by Skyla Madi
Because I spot him, standing on the roof of the neighbouring apartment building, watching me through a pair of binoculars. My heart races. It slams into my stomach and I want to throw up. Stefan Valentino is but a speck I can’t decipher across the gap, but I know it’s him. Who else would it be? I inhale my coffee again, filling my lungs with its fumes, then lower the cup to the bench. What if he poisoned it? What if the Panadol I just took wasn’t Panadol at all?
“Shit.” I grab the coffee pot and move to the sink, pouring it all down the drain, the liquid in my mug too. When I’m done, I glance back to Valentino, only…he’s gone.
Games. This is all a part of the intimidation game that he likes to play. I’m certain of it.
Still shaken, I prepare another pot of coffee. Somewhere in the distance, my phone rings and I cringe. It’s barely seven. Perhaps I should have drank the coffee my hitman made. At least then I wouldn’t have to go to work today.
I move into the living room and sit down on my white leather couch. Mindlessly, I grab the remote and turn on the TV.
“…in other news, the streets grow dangerous as tensions flare between the Russos and the Morettis. Onlookers have claimed they saw mafia prince, Christiano Russo, and his associate, Tony Dellotto, enter St. James hospital, where girlfriend and respected doctor, Cammie Connors, works. Witnesses also told Eight News that they saw Christiano clenching his bloodied shoulder following a brawl on Sydney’s south side late last night.”
Ah, shit. I switch off the TV. The Russos and the Morettis have a lot of PR work to do if they want to keep mainstream media and the police off their backs. It’s funny though, what the beautiful news anchor called me. Respected. Respected doctor, Cammie Connors. I’m not respected. I’m feared. There’s a big difference.
Ding.
I lift myself off of the couch and saunter into the kitchen. Involuntarily, my stare flicks to the opposing building…but he’s not there. I guess I don’t expect him to be since the eerie feeling of being watched is no longer with me. Exhaling, I make my coffee and rest against the bench. In the living room, my phone rings again, but I ignore it. Can’t I have my coffee in peace?
It rings again. And again. And again. Until the incessant noise is enough to drag me over to it. Clenching my teeth, I stuff my hand into my handbag and free my phone, my organs twisting when I see Christiano’s name flash across my screen. He’s seen the news report, obviously. I can’t wait to answer the phone and see how this is all somehow my fault. I swipe the screen and put the phone to my ear.
“Good morning,” I say with false bravado as I saunter back into the kitchen.
He exhales in relief. “You’re all right.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?
In the background, something shatters. “Because those fuckers just blasted your name and place of work all over prime time news.”
I roll my eyes. Wouldn’t be the first time. Everyone knows who I am and where I work anyway. It’s not a freaking revelation.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him, sipping at my coffee. “I’m not.”
I’m dead anyway.
“Why aren’t you worried? I have enemies. Enemies that would love to destroy everything I care about.”
I pull a face. Christiano thinks he cares, but truth be told, he doesn’t know how to care about someone other than himself. It’s a Russo trait, apparently.
“I think you should move in with me.”
Panic zips down my spine and I almost drop my phone. “What?”
“Yeah. I’ll have Tony and a few of the men swing by to grab your shit and bring it to the house.”
“Uh…” No. Definitely not. I like my personal space. I like being on my own, away from the monsters that run every other aspect of my life. “I don’t think any of your girlfriends would like sharing a bed with your future wife. It’s a mood killer.”
“Non li rivedrò mai più. Solo te.”
“I won’t see them anymore. Only you.”
Would you look at that? My future husband is romantic. How nice of him to pause his endless line of whores just to convince me to move in with him. I shudder. How many women has he been with? Hundreds, easy. For me, he’s the only one I’ve been with in ten years. I’m not allowed to hook up with anyone else. I’m expected to be faithful to a man I’m not even dating in the hopes that one day, we’ll marry. In what civilised world does that even make sense?
“Qual è il problema, Cammie?”
