by Gina LaManna
Harold was the doorman who’d worked for Carlos since the beginning of time. Though Harold had Italian bloodlines, he’d been imported directly from England. And while most of the guards and staff were forbidden to interact with the children, extended family (including myself), and guests, Harold always had a kind word or a sweet candy. It said a lot about him, the fact that he’d won over the hearts of these two rascals.
Anthony didn’t answer the question, but he unholstered the gun at his side.
He looked at me, up and down, but there was not an ounce of sexual desire in his glance. It was pure business. “No gun?” he asked.
“Ahhh, nope.” I shook my head.
He made a noise like a growl. Anthony gestured for the girls to stay back.
Their eyes bulging, I wondered if they’d be scarred for life after one babysitting experience with me. Just one more sign of my inability to carry on a normal life.
“Stay back.” Anthony prowled forward. I followed.
“Did you hear me?” His words were quiet and menacing. I nodded.
He crept forward, his gun out. I heard the click, signifying his safety was off.
Once he took a few more steps forward, I gestured for the girls to stay back. Then, I set off to follow Anthony.
We slipped through the grand entrance, which under most circumstances was beautiful. The stained glass window had been created and painted by some of the artists responsible for the upkeep of the Vatican. Or maybe the entire window had been stolen from the Vatican itself – I always mixed up the stories.
A rug the size of a football end zone, which had been imported from the royal family of Dubai, lay at the foot of a regal red staircase, lush and majestic. The carpet muffled our steps, though Anthony’s bionic hearing must have picked up the sound of my breathing. He paused in front of the massive staircase and looked back, his gaze part-questioning, part-infuriated.
I chose to address the questioning part and whispered, “You asked if I heard you, not if I listened to you.”
There seemed to be a moment of intense internal debate before he strode over, grabbed my arm and pulled me towards him. Again, I think I was the only one here wishing that this was a sexy moment instead of a scary one.
We crept forward side by side. The fancy dining room was empty, the chandelier glinting eerily in the sunlight. One of the numerous sitting rooms – the one that reminded me of an old timey speakeasy – was also empty.
There was a muffled noise somewhere above our heads.
“The ballroom?” I whispered, looking up.
Anthony gave one nod. The second floor housed a ballroom grand enough to host the Oscars. It wasn’t used often, but when it was, it could be expected that the event would be the party of the year. It was large and carpeted, a built-in bar along one wall and a stage at the front.
We hustled up the stairs, taking care to tread lightly.
When we were only a few turns away from the entrance, Anthony reached for me and gripped my waist. This time his hands were lower than what would normally be considered professional, and his eyes showed the slightest break in his tough guy exterior.
“Can I convince you to stay back?” he asked.
I felt like I’d run many, many miles, my breath coming in short bursts. I shook my head, and when I spoke my breath sounded like a gasp. “No.”
He leaned forward and took my mouth with his, kissing me so hard that my body tingled from head to toe and many delicious places in between. One of my legs might have even wrapped around the back of him, I really can’t be sure. All I knew was that the tenseness of the situation and the fear of the moment evaporated as he held me close.
When he broke away, my body was definitely in hyperventilate mode.
“How about now?” he asked. “Please?”
“Good try,” I took a deep breath, “but you’ll have to do better than that.”
Anthony gritted his teeth and looked somewhere above my head. “Mmm...hmm.” But he let the subject drop and took silent strides forward. My steps weren’t quite as silent.
“I’m trying,” I hissed, at one of his judgmental glances at my feet.
A familiar woman’s voice floated out from the ballroom, but her words were unintelligible from this distance.
“Wait, is that Nora?” I asked, resting a hand on Anthony’s arm. “Don’t shoot my grandma.”
“I know how to do my job,” Anthony said. But he didn’t seem to be taking any chances. Creeping forward, together we exchanged one final nod before wheeling around the corner and through the open doors of the ballroom.
We burst inside – me staring wild-eyed and prepared to run away, Anthony sweeping the room with his gun and looking every bit a cornered terrorist ready to mow down anyone in his path. It was a good thing he didn’t shoot however, since there was no visible threat.
