by Harper Riley
I park in front of the building, call up Pulse.
“I’m here.”
“3 am? Boss, you crazy.”
I laugh and hang up.
The whole building is dark and locked down, but that’s okay. My boys are coming.
A few minutes later, some black-hoodied boys are unlocking the door for me.
Then it’s to the elevator, to the Penthouse.
Pulse is splayed in the front desk chair, wearing a ridiculous little pink sun hat.
“Hiya, Gavy.”
He makes the chair do a little twirl, and the hat sails off his head and to the ground.
He grins at it.
“You won’t believe the kind of shit their desk bitch has: Cotton Candy scented Body Butter, Cotton Candy scented hand sanitizer, Cotton Candy scented pens – hell, she has Cotton Candy scented Kleenex. At this rate, I reckon the bitch must shit Cotton Candy.”
As if on cue, he sneezes into the slightly pink sheet he’s got in front of him.
“Think I’m allergic,” he says, rubbing his nose with a scowl.
I nod, staring at him, and he continues, “Yeah, right, the office. We didn’t touch anything, just like you said.”
He sweeps his arm in the direction of the paper-strewn hallway.
“Looks like shit, ‘cuz a few of their guys were still trying to clear stuff out when we got here. Don’t think they expected us so fast.”
He twirls his gun in his hands, then places it on the pink Kleenex box.
“We shot one of them, but had to put out the fires they’d started, so they got away.”
Rummaging through a desk, he pulls out a Lindor, “Chocolate?”
I shake my head.
“Where’s the main office – Torrie’s?”
Pulse shrugs, sweeps his hand out again.
“Fucked if I know. There’s some Clarence tool, an Anthony, a Roger, your friend Carlos even has his own place, but no Torrie. Looks like Torrie’s a teleworker.”
I scowl, though I’m hardly surprised.
This whole time, Torrie has always been one step ahead of us, so why would now be any different?
He probably suspected that one day we’d get ahold of this office.
“Which one is Carlos’?” I ask as I head down the hallway.
“The last one. The one across from the boardroom,” Pulse’s chocolate-filled mouth replies.
I follow his gaze and head there.
Of course, the one whose door has a stupid golden handle.
Inside is a disaster.
Charred bits of paper, a cracked picture of a woman’s bare legs, a bashed hollow of a computer screen. Even the fan is a one-shuttered sad sputtering piece of shit.
I smirk as I imagine the bastard twisting every which way here, trying to take all his things and destroy them and not piss his pants in fear all at once.
Something on his bashed-in desk catches my eye.
A facedown picture frame.
I pick it up.
It’s a family photo. A Piccolo family photo. They look like a regular old happy family: Papa Piccolo, Mama Piccolo, Carlos Piccolo and... a cut off somebody.
The longer I stare at it, the surer I am that the photo’s been cut.
The photo is lopsided in the frame, not centered. Hell, whoever cut it even left the mystery person’s hand in.
I stare at the hand, its delicate-looking fingers. Christ, if I didn’t know better I would swear that Torrie Piccolo was a...
“Hey Boss!”
It’s Pulse, standing in the doorway with a smile like he just found a full vault of Lindors.
“Check this out,” he says, spreading out a ripped, but still legible sheet of paper.
I stare at it, unable to accept just what it is I’m seeing.
“They didn’t...”
Pulse nods.
“You bet those dumb shits did! It’s a map! Of the whole place!”
He presses it to his chest, sighs in ecstasy.
“Aw, sweet Jesus.”
I walk over, take the map in my hands, spread it on the table and look at it.
It’s a complete, room-to-room breakdown of their property. From their family house to the compounds behind it, the Cleaning Supply Cupboard in Compound One to the Back Room in the Basement, this map has got everything.
The Piccolos just handed us a winning ticket.
This is pure gold. With Papa Piccolo knocking on death’s door, and this in our possession, we can’t lose.
I turn to Pulse.
“Have your guys comb over this place for anything else that might be useful, any clue about Hannah or the Piccolos. In the meantime, call up the guys from the other districts, let them know we’re going to meet in the club soon. It’s time to start planning our Piccolo takeout.”
Chapter 20 - Torrie
The meeting doesn’t start out so good. Probably because I didn’t know there was going to be a meeting at all.
“Where were you?” Carlos demands as soon as I’m through the door.
To be fair, I didn’t exactly expect that our regroup meeting would be in our luxurious showroom of a living room. Scroungy mafia leaders from across the city flopped on our taupe leather couches, looking irritably aware of just how out of place they look.
“Out,” is my answer to Carlos’ question as I walk into the kitchen.
There’s no point in expressing my shock that they’re here. Carlos probably mentioned it in one of the 15 messages he torpedoed into my phone over the last 24 hours.
I grab a chair from the kitchen and bring it into the room.
My arrival is met with a hostile silence: clearly my answer pleased no one.
I look around. Jane is nowhere to be seen, is probably locked in the basement or hiding there of her own accord. Hiding in the basement doesn’t sound so bad to me either right now.