What is the problem, Cammie? It’s simple. I don’t want to move in with him. I don’t want to marry him either, but my hands are tied. If I turn Christiano down, they’ll slice my throat and bleed me out in the street.
I stammer, setting my mug down. “There is no prob—”
“Then why haven’t you said yes? I thought you’d be excited.” His tone is malicious. It’s so aggressive it raises the hair on the back of my neck.
“I just…I don’t think I’m ready for—”
“Not ready? How much longer do I have to wait?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You never fucking know.” He falls silent and, for the briefest moment, hope ignites in my chest at the thought of him realising that he’s wasting his time with me. “Are you seeing someone else?” he demands, and another thing shatters through the earpiece.
Is he throwing things?
“No.”
“Tell me the truth!”
“I am telling you the truth. I’m not seeing anyone.” My voice cracks in fear, in panic. I think about all of my male friends and co-workers and how many of them Christiano will slaughter until he’s satisfied I’m telling the truth.
The line is quiet and I chew my thumbnail. What is he thinking? Is he going to come here and force me to move into the Russos’ manor? Or is he going to kick my door down and shoot me dead?
“I don’t need your permission,” he says, dead calm. “The only reason I’m not forcing this is because I don’t want us to start out on a slippery slope, understand?”
A slippery slope, huh? Everything about our relationship is a slippery slope—romantically or otherwise. “I need more time, Chris. That’s all.”
“I can buy you anything you want—houses, cars, jewellery, fucking elephants—and you want time? Time is a luxury none of us have, Cammie.”
I think I know that better than anybody.
He exhales, allowing it to turn into a long pause. “Time—Jesus—okay, fine. You can have time, just call me if you need me, all right? Or if you come to your senses.”
I grit my teeth. “All right.”
Christiano hangs up and I drop my phone against the counter with a heavy exhale.
What the hell am I going to do?
***
My phone doesn’t ring the whole day I’m at work. It’s kinda nice. Normally, I’m bombarded with missed calls from colleagues and the Russos, but I guess nobody needed me today. I stuff my hand into the pocket of my white coat and pull out a little orange bottle of Ritalin. I’ve only taken one today. I can’t remember the last time I’ve gotten through the day on a single pill. With less stimulant in my system, the Ambien I take before bed should put me to sleep quicker than it usually does.
It’s funny. I often preach to my patients about the dangers of over-dependency on drugs and look at me. I’m a fucking mess. My index finger twitches against the lid and the familiar itch of ‘just one more’ creeps up the back of my neck. I shake my head, stuffing the pills back into my pocket as I cross the hospital’s underground parking lot.
“No,” I mutter to myself, glancing down. “I’ll be up for hours otherwi—unh!”
My thoughts bail and I grunt as I’m shoved against the cold, hard metal of a nearby truck. My chin hits the metal and I wince as I splay my palms against the vehicle, warming it with the anxiety that leaks from my pores. The man, my six foot four brute of an attacker, pins me down, leaving me with no chance of escape. I whimper as my heart makes a daring and painful att
empt at escape from my throat and fails. I squeeze my eyes closed. Of course my life ends this way. Since meeting the Russos, was there ever a gentle alternative?
The man breathes hot and heavy in my ear as he pats me down.
“I’m not carrying any money.” I tell him, cringing at the obvious fear in my voice.
“I don’t want your money.” He bites out, grabbing the back of my neck.
Lifting my shoulders, I inhale and crinkle my nose as the musky smell of body odour tickles my nostrils. If he doesn’t want money then—oh. My eyes go wide. Is it him?
I expected Stefan Valentino to smell better. More like roses and less like Cognac.
He yanks at my pocket, taking my doctor’s access card, and I grit my teeth. I expected his hands to be rough and demanding, but I also imagined them to be skilful—less impatient gorilla and more curious lion.
Why I ever romanticised my hitman in the first place is beyond me…maybe I have gone mad. Either way, he isn’t what I thought he’d be.
“Cammie Connors,” he spits. “Christiano Russo’s whore.”