“Dude.” A man, who looked like a slightly dirtier, hipster version of Jesus, stood at the front of the ballroom. He was on stage, and slowly raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Peace and love, brother, not war.”
“Who is this man?” Anthony asked the ragtag group of Luzzi family members scattered about the room. He didn’t drop his gun from pointing at the stranger’s face.
I took the moment to glance around and take stock: Nora stood onstage, next to Jesus. Her brother Butch, a man who whistled more than an Italian soccer referee, mostly due to a shocking lack of teeth, sat on the floor next to Jesus. His legs were crossed like a yogi, and he perched on a bright pink mat with his shoes off, eyes closed.
Carlos, dressed in a full suit, stood off to the side. His wardrobe was entirely custom made and cut from the finest Italian cloth. Far from the most physically intimidating man in the room, the way in which he carried himself demanded respect and screamed authority, all while topped with black hair beginning to gray, George Clooney style.
His arms were crossed, and he looked utterly frightening. His expression was one of complete disgust, and I had the sneaking suspicion that the Jesus imitator on stage had something to do with his blatant unhappiness.
“Don’t put down your weapon,” Carlos said, a slight drawl to his voice and zero urgency. “Go ahead and shoot him.”
“I’m not sure he means that,” I said, reaching for Anthony’s arm again. “Everyone here looks fine. Nobody’s armed.”
There was a long moment when Anthony looked around, torn between taking orders from his boss and doing what seemed right.
“Carlos, what did I tell you about shooting people?” Nora roared. “Anthony, please put your gun away. I’m glad you and Lacey made it.”
“Uh, made it to what?” I asked.
I surveyed the rest of the Family members in attendance. Harold, the non-aging butler, sat on a lime green yoga mat, his suit and white hair still perfectly intact. He had a very passive, non-judgmental expression plastered on his face, probably perfected from the hundreds of years spent pretending he knew nothing about the comings and goings in the fortress in which he worked.
Butch’s flight attendant lady friend, Layla, sat cross-legged on a royal blue mat, her eyes closed, badly dyed orange hair twisted into dreads, looking like she was the Dalai Lama reincarnated – I envied both her blissful expression and her obliviousness to the odd circumstances.
There were a few guards scattered about whom I recognized. They stood uncomfortably near the back of the room, not quite making eye contact with Anthony. With a pained expression, Anthony slowly lowered his gun.
A huge commotion erupted from the doorway behind Anthony and me. Whipping around in surprise, I felt a moment of panic, lessened slightly by Anthony pulling me close to his side. It took less than a second for him to raise his gun and aim it at the intruders.
Or rather, surprise guests. They weren’t exactly intruders, since the figure in the door was Clay. My cousin raised his hands and asked, “Why are there guns pointed at me?”
Anthony again lowered his gun.
A thunk announced Meg’s
approach, as she skidded around the corner and crashed into Clay. Both of them tumbled to the floor.
“What’d I miss? Those girlies at the front door – Mary and Clarena – said something was wrong.” Meg smiled and lumbered to her feet, cracking her knuckles. “I’m here to bust some balls.”
“Hey, Meg. Welcome to the party.” I gave a sort of shrug. “I’m not sure what’s going on, to be honest, but no ball-busting is necessary.”
“Ah, bummer. Oooh, yoga mats! I love me some yoga mats.” Meg marched right into the ballroom and began a quick scan of all the colors available.
Nora clapped her hands. “And just in time, too. I called an emergency family meeting, so nobody’s going anywhere for exactly sixty minutes. Got it?”
We all did a kind of shrug and half nod, not sure what we were agreeing to.
“Anthony, please feel free to shoot anyone who leaves early.” Nora’s grandmotherly smile was at direct odds with her rather vicious threat. I guess years of living with Carlos had given her an edge in her old age. I shot Anthony a look. It was a cross between what’s happening here and please don’t shoot anyone.
“No promises,” Anthony muttered.