“I was looking into new locations for our office, if you must know,” I say.
“And you thought that was more important than dealing with what was happening at our old one?” Carlos demands.
“If I had come and been seen, they would have put two and two together and killed me on the spot. Unless that’s what you wanted,” I shoot back.
That shuts Carlos right up.
He sits down, pawing at his wrapped-up arm self-consciously. Clearly Gavin must have hit him.
“The Rebel Saints not knowing my identity is the one advantage we have on them,” I continue, “And, now that they are ransacking our old office as we speak, we need all the advantages we can get.”
The grim reality of my words is reflected on the lieutenants’ drawn faces. Most look like they didn’t sleep a wink last night, a few look like they haven’t slept in weeks.
“And so – the new office – what did you find?” Roger demands, his gaze rolling around the room before stopping insistently on me.
“It’s not that simple,” I say, “Our father paid off that office building manager a couple of decades ago, when the laws were laxer and we weren’t as well known. Now, it’s a different story: the city has cracked down on gangs and the Piccolos aren’t exactly unknown anymore. We can’t just buy any old property without the city poking its nose in.”
“So?” Roger’s ever-bulging eyes demand.
I stare back at him and, suddenly, the answer comes to me.
“So, we’ll have to hold meetings here for now. It’s less than ideal, I’ll be the first to say that. But at least we’ll be well-guarded. The new second compound has better security, so maybe there.”
My response provokes uncertain grumbles amongst the men.
“It’s just for the time being,” I say.
Carlos nods, looking the most unenthused of all of them.
I consider calling him out in front of everyone. After all, he was the one who led the Rebel Saints straight to our office. But there’s no point. Carlos’ arm is bandaged and his eyes are bloodshot; clearly he’s suffered enough.
What I should focus o
n now is assessing the damage and rebuilding, not tearing this group apart.
“Any idea just what they got at our old office?” I ask.
Again, a hostile silence.
“We tried burning the papers,” Anthony protests, his curly brown head shaking with vehemence.
“What did they find?” I ask quietly.
“We don’t know,” Carlos says, standing up.
“What could they have found Carlos?” I ask, my eyes boring into him.
I cut myself out of that family picture in his office weeks ago, but who knows what other things he left around carelessly. Thanks to Carlos, I may have just seen Gavin for the last time ever.
“Maybe some accounting information, maybe some names,” he says.
He keeps his gaze on his wrapped-up arm, though both of us can see that what he said isn’t all.
“And...” I say.
“And a map of our property. The house, both of the compounds.”
The room breaks into an angry rumbling.
“Well, I guess that’s that for having meetings here,” I say.
Carlos still hasn’t sat down.
“Torrie, can I talk to you for a minute?”
He says it as he walks into the kitchen. I follow him and, leaning in, he says, “Papa wants to talk to you.”
I stare at him and he leans in, whispering, “He said it was urgent.”
I nod, trying to keep the worry off my face.
The men have already had their spirits stomped on, the last thing they need is more worry about Papa’s health.
I head for the stairs and stop in the doorway.
Is it just me or have the whispers died down?
I don’t move, don’t turn around to look at the men.
Why do I feel like the minute I walk out of this room their conversation is going to take a very different turn?
I continue on to the stairs.
Even if that’s the case, there’s nothing I can do. I have no one but myself, can do nothing but what I am doing.
When I’m halfway up the stairs, Maria Fernanda stops me, a cup of tea in hand.
“Just how he likes it,” she says with a sad smile.
I look into the opaque liquid, nod. Black tea, Papa’s favorite.
“Thanks.”
This tea will come in handy. If Papa’s message is as urgent as Carlos said, I’m going to need all the help I can get.
UPSTAIRS, I KNOCK ON the door only once before going in.
This time, there’s not a ghost in my father’s bed, there’s a skeleton.
A skeleton that doesn’t even try to smile when I come in.
It’s sitting stock-straight, with a hollow face seeming to sag under the weight of those giant black eyes.
“You know why I called for you,” it says.
I stare at it, at this skeleton who somehow has my father’s resonant melodious voice.
“No,” I say, “I don’t.”
I refuse to believe it. Believe that this creature is Papa.
I hadn’t been sure he had called me here at all. Part of me had figured this was a ploy by Carlos to get me out of the room.
“Well I did,” he says, letting out a song of a laugh that ends in coughs.
He coughs and coughs and coughs, until I lean over, say, “Papa are you alright?”
He holds out a hand, shakes his head, and, with a terrible grimace, clamps his mouth shut.
I hold out the tea, but he only shakes his head. I get up, put it on the dresser, then return.
After a minute, he lets out a raspy inhalation and exhalation, then turns to me.
“I’m going to die very soon Torrie,” he says gently.
I look away, to the cobra on his bedside table, then to the family photo that’s in front of it, the snake one snarl away from enveloping the thing.
“You’ve been gone nights, coming back late mornings. Carlos has told me,” he says.
I scan his face anxiously, my heart dropping with every word. It sounds like he knows, but how could he have found out?
He coughs again.