I grimace. I hate being called that. Alas, there’s no moving on from whore unless you become wife and, as sick as it sounds, I’d rather be seen as Chris’s whore than Chris’s wife. Whore means I still have a chance at leaving this life behind. Whereas wife…well…that’s the endgame.
Gripping my shoulders, Stefan spins me around and slams my back against the truck. I place my foot awkwardly and the thin heel of my Miu Miu black suede pump strains under the weight, threatening to snap. I open my eyes and take in the face of the obnoxious thug who presses his giant paws against my shoulders. He sneers at me, leaning in close with his ugly mug. His jaw is square, his eyebrows strong. I don’t think this man is Stefan Valentino at all. From what I’ve gathered so far, Valentino is clever and silent. He’d never attack me in a parking lot. No. He’d wait until I’m completely alone with no chance of interruption. Maybe while I’m in the bath…or asleep in my bed.
“What do you want?” I hate the way my voice shakes and cracks in fear.
“Last night, that Russo fucker killed my brother,” he growls, tightening his hold on me. “Shot him in the head in front of his wife and two small children.”
My heart stutters painfully and I open my mouth, only to gape like an idiot. Oh, those poor babies. My heart sinks as tears prickle in my eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I didn’t…I don’t know anything about—”
“Shut your mouth.” He tugs me forward and thrusts me back against the truck.
I hiss. “Moretti won’t be happy if you—”
“Franco Moretti doesn’t know what’s good for him. He’s scared of a war, but it’s the only way to cleanse the city of Russo scum.” The thug moves a hand to my hair and yanks my head to the side. “He’ll be mad until I bring him the head of Russo’s beloved princess.”
“I’m not—”
Pew! The sound of a bullet fired from a silencer.
A warm liquid splatters my face and the thug’s heavy hands fall away. Thud. He crashes to the hard ground.
Swiping at my face, I push off of the truck and glance around. Nothing. My lower lip trembles and I snag it between my teeth as I bend low, scoop up my access card, and step over the large body. What just happened? My stomach turns violently and I gasp as I dig desperately into the pocket of my coat for my car keys. Despite being around the Russos for such a long time, Christiano has always gone out of his way to ensure I don’t witness anything…violent. I’ve seen gunshot wounds, but I’ve never seen a bullet enter the flesh.
I think I’m going to puke.
I speed walk to my car. Is Stefan Valentino in this parking lot with me? Was he my saviour? I reach out for my door handle only to stop dead in my tracks when I hear it. Somewhere in the parking lot, a beautiful whistle…
I guess there’s my answer.
Chapter Three
I couldn’t contain my rage once the shock wore off. I locked myself in the car, and my phone automatically connected to Bluetooth. I spat out Christiano’s name, and my Mercedes put me right through. I’m not mad that he killed a man. Christiano has killed a hundred men, who they are makes no difference to me, but to involve children? To slaughter a father in front of his babies? That is something I cannot ignore. It’s something I’ll never condone.
The call connects.
“Cam! Baby!” He cheers, making my speakers crackle. In the background, music blasts and glasses chink against each other. He’s at Embargo. Where else would he be? “I knew you’d come around. When am I sending the boys to come get your things?”
“You shot a man in front of his children?” I ask, gripping my steering wheel in my hands.
I hear him scuffle and a woman curses. Somewhere, I hear one of his friends mutter about me having his balls in my purse. I rake my teeth over my lower lip as a door is clicked shut and I can no longer hear the background noise.
“How’d you hear about that?” His voice is firm and cold. Ice cold.
I swipe at my nose. “People talk, Chris.”
“Yeah, well, if they knew what’s good for them, they’d keep their mouths shut and their noses out of my business.”
Out of his business? I can’t even hate the man who ambushed me with malicious intent because Christiano murdered his brother. He’s dead on the floor a few cars down from where I sit and for what? Because he wanted revenge? Guilt is twisting my organs when it shouldn’t. The man who wanted to kill me deserves his revenge against Christiano. I mean, an eye for an eye, right?
