuckles. His features are etched with pain. He glances at the door, as though glancing right through to the bar, where his father lies dead. It’s good that Patty’s dead, for the Italians—for me and Dad and Mom—and yet when I look into Aedan’s eyes, I feel his pain.
I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him on the forehead, still hating him a little, still wanting him a little, a cacophony of conflicting emotions all vying for attention within my chest, all jostling against each other, all desperate to be heard. Push him away! Hold him close! Hate him! Want him! Spit on him! Kiss him!
I stand back, and all of us in the backroom listen as Carlos goes on and on and on.
“I think I shall cut up the bastard son first, yes, yes, yes. I was going to leave him until last, but he has been a very naughty boy. I cannot stand naughty boys. They’re so... naughty. I am going to get a nice big machete and cut him into little pieces and feed the little pieces to lots of nice little animals and watch as they chew him into even littler pieces and I will laugh.”
Aedan winces.
“What are we going to do?” I whisper.
He stares back at me with wide, blank eyes. “I have no idea,” he says, voice cracking a little.
All at once, I wish we were back in my bedroom, my head resting on his chest, listening to his breathing. Why did we ever leave? I ask myself. Why didn’t we just stay there forever? I could’ve waited until he was asleep and then reached down and grabbed his cock and rubbed, just rubbed up and down until he became hard in my hand, and then when he woke I’d sit on him, right on him until he pushed deep inside of me and I came, over and over, all over his cock, fingernails digging into his chest. Fuck... that would’ve been perfect. But then I remind myself of what he was going to do, and conflict once again takes hold of me. He’s bad for me; he’s good for me. I hate him; I want him. Focus, woman!
“Piggies! Piggies! Piggies!”
“Do any of you have your guns?” Aedan asks, turning to the Irishman.
They all shake their heads. “The Mexicans took them,” one man says. “Goddamn them.”
“Should’ve looked under the bar for fresh shells,” Aedan muses. “But it doesn’t matter now.”
“I don’t like being kept waiting, my little precious babies!”
“I wish he’d shut up,” I growl, surprised by the anger and the fire in my voice.
It’s like the voice of a different woman. I realize the tears have dried on my cheeks and I’ve stopped shaking. My heartbeat, whilst not calm, is not as frantic and mad as it was a few minutes ago. Aedan calmed me, I think. Aedan really calmed me. But how is that possible when I hate him, when all I want is for him to get out of my life? He was going to kill Dad... but, but... I realize, right now standing here with Carlos’ voice ringing around us like the most annoying siren in the world, I do not understand how I feel about Aedan. Good or bad, my feelings dance out of my reach. I want to return to bed with him, go back in time and make it so none of this ever happened, and I want to shove him away.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and tell myself there are more important things to worry about right now, like the psychotic Mexican murderer just beyond the barricaded door.
When the first bullet thuds into the refrigerator, the entire room jumps. Aedan, seemingly without thinking twice, launches himself at me, dives on top of me and covers me with his body. I hug close to him.
“I can’t let anything happen to you,” he whispers, as another two bullets smash through the door and into the crate, sending bits of wood flying. Covering me with his massive, muscled body, he leads me to the other side of the room. “Ever.”
“We need to do something,” I say, when all of us are huddled in the corner, bullet after bullet smashing through the door.
“I know,” Aedan says. “But for the first fuckin’ time in my life, Livia, I have no damn clue what that something should be. Seriously, no damn clue.” He turns to the other hitmen. “Any ideas, fellas?”
For a moment, they look like kids in class who’ve been called on by the teacher, shrugging and looking at the ground.
I glance around the room, and then my eyes come to rest on a crate which has a few ketchup packets poking from the top.
I smile to myself, because it’s ridiculous, but then I remind myself that Carlos is mad and for madmen, ridiculous rarely means anything.
“I have an idea,” I say.
“What?” Aedan asks, and I can tell by his tone of voice he isn’t filled with hope.
Don’t doubt me, Aedan, I think. I may not be the run-and-gun type, but I’ve lived this life. Sure, maybe behind my Mont Blanc pen, maybe in ledgers and logistics, but I’ve still lived it.
I tell him my idea. Aedan’s face goes white, along with the other Irishmen, who turn in a moment from schoolboys to ghosts.
“No, Livia—”
“Let me try,” I say, “and be ready.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
He makes to put his hand on my shoulder. Suddenly angry, I bat it away. “You don’t tell me what to do,” I say. “You never tell me what to do. That’s gone; don’t forget what you were g
oing to do, Aedan.” At the wounded look on his face—the man’s father has just died, after all—I feel guilty. Again, I remind myself that emotions are rarely a one-lane affair. Instead, there are cars flying up and down a hundred lanes, all too fast for me to fully comprehend.
“Let me do this,” I say. “I mean, don’t stand in my way.” It’s not his place to let you do anything.
Aedan sighs, and then glances at the hitmen. “Be ready,” he says. “If she’s going to try this shit, be ready.”
The men nod, clenching their fists. Some of them go to the shelves and take down cutlery, knives and forks, and wield them as weapons. They look ridiculous when the men outside have heavy machine guns and shotguns, but a fork is better than nothing. I go to the crate with the ketchup packets, pierce a few, and then rub ketchup all over my neck. Who would’ve thought the sheltered Russo princess would one day massage ketchup into her light brown skin? I could almost laugh, if Carlos were not even now screaming and raving outside the door.