by Paula Cox
Today, Dad’s looking even more at ease than he did when I told him, last month. He sits at his desk with his fingers tucked into his belt loops, a calm expression on his face.
“Livia,” he says.
It annoys me, to be honest, how at ease he looks. Aedan was going to kill him and he behaves as though this is completely acceptable, run-of-the-mill behavior, as though every day someone is going to—Ah, I think, he’s the don of the Italian mafia. Of course he’s used to his life being threatened. But it’s like he doesn’t even take it seriously.
Aedan was going to kill you! I scream in my head. If Dad isn’t taking it seriously, that must mean it wasn’t serious to begin with. Dad didn’t get where he is by misjudging things like that. No, he must’ve seen something in Aedan, something which told him he could be trusted.
“I once told Aedan he reminded me of Luca,” Dad says, using his uncanny and freaky ability to read my thoughts just by looking at my face.
“Aedan’s nothing like Luca,” I mutter. Luca was a boy, a little boy who liked to read and lose himself in his imagination. “Luca never would’ve made it in the life, Dad,” I go on, quietly. “You know that as well as I do.”
“Oh, I know,” Dad says. “But Luca was not all he seemed upon first glance, and neither was—is—Aedan. You know that as well as I do, Livia.”
“Why are you talking to me about Aedan?” I say, resisting the urge to snap. Aedan...there couldn’t be a sorer subject of conversation for me right now.
“Because Aedan is an integral part of this.”
“What is ‘this’, Dad? You’re speaking to me in riddles.” I can’t hide the bitterness in my voice. Even now, sitting here with Dad, it’s like Aedan is dancing around the room, peeking over Dad’s shoulder, flashing his wicked grin at me, his dark eyes watching and glimmering with lust.
“The truce.”
I stifle a laugh. “The truce is broken. Italians and Irish are killing each other again. With Carlos dead, the Mexicans have gone back into their little sub-groups. The Spanish have been quiet, so once more we just have Italians and Irish painting the street with each other’s blood.” Maybe Aedan’s caught a stray bullet from an Italian. But I doubt that any Italian could take out Aedan; I was there at the bar, after all; I saw how swiftly he killed those Mexicans. Aedan might be the most dangerous man in the country, let alone just New York. “What truce are you speaking about, Dad?”
“You’re angry,” Dad notes.
“I’m angry!” I agree, thumping the table with my fist.
Dad flinches, sits up. “It’s good that you have this in you, Livia,” he says, “but you must learn to control it if you are going to broker a new truce for the family.”
It takes a moment for his words to register with me. When they do, I sit up straighter. “Will the men go for that?” I ask. A chance to lead. A promotion.
“The men will go for whatever I tell them to,” Dad says, his voice iron. “Anyway, you are smart, quick-witted, fiery, tough. There is no reason why you should not be the one to lead the meeting.”
“What meeting? When?”
“I have arranged a meeting with Mona Cooley—Patty’s widow—for tomorrow evening on neutral ground, the function hall of a hotel. There’ll be equal numbers of Italians and Irish there and, well, we’ll be surrounded by other function rooms, security, and the public, so nobody’s going to be so stupid that they’ll try anything.”
“Carlos would have,” I mutter. “Remember the golf course.”
“Well,” Dad says, with a fatherly smile, “Aedan took care of that for us, didn’t he?”
He did, I think, and he saved my life. With the perspective and the distance of a month, that suddenly seems more important than everything, and Dad’s attitude only goes to confirm that. And yet it’s never as cut-and-dry as all that. But I may never see Aedan again, I reflect, rendering all my inner conflict meaningless. Maybe he’s gone dark, really dark, so dark that he’s in Texas or Maine or somewhere even farther away.
“So you’ll speak with Mona?” Dad asks. “We can’t let these murders continue. You understand that, Livia. You always have. As do I. As does Aedan—and hopefully his mother-in-law. Despite what people think, this is a business, and in no business is killing profitable. Except war, I suppose,” Dad goes on, musing.
“I’ll speak with her,” I say. Maybe I’ll ask her where Aedan is. God, I want to see him, just once more. I won’t even do anything, just let me see him. But I know that’s a lie. If I went home tonight and he was there, I’d fuck him until his balls were empty.
But then, the thought always returns: He was going to kill Dad.
As I leave the office and return to my desk, I wish for the thousandth time that I could just feel one way, just one emotion, clear and true, but it’s always a mixture of multiple emotions, all smashing around inside of me, a big confusing mess. I chew on the end of my pen—sacrilege, but something I indulge in from time to time—and wonder if it’s like this for other women. Do they bounce between emotions as much as I do? Are they as gripped by uncertainty? Or are they like those cool, suit-wearing, action-hero women on TV shows who always know what they want and how to get it?
The only time I feel one-hundred percent is when I’m with Aedan, naked, and we’re ravishing each other.
That’s true, too true for comfort. When Aedan’s inside of me, when I’m riding him, when I’m moving my hands over his bulging muscles, I never feel uncertain. In those sweet moments, everything comes into focus. I turn into a different woman, one of those confident women, and Aedan isn’t Aedan anymore but my man.
Maybe, I think, turning to the ledger and a row of figures, he’ll reveal himself once the truce is made.
Uncertainty aside, I know one thing for sure: I want to see Aedan again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Livia
As the Irish spill into the conference room—an ordinary room which probably hosted a children’s birthday party not too long ago—I search the crowd for Aedan. I stand in a blue-black, dark, serious dress, the sort of dress which declares to the world that I am hard, I am a Russo, I am untouchable. But I can’t stop my eyes from flitting from red-headed Irishman to red-headed Irishman. Soon, all of the men are in, and there’s no Aedan in sight. The Italians at my side bristle. Tony mutters: “A room full of Peter-fucking-Pans.” I spin on him, snap, Shh, and he nods briskly. Dad, leaning against the wall in the corner, nods with pride.
Through the middle of the Irishmen, Mona walks. She’s a hard-faced, scared-looking woman, the sort of woman who has been beaten her entire life. I can see the Italian in her nose, the Greek in her cheeks, and the Irish in her sturdy build. Though she’s pregnant, she walks upright and shows no sign of weakness. I find myself immediately drawn to her, but even so I can’t help but wishing Aedan would reveal himself. Mona is dressed in a simple black dress of mourning, with no jewelry or adornment of any kind.
We meet in the center of the room, like two emissaries in the middle of a battlefield, and sit on the only chairs in the room around the only table in the room.
“Miss Russo,” Mona says, looking me in the eye. There is no rage there, no resentment; perhaps it’s because of her Italian blood. Or maybe she knows about me and Aedan. Maybe she doesn’t hate Aedan. Maybe she likes him. Or is that just wishful thinking? Oh, you’ve got Aedan on yours thoughts today, haven’t you?
I incline my head. “Mrs. Cooley.”
She lays her hand on her belly. “Did you know, my baby is going to be a girl,” she says.
“Uh... congratulations.” I didn’t expect her to speak in such a friendly way, as though we’re just gal pals going out for drinks, shooting the shit. I’m all too aware of the room filled with equal parts slicked-back-hair killers and ginger-hair killers.
Now, she inclines her head. “There are an awful lot of people in this room, aren’t there?” she says, glancing around with a rodent’s eyes. She was wife to Patty for over a decade. Thi
nk of all the horrors she’s had to put up with.
“There are,” I say, keeping my voice as professional as I can. “Shall we get down to business?”
“Business,” Mona mutters, furrowing her eyebrows. She leans in confidentially. “You know, Patty never shared with me a single fact about the business, Miss Russo.” She smiles, as though this is amusing, as though killers are not scattered all around us.
“Well...we are here to talk about a truce, Mrs. Cooley.”
“A truce sounds nice,” she says, nodding. “Very nice indeed.”
“We would have to discuss specifics,” I say, thinking about the binder of facts and figures which Michael holds behind me. “Corners, storefronts, shipping...”
“I can’t decide on what to name my daughter,” Mona says, cutting through my words despite her soft voice.
Is she mad? I think. And then: Of course she’s mad, if only a little mad. Who wouldn’t be mad after years married to Patty? Put somebody in a hyena’s cage for a decade and see if they come out sane and well-adjusted.
“I am sure whatever name you pick will be beautiful,” I say, the words sounding awkward on my ears. The situation is absurd. I see how embarrassed the Irish look, some of them shifting from foot to foot like they want to get out of here as quickly as possible. One man—I vaguely recognize him from the bar—even gives me a look which says, I know, I know, but don’t blame her, she’s just a scared woman.
Suddenly, Mona snaps her gaze to me and her lips spread into a smile. When she smiles, she looks like a different woman, naughty and playful instead of just beaten. She raises her voice: “You all know I have no interest in leading. I agreed to this meeting because I have Italian blood in me and because I detest violence, I have always detested violence, and I wanted to bring the two families together. But I have no interest in leading it!”
I turn in my chair as I hear the Italians begin to shift. “Quiet,” I mutter, and at once a silence falls over the room. Whether that’s because Dad stands in the corner or because I really am the leader now, I can’t afford to think about.
“What do you mean?” I ask, turning back to Mona.
“I have another leader,” she says, and now her eyes are twinkling like two little stars.
“Who?” My voice is faint, my heart pounding, my palms sweaty; my body knows, even if I don’t. Or my body hopes even if I dare not to.
“You all know my son-in-law!” Mona cries, waving her hand at the door.
I look over her shoulder, through the crowd of Irishman who part to either side of the room, and then I see him.
His beard is grown out, bushy and wild almost down to his chest, and his hair is messy. He wears a tight-fitting tuxedo, outlining every single one of his muscles, muscles which immediately send my thoughts into overdrive, even now, even here. I rise to my feet as he swaggers across the room, that old playful smile on his lips. The room is full of people, but he only has eyes for me. His gaze never leaves my face.
Finally, we’re standing opposite each other, so close I could reach out and touch him. Then he reaches out and touches me, takes my hand, leans down, and lays a kiss on my skin. “Miss Russo,” he says. He shifts in the suit, as though trapped in fabric he would never normally wear, and then gives me a sideways glance. “I hear we have some business to discuss. How about over dinner?”
“I...”
Dad leaps from the shadows. “Ladies and gents,” he says, staring down the room, “Aedan and my daughter are now going to retire to dinner. I assure you, before the night is through, there will be a truce between our people. No more killing, no more contested territory. For the time being...” He claps his hands together. At once, waiters holding trays of champagne, beer, and whisky fill the room, marching in like a procession of soldiers. “Let’s get to know each other a little better, yes? And maybe make some friendships which are stronger than bloodshed!”
Mona retreats, giving me another sly smile, and Aedan takes my hand and pulls me to a quiet corner of the room.
I squeeze his hand tightly, as though afraid he might drift into smoke at any moment.
It’s him, I think. It’s really him.
“Livia—”
I slap him across the face, once, twice, three times, until his cheeks are red. I punch him in the chest. And I slap him across the face again. He takes these strikes without flinching, and then cocks his cheeky grin at me. “Is that all?”
“I had to punish you,” I say, breathing heavily. “If I’m going to forgive you, I had to punish you.”
He shrugs, that easy-going expression on his face even now despite everything. “Fair enough, princess.”
I grab him by the suit jacket, pull myself close to him, and look up into his eyes. “We’re going to an Italian restaurant this time, Irish dog.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Livia
Aedan orders pizza and I order what Aedan calls “some obscure princess dish I’ve never heard of.” We sit in the corner booth of a high-class Italian restaurant, chandeliers and candles and paintings, but the surroundings turn to smoke as I look at Aedan; he’s the only thing that exists for me. This past month...thinking of him, dwelling on him, dreaming of him. Now he’s here, I can hardly contain my excitement. It bubbles up within me, urged on by the champagne. I’d never lose my head to a man—or so I tell myself—but being with Aedan now after such a long absence is a heady experience indeed.
“We need to get business out of the way,” I say, hefting the ledger I took from Michael before we left.
He nods. “Alright.”
As we eat our main course, drink our champagne and whisky, and order dessert, we sort out the specifics of business, the nitty-gritty which is going to be a large part of our life now that we’re leading our respective families. All the time, we steal glances at each other, secret moments interjected into the business proceedings. When all the numbers and records are done with, I can tell Aedan’s as glad as me.
I place the ledger in my handbag, lay my chin on my hands, and smile softly at him. “I hated you, Aedan,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “And I feel like the damn dog you’re always calling me. Over this past month, I’ve had a lot of time to think, about Patty, about Mom, about the whole twisted mess. Mona was what did it in the end—got me to really see Patty as the man he was, not the man I created in my mind. He was never a good man. Never, but I thought... I guess I thought it didn’t matter if he was a good man ’cause I’d let Mom down and I couldn’t let him down, too. Parents, they fuck you up, that’s the truth. Your parents can be the nastiest bastards who ever lived but a smile from them still means the goddamn world. Well—not anymore. I choose you, Livia, just like a chose you in the bar.” He grins at me, that cheeky-as-hell grin, that grin which hooked me in the first place. “So, have you been dreaming about me again?”
“No,” I lie. “I’ve barely thought about you.”
Except for every second of every day since we parted.
“Is that right?” He chuckles. “’Cause I’ve thought about you a lot, a damn lot, maybe more than is healthy for a man. I even...” He trails off. “Now I’m about to sound obsessed. I even came to your apartment once.”
“That was you!” I squeal, and then place my hand over my mouth as a dozen heads snap to me.
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you come and see me?” I ask.
“I thought you hated me,” Aedan says. “After the car...the alley...when you just left like that, I thought that was it.”
“I did, too,” I say, honestly. “I thought I could just forget about you. I was wrong.” I take a long sip of my champagne. “Dad’s missed you.”
“He has?”
“I think so, yes.”
“He’s a good man, better than Patty ever was.”
We stop talking for a while, just sipping our drinks and watching each other. I look within myself, search for any sign of that tortured uncertainty which follows me wherever I
go. When I search—and search and search, looking into the deep corners of my subconscious—and don’t find it, I gasp. There’s nothing there but the glow of the champagne and the hot flush of seeing Aedan again, a hot flush which turns my cheeks red, which makes my body feel hot and alive. I realize that for the past month I have been a zombie, barely feeling anything, and now that Aedan is here I can finally live again.
I’m about to say something to Aedan, something nice, something flirty, something which tells him I could never hold a grudge, when a drunken woman stumbles onto the scene. She’s glamorous despite her age and wobbles on pearl-white high heels as she braces her hands on the table. Her lips pull back over her teeth, and her fingernails bite into the wood of the table. I study her rings, look up her arm to her face.