“How could you?” My voice is a whisper I can’t stand.
I don’t want him to see how bad he’s hurt me. He can have his disputes with the Morettis, but to bring innocent children into the equation? They wouldn’t understand. They couldn’t possibly.
“Who told you?”
I’m crying now at the thought of their terrified faces as they cling to their father’s lifeless body. They’d be too terrified to sleep…they’d jump at every noise…and what can I do about it? Nothing. I’m going to have to marry this monster and I’m going to have to support him through every fucking disaster he creates. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just leave? Why am I so weak?
“I asked you a question,” he bites out, his teeth clashing together, sending my heart crashing into my ribs.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it fucking matters or I wouldn’t ask. Who told you?”
I drop my head against the steering wheel and a tear drips from my nose onto the vinyl resin. “His brother.”
“That bigfoot looking motherfucker came to you?”
I sit back. “Yes.”
“I’ll kill him.”
“Don’t waste your time,” I scoff and Chris tries to contest me. “He’s dead.”
He pauses. Shocked, obviously. “Dead?”
“I…I killed him.” I cringe at the lie as it comes out of my mouth. I’m not a liar, not really, but I don’t want him to know Stefan Valentino is after me. He’ll lock me up in a guarded basement somewhere to keep me safe. I’d rather die at the hands of my hitman than be even more deprived of my liberty by the Russos.
“You killed him? Jesus, Cammie.” He curses under his breath. “Are you all right?”
No. I’m not all right. “I’m fine.”
“Cazzate.” Bullshit. “I’m at the club on the corner of Queen and George. You know the one?”
“Yeah. I know the one, but I’m not coming there.”
“You shouldn’t be by yourself.”
“I’ll be fine,” I protest, knowing I’m safer on my own than I am with Christiano, especially at this time of night.
I can see it now. I can see exactly how the night will pan out. He’ll pretend to care. He’ll make me a shitty cup of coffee, one with too much water and not enough cream, and then he’ll sit with me on the couch, petting my hair in that gentle way he does when we’re alone together.
He’ll tell me none of this is my fault and promise that he’ll always be there to protect me, even when he’s not. Then he’ll kiss me, on the neck at first, before moving his way to the lobe of my ear. After spending a brief moment there, he’ll place kisses along my jaw and onto my lips. Then we’ll have mediocre sex and he’ll be asleep twenty minutes later. Meanwhile, I’m wide awake wondering what the fuck I’m doing with my life, which will push me to take more Ambien than I should just to get a good night’s sleep. Any of that scream “worth it” to you?
Didn’t think so.
“If you’re not coming here, then I’ll come to you.”
“No,” I snap, clenching the wheel in my shaking hands.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to see you.” I let the words fall from my lips without fear of consequence. Children. He murdered a father in front of his children. “You make me sick.”
To my surprise, the line disconnects. He hung up. Exhaling, I drop my head against the headrest. Oh, boy. I’m in trouble.
I inhale, dragging air in through my nose as I hit the start button and my car hums to life. I’d bet all of the money in my bank account that Christiano is heading to my place right now. I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the Ritalin. So much for one pill today and so much for an easy night’s sleep. I drop it onto my tongue, shut the pill bottle, and put it back in my coat.
“Ugh,” I groan as I swallow the pill and it sticks in my throat.
Reaching for my water bottle in my cup holder, I down the last mouthful and it washes the pill away. I toss the bottle over my shoulder with a sigh. Gripping the steering wheel, I glance at my hands. They tremble. I know I’m squeezing the wheel tightly, but it barely feels like I’m holding it at all. I need to get home. I need some Xanax to take the edge off. For me, Xanax completely eliminates the negative effects of the Ritalin. The trembling, shallow breathing, sensations of weakness, nervousness—gone. I’m relaxed without losing the burst of energy the Ritalin gives me. Some might argue that I’m a terrible doctor. I disagree. I’m a good doctor; I just have terrible ethics.