“Gavin Pierson just attacked our office. They say he has a new woman too.”
He says it lightly, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth, I keep my gaze away determinedly.
I can feel his black hawk gaze probing me, searching for any weakness, any sign to give me away.
I keep my gaze on the portrait, on the kinder version of my father who actually looks my father. I won’t look at this skeleton with my father’s voice, whose body is so see-through and hollow, that he can see right through me too.
“I know, Torrie,” he says.
Still I won’t look at him. I shake my head, say nothing. Refuse to look at him.
He hasn’t said it yet. As long as he doesn’t say it, he could “know” anything. There could still be hope.
“I know about you and Gavin Pierson,” he says, and my whole body crumples.
I collapse onto the edge of the bed, sit down, my gaze still on the family portrait, on Mama and Papa and Carlos and me, on happier times.
When Papa speaks, his voice is quiet, vehement:
“Torrie. Don’t make the same mistake I did. End it before it’s too late – before Gavin or Carlos finds out, before your men find out. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”
I look over.
My father has his head tilted back, showing the drooped tennis ball of his Adam’s apple. It shakes as he speaks.
“I have paid the price fully – don’t make the same mistake I did.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask the picture.
Bony fingers close around the frame, pick it up.
“I loved her, you know,” he says, “I really did love her.”
“Mother?” I say.
He shakes his head so hard he coughs from the effort.
“No. Muriel Pierson.”
I gape at him and he nods, says, “Gavin’s mother.”
My stomach wrenches at the inevitable conclusion, but he waves it away with his hand.
“I’m not his father, but I might as well have been. Muriel and I were meant to be from the start. I met her when I was young and stupid. I figured I had time. It was politics that made me marry Laurenz, then your mother. It was the smart thing to do. For Muriel, the situation was the same. We were tied into marriages, to people that weren’t right for us. I went to her as soon as I could.”
He drops the picture and it rolls down the bed, to me.
“But as soon as I could was too late.”
He addresses the facedown frame.
“Your mother always knew the truth, but could never bear to admit it. When I told her what I meant to do, that I was leaving her for Muriel, she cracked.”
I grasp the picture frame, my fingers pressing against the glass.
I want to crunch this thing in my hands, smash it to the wall, slam it into his face – the lie he told the world, told us – the lie that destroyed everything.
“Of course I’m sorry,” the lying skeleton says, waving his hand, “Of course I’d take it all back now if I could. If I’d known. In the aftermath, everything collapsed. Your mother. And then someone shot Muriel.”
There’s a tear streaming amidst the folds of his face, pausing at each, as if considering whether to continue on.
“They still don’t know who did it. They blamed our side, we blamed their side – she had told her husband she was leaving him, after all. Maybe we’ll never know.”
He wipes away the tear.
He exhales, though it sounds more like he’s choking.
“Anyways, that’s all over now, the getting involved with the Piersons.”
His black orbs slide to regard me.
“Or it should be.”
I say nothing. I have nothing to say to this stranger, this man who lied to me my whole life. This man who killed my mother.
“Torrie,” he says, reaching out his gnarled old hand.
I shrink b
ack, get off the bed.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Torrie,” he says, bony fingers grasping at air, “Please, you’ve got to listen to me. Your family needs you. Our empire needs you.”
I stand there, staring at the door, fearing leaving and yet not wanting to stay.
“I won’t tell Carlos,” he says, answering my one fear, “But you have to do what’s right. What you know is right.”
I take one last look at him – at this dishonest hypocrite who’s trying to counsel me about right and wrong, and I walk out of there without another word.
Outside, I sink onto a lush blue chair.
Papa’s last words were meant to clarify what I need to do. The problem is, I don’t know what’s right. I don’t know anything anymore.
At some point, I notice that I still have the family picture in my hands.
I WANDER INTO MY ROOM to find my only solace for the night. Gavin has texted me: Torrieght. Our place.
I take a nap with my phone under my pillow.
When I wake up, I take my time getting ready. I try on every skirt I have before I decide on the chiffon one, watching myself twirl with a little tremor of excitement. Choosing the top is an equally painstaking process: should I go for see-through or shiny? Crop or ruffle? Sleeveless or spaghetti strap? Each one I can imagine him taking me with, ripping off of me, peeling off of me, keeping on me, taking off and throwing back on and fucking me, over and over again.
I need to concentrate.
Why am I suddenly so concerned about what I wear? It never bothered me before.
Even doing my makeup is something of a battle. I throw on and scrub off about ten different variants of red lipstick before deciding that the one I choose had too strange a scent to actually wear. So, I settle on a red lip gloss that neither looks nor smells how I’d like, but that I’m resigned to nonetheless.
By the time I get to the eye makeup, I only have enough time to smear on a cat eye that turns out disastrously.
So, I remove it and try again, cursing myself as I go. I’ve never been this late before, what ever will he do to me? The possibility both frightens and excites me.
Even as I cab there, chat with the taxi cab driver about inanities, check my hair for the fifth time, the question repeats itself, a tantalizing refrain: