Dirty Nights: Dark Mafia Romance

by Paula Cox

  “Did you know,” Patrick says one night, “Emily fucked the mob guy? Jude Kelly, or whatever the fuck his name is. Left me for dead and stayed at his place all night, fucking like a whore rabbit. Isn’t that right, Emily?”

  “We didn’t have sex,” I say quietly.

  “Huh?” Patrick snaps, trampling my words. “Don’t think you can start getting smart with me, little sister. I think you forget how much I do for you, sometimes. Do you have clothes on your back? Do you have somewhere to sleep? We’re orphans, but I didn’t let you suffer, did I? I took care of you, was a mom and a dad to you.”

  He really believes it, I think numbly.

  “You should be more grateful,” Barry agrees, leering at me over the rim of a glass of beer. Icy fingers move up my spine.

  “What sort of sister do I have, Barry, eh? Maybe she’s forgetting what business we’re in. Maybe she’s forgetting that when she spreads her legs and invites this Irish mafia fuck in, she’s not only betraying me as her brother, but she’s betraying our business. We’re always fighting with the Irish for territory, aren’t we?”

  He says this with unearned arrogance. The truth is, Patrick’s operation is about as grassroots as it gets. Him, Barry, and three or four of their friends, playing at being big time.

  I bite my tongue. Nothing good would come from me pointing out this inconvenient fact. My mind returns to Jude, how he looked asleep on the couch. I remember draping the blanket over him, the way he tugged it up to his chin with a sleepy smile on his face. I remember wanting to lie down next to him, feel the warmth of his body beside mine. On the nights where Barry and Patrick sit up, lying about me, I wish I was back there.

  One evening after a particularly hard day at the bakery—we were preparing a big order for a party, all whilst serving customers—I get into the apartment wanting nothing more than to crumple into a tired heap. When you’ve worked hard, sometimes all you can think about is your bed. Even a shower is out of the question. I just want to curl up in the covers, close my eyes, and let the peace of sleep take me. No stress, no problems, no whirring thoughts. Today I’m so tired I might even get to sleep without being hounded by Jude into my dreams.

  But as soon as I get into the apartment, I know that’s not going to be the case. Barry, alone, sits on the couch. He’s shirtless, showing a concave chest, the kind of thin that looks unhealthy. A white jagged scar runs down one side of his torso, probably received in some bar fight, though I’ve heard him lie and tell people he got it when tooling up five guys—all by himself. Bluster and blank-faced lies are standard routine when it comes to Patrick and his pals.

  “Where’s Patrick?” I ask, hovering near the entranceway. Patrick may be a horrible, evil man, but at least he’s the horrible, evil man I know. I can play him, somewhat. I can avoid the worst of him. Barry is like a stick of dynamite with the fuse lit, just waiting to go off.

  “Working.” Barry smiles, a sadistic grin. The laptop is in his lap and the sounds of pornography fill the room, moaning women and grunting men. His gaze flickers between me and the screen. It’s not my religion that makes me sick at this moment; it’s the idea that Barry is imagining me in the movie.

  “Right. I’m going to bed.” I wish I had a lock on my door. I say goodbye to guaranteed sleep and hello to a night spent worrying if Barry is going to do something Barry-like.

  I’m at my bedroom door when Barry calls out: “Patrick told me to keep an eye on you tonight. He’s going to be working late and he doesn’t want you sneaking off to be with the Irish fuck.”

  “I’m just going to sleep,” I say. “That’s all. I don’t have any other plans.”

  “Damn right you don’t. But you’re not going to sleep. Not yet. I have my orders.”

  He takes orders from Patrick. What a fool. But then, Patrick must have some level of competence if they take orders from him. Maybe he really does know the business. Maybe he’s becoming a real leader. These thoughts, in constant war with each other, are the norm when it comes to me and Patrick.

  “Barry . . .”

  “Ooh.” He sits bolt upright and grins sideways at me. “I love it when you say my name.”

  I feel as though a snake has just coiled around my neck. I try not to let the revulsion show on my face. “I’m tired. It was a long, long day.”

  “Tell me about it.” He pats the seat next to him. The woman in the movie bounces, bounces, and moans loudly.

  “Turn that off.”

  Barry slams the laptop and drops it on the floor.

  “I can’t let you out of my sight,” he says. “Seriously, Patrick’s orders. Why are you so scared of me, Emily? What do you think I’m going to do?”

  Assault me, abuse me, insult me, hurt me. I saw you leave a kid for dead for no reason at all.

  I shrug. I feel as though I am in a room with a lion, just waiting for the beast to twitch into violent action. I imagine Barry lunging across the room and grabbing me by the hair, dragging me to the couch and . . . And what? How far would he go without Patrick here to stop him? Patrick isn’t a good man, I know that, but at least he stops his friends from hurting me. Yes, I think bitterly. He leaves that for himself, doesn’t he?

  “Come on.” He groans, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms. Is he getting ready to beat me? I wonder. It’s not entirely out of the question. Crazed lions tend to be unpredictable.

  “There’s no exit to my room,” I say, keeping my voice as reasonable as I can. “If I stay in there and you watch the door, you’ll know I haven’t gone anywhere—”

  “Are you trying to trick me?” His voice is sharp.

  “What? No.” I take a step back as Barry climbs to his feet. “I’m trying to go to sleep.”

  “Hmm.” Barry strides across the room until he’s standing so close to me I can smell the drink and drugs on his breath, a sickening mixture that makes me want to clutch my belly. He displays his teeth, yellow and black from years of neglect. “Patrick told me to keep an eye on you.” He brings his forefinger to his eye and points at it melodramatically. “An eye on you. Not on the door. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, but—”

  His tone grows dark, low. “Don’t make me force you, Emily.”

  “Patrick would be furious if you hurt me,” I say.

  I hope that’s true.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Your brother is a curious character. And he has his mind on other things right now. Expanding our business. I don’t think he’d even notice. Anyway, tell me this, what’s a good little Christian doing spending her evenings pining after a psychopathic Irish mob hitman, eh? Make that clear to me. Let me see the light on that one!” He chuckles at his own not-really-a-joke. “What do you do, close the doors tight, close your eyes tighter, and then bring your hands down to your tight little—”

  “Barry!” I cry, unable to stop myself. “I am your boss’s sister. You will show me some respect.”

  My lips are trembling. My hands are trembling. My ribcage is trembling from where my heart butts against it heavily.

  He giggles. It’s strange to hear such a girlish noise from such a twisted, decayed mouth. “Okay, okay, okay, okay.” He dances across the room and drops onto the couch. “But let me tell you this. You better stay away from that mob fuck. We can’t have one of our women spreading her legs for every guy that passes by. What’s next? The mailman comes to deliver a letter and leaves with the taste of your cunt in his mouth?”

  I clench my fist. I would love nothing better than to punch him right across the face. But that would give him the excuse he needs, I remind myself. That would make it easy for him. I can hear him now, explaining it to Patrick: She came at me. What was I supposed to do?

  I unclench my fist.

  “I’m going to bed.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t try anything funny. And if you get really damn hot thinking of that Irish bastard, give the door a knock. I’ll come through and help you along.”

  “You know Patrick and
I are Irish-Scottish American, don’t you? So you might want to stop saying Irish f-word.”

  “Ha!” Barry slaps his knee. “Patrick doesn’t care about that. Patrick cares about two things, you stupid little girl. Money and power.”

  He has neither.

  Barry picks up the laptop, opens it, and resumes his movie. I retreat into the bedroom. It seems I’ve barely closed my eyes when I open them and it’s the deep of night, Patrick and Barry outside the door, drinking and laughing.

  “My sister fucked that guy!” Patrick laughs, but there’s bitterness in it. “Why would she do that? What the hell is wrong with her?”

  This is not fair, I think, burying my head in the pillow as Patrick and Barry get louder. Somebody stumbles; a glass smashes; Barry giggles. I never fucked him. He just went down on me. And let’s say I did fuck him, so what? I’m single. As far as I know, he’s single. It was just a bit of pleasure. For once, just a little bit of pleasure for me. But he can’t stand that, can he? Neither of them can stand the idea that I, the quiet scared girl, had a little bit of fun.

  I close my eyes and try to find a safe, warm place in which I can hide until sleep comes. The only image that achieves this is Jude, arms wrapped around me, kissing me on the forehead, the cheek, wherever his kisses land.

  Soon, the sound of Jude’s phantom breathing in my head is even louder than Barry and Patrick.

  I fall asleep, Jude on my mind.

  Chapter Seven

  Emily

  After around ten days, Barry and Patrick let up—a tiny bit. They still rag on me, make fun of me, accuse me, bully me, insult me, but far less frequently.

  I sink back into my normal routine, which is basically a coin with work on one side and the apartment on the other, interspersed here and there with attending underworld events with Patrick. Fights, clubs, deals. I never want to go, but I’m all too familiar with Patrick’s particular brand of persuasiveness and I have no desire to have it used on me. He hasn’t hit me in a few days and I count that as a victory.

  One night, I can’t sleep and as I lie there, listening to the sounds of the night and the far louder, far more annoying sounds of Barry and Patrick, I learn something about Barry.

  Patrick tells the story to another of his friends in hushed whispers when Barry’s in the bathroom. I know it’s true because Patrick sounds scared, a rare thing. Apparently, they were at a night club when Barry saw this woman he wanted. Instead of going over there and asking her to dance, for a drink, he swaggered over and shoved his hand up between her legs, under her skirt, and inside of her. The girl was furious, but not as furious as her fiancé. When the fiancé showed, Barry took out a knuckle-duster and beat the man to death. To death, I think, shivering despite the blankets. “It was crazy,” Patrick says, voice stunned. “Just crazy.”

  Lately, I’ve been falling asleep every night with the image of Jude in my mind. But tonight, I fall asleep watching Barry beat a man to death for no other reason than that man wanted to defend his fiancé. How is this my life? I ask myself. I work in a bakery. I keep to myself.

  I’m still asking myself that same question when I leave for work the next morning. Mrs. Montgomery gives me a smile and hands me my apron. Everybody at the bakery is nice to me; I think some of them suspect that my home life isn’t all roses and picnics.

  We’re about halfway through the day—serving customers, clearing tables, washing dishes, and of course baking—when Barry swaggers in. He pushes past a man and a woman, ignoring them when they protest, and claims a table in the corner. He drops down with a heavy thud and then lets out a laugh which has the whole place turning to him. He doesn’t care, just glares back.

  Not here, I think. Not now.

  Mrs. Montgomery is about to go around the counter and approach him. I touch her arm. “I’ll do it, Mrs. M.” I swallow, hating what I’m about to admit. “I know him.”

  “Oh, okay, dear.” Pity etches into Mrs. M’s features.

  I ignore it and approach Barry. He lolls in his chair, rocking back and forth. When his gaze snaps up to me, I know he’s on some sort of drugs. His eyes are shot with red and his lips are watery. “I was right!” he cries. “I knew you worked here!”

  There are around ten people in the bakery, sitting at tables or standing in line. Professional types, students, a man in a suit in the corner, typing at a laptop. I wave Barry quiet. The bakery is my safe place, the place I can get away from everything.

  He ignores my waving hand and gargles out a laugh. “I’ve been looking for you.” He grins up at me. “Isn’t that nice, Emily? I’ve been looking all over the place for you. Who would’ve thought my long journey would lead me here?” He rambles on for some time. I wait for him to finish and then step forward.

  “You can’t be here,” I say quietly, heart hammering in my ears. “This is my place of work, Barry. You can’t cause a scene here.” I sort through excuses. I can’t just tell him I hate him and he’s embarrassing me. I settle on one I think might work. “Patrick wouldn’t like it. Do you understand? He relies on this income for half the rent. He would be very angry if he found out-”

  “He doesn’t need your money.” Barry wipes sweat from his forehead and then suddenly sits up, resting his forearms on his knees. “He doesn’t need shit from you. You’re a wasted girl, Emily. The only man that’ll ever want you is me. So why don’t you start showing a little gratitude?”

  Gratitude? Gratitude for what, you psychopath?

  Before I can reply, he darts forward, grabs me by the waist, and pulls me into his lap. He moves quickly, far quicker than I ever would’ve given him credit for. I squirm, trying to get free, but he holds me close to him. With a real sense of horror, I realize that he’s hard. His stiff penis presses into me, and I try not to gag. Mrs. M calls over the counter, but nobody intervenes. I hear somebody say they’re calling the police. I keep squirming, but his grip is like iron on me.

  He whispers in my ear: “I’ve always wanted you, ever since you were a little girl. But of course you already knew that, didn’t you? And did you ever show me any love, Emily? Did you ever open yourself to me? No, you’re too laa-dee-daa do that, aren’t you? Well, here we go. Can you feel it? Can you feel how much I want you?”

  “Let go.” I rasp out a breath. “Please, just let me—”

  He moves so fast I don’t know what’s happened until it’s over.

  Afterward, when I’m standing with my back pressed against the counter, I go back in my mind and reconstruct it. Jude bursts into the bakery. He must’ve seen me by chance, or perhaps he’s had somebody keeping an eye on me. Whatever it is, he charges in, and as Barry whispers sickening words into my ear, he grabs the man’s head and slams it so hard against the table that the wood snaps.

  Now, Jude stands over him, chest heaving, fists clenched. Barry lies, unconscious, on the floor.

  Jude takes my hand and announces to the bakery: “Emily is mine now. She is under my protection. If anybody lays a hand on her, ever, they will pay.”

  He speaks with a killer’s calm. With a mob hitman’s calm.

  “Come on.”

  He doesn’t give me much of a choice as he leads me out of the bakery, down the street, and into his car. I know I should be tugging at his hand, telling him I don’t need protection, but the fact is, I’m happy to see him. Stunned, too. Only once when I’m sitting beside him as we drive through New York, I find my voice. “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Your place,” he answers.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause there’s no way in hell I’m leaving you with these pricks for another day. And you’ll need clothes.”

  “What if I don’t want to go with you?”

  “Do you?”

  I don’t answer. I can’t answer. The idea of being whisked away from Patrick has not occurred to me since I was very young and very naïve. Little girl Emily dreamt of it often, a knight in shining armor swooping down and saving me from my brother. But not lately. Somewhere
between childhood and adolescence I learnt a cold truth. There is no such thing as a hero.

  We climb up the stairs of my apartment building. I unlock the door and we go into the apartment. Luckily, Patrick is out.

  “Pack your things,” Jude says. His face is stern. His voice is steady and calm. “I’m getting you out of here.”

  A strange sensation comes over me, something between threatened and protected. I don’t think Jude would hurt me, but I don’t think he’d let me stay here, either. As I go around the apartment, stuffing clothes into a duffle bag, I glance at him. He’s wearing a black t-shirt, torn blue jeans, and boots. His tattoos are on full display and he watches me with a steady gaze. I don’t think anything could shake this man.

  When I’m packed, he takes my hand again. He doesn’t hurt me, but he holds me tight as he leads me down the stairs and back to his car.