My grandmother nodded at Anthony. Her large, thick glasses made her blue eyes appear extra shiny and wide, and her fire-engine red hair matched her lipstick du jour. Thick gold necklaces fell on her chest just above a loose, flowy tank top and tight, black yoga pants. Her feet were bare, and her coral toenails looked the same color as her blush-stained cheeks. “To be clear Anthony, that includes Carlos.” Carlos seemed to be chewing on something, and I had the distinct impression it was his own cheek in order to keep from screaming.
Nora cleared her throat and smiled sweeter than a jar of fresh honey. “The emergency is just that. A life-threatening emergency. Now, we all love Carlos very much, don’t we?”
There were a few grumbles and sort-of nods once more. The chances that anyone here had ever experienced an event like this were next to zero; emotions were a hundred percent taboo in our Family. They ranked right up there with other seriously taboo topics, such as Russians and pasta sauce from a can.
“Very good.” Auntie Nora smiled. “So, as you all know, Dr. Gambino stopped by today to administer everyone’s yearly physical. He said a few of you haven’t been diligent with your yearly checkups, so we’ll be following up on that later.”
She peered over her glasses, and I had the impression she was focusing on Anthony and myself. Oops. I must have missed that memo. (That was a lie – I’d gotten the memo that all of the Family members should complete their yearly required physical, but I hated blood, so I’d accidentally moved it into my trash).
“Anyway, Carlos’s blood pressure is on the high side. Dr. Gambino said that we should work on lowering his stress levels and eating less salt. And because we all love Carlos very much, I thought we could work on it as a group. The doc says that working on any sort of diet and exercise program is easier as a group.”
Nora moved towards Jesus. “That’s why I’ve invited Ira Bliss here for weekly yoga sessions, starting today. Everyone on-site at the time of each retreat is required to attend. This is a group effort, and I’m sure it will help everyone.”
“No wonder all the guards rushed towards their shacks and lookouts,” I murmured to Anthony. “They’re hiding from her.” Anthony didn’t look at me, but I got the impression he was wishing he’d done the same.
“This is an emergency?” Clay whispered. “I rushed over here in the middle of important business for yoga?”
“I love yoga,” Meg said, and clapped her hands. “This sounds fun.”
“Why are you even here?” I asked. “I mean, no offense, but we normally don’t notify you of Family emergencies.”
“None taken. I’m German anyways, so I don’t expect a note from you Italian folk. Except today I stopped by Happy Donuts and got a jumbo bag of the stuff. There was like fifteen donuts in there, so I had about six too many. I stopped by your place since I know you’re always good for a few.” She elbowed Clay. “But you weren’t there, so this guy let me in, and when the call came I just decided to tag along.”
“Did you bring the donuts?” I asked.
“Did you want them to be stale?” she retorted. “Of course not. I ate them. I wasn’t gonna let them go to waste.”
“Ahh, understandable.” I turned to Clay. “Hey, listen. Not to be rude, but you and I don’t have time for this. We have to do some research on that phone number, stat. With Carlos having to do yoga, his mood is gonna be worse than ever. I need to have something to report back to him.”
“That was the important business I was talking about,” Clay murmured back. “I found your guy. He’s—”
“Now, now, enough chatter,” Ira called from the front of the room. “Find your mat. Choose a color that really speaks to you. The color of your aura.”
Since I had no idea what color my aura would be – except maybe a little blue right now, since I was a bit sad over the lack of donuts – I chose a navy one. Meg plopped next to me on an orange one, which was about right. It was loud, proud, and unashamed.
Clay turned a shade of red as he laid a lilac purple mat down on my other side. Anthony was very slow to move, but he finally did under Nora’s intense stare.
“Give me that,” Anthony snapped at one of his guards. There was only one black mat in the place, and it was under the butt of Federico, one of the newer guards. Federico handed the mat over reluctantly, and took his place on a flaming yellow mat next to it.
Anthony took a spot right behind me, the farthest back in the room. I was suddenly self-conscious. Had the sugar bomb I’d eaten this morning gone straight to my thighs? Maybe yoga and healthier eating was a good thing. Then I’d be able to do my downward dog proudly, knowing I didn’t have a lumpy butt.
“I see you dressed for this occasion,” Meg said. “I wish I’d known beforehand.”
“I always wear this,” I said, pointing to my yoga pants.
“Yeah, but I can’t always see your boobs,” she pointed out.
I looked down and groaned. My black bra was still extremely visible beneath my slowly drying tank top.
“Can I borrow your vest?” I asked.
“No. I ain’t got nothin’ on underneath,” Meg said.
I winced. Her camouflage vest had enough pockets to house a few mice, some chocolate, ninety sets of house keys and four large apples. It draped just above her butt and was sleeveless, leaving me with a bit of confusion as to why she wouldn’t be wearing anything underneath.
Ira gave a short welcome, most of the introduction time used to spew out his titles. The letters after his name blurred together like a random spoonful of alphabet soup. He concluded by telling us our minds would be opened and our thoughts would change from the beginning of the class to the end. I sincerely hoped he was right. Mostly because the only thought going through my mind right now was who would be the first to pass gas during class – and I didn’t mind that thought changing.
“Now, we’ll start our practice. Today’s session can be tailored to match anyone’s needs, and the last thing I want is for anyone to feel uncomfortable. Should you become tired at any time, this pose...” Ira lay flat on his back and closed his eyes. I was pretty sure he was demonstrating the pose. The only other option was that this was a case of extreme narcolepsy.
“This pose,” he finally continued, “is acceptable should you need to rest at any time. Don’t overstress your body.”
Carlos, as far to the left side of the room as possible, saw his moment. He lay down on his navy blue yoga mat in the same position, still as a corpse. I had the distinct feeling he wouldn’t be moving for the rest of class. But who knew, maybe “dead guy pose” would still be beneficial? It at least meant that he would have to work on controlling his breathing and not yelling at anyone. Maybe he’d even take a nap.
“Yeah, right,” Clay said. “This will only make Carlos die of cardiac arrest. His blo
od pressure will shoot through the roof.”
“Yep,” I agreed.
I looked behind me and saw Anthony sitting uncomfortably, looking attentively at his nails.
“Now, we’ll gently start breathing. Take long inhalations, in and out...” Ira sat cross-legged on his mat.
Nora took breaths so deep and loud it sounded like a helium tank had sprung a huge leak.
“Clay,” I whispered. “What’s with that phone number?”
Clay opened his mouth, but was interrupted by Ira.
“Let’s stand and move into warrior one.”
We all stood and poked our arms out.
“His name is Kim Cho.” Clay pinwheeled his arms, struggling for balance.
“Is he tied to the mob at all – Italian or otherwise? What’s his story?” I asked, as we moved into downward dog. All of us except for Carlos, who lay deep-breathing on his mat, still flat on his back, his eyes clamped shut.
My face turned red as the blood rushed in that direction. I chanced a peek through my legs, and became suddenly self-conscious. Anthony was sitting on his mat and staring straight at my rear end.
“You like the view, slacker?” I hissed at him, feeling like my head was about to pop off at any second from the pressure.
Ever so slightly, his cheek twitched as if a smile was fighting to get out. But he didn’t once take his eyes from my butt. To my left came a loud riiiiiip.
“’Scuse me,” Meg said. “That was a friggin’ stinker.”
A stinker? It was as if I’d been bombed by a nuclear rotten egg machine. I tucked my nose inside my shirt. It seemed hard for Clay to speak through the fumes. “He lives...cough, cough...Kim Cho lives in Maplewood.” Maplewood was suburbia, about fifteen minutes outside of St. Paul, an easy drive along I-94.
“What is he doing there?” I asked.
“Cough, cough...ahem. He owns properties. Rental properties. I think—”
Clay stopped talking as I felt two hands grip my waist from behind. I could see this type of situation happening in the privacy of one’s bedroom, but in public it just felt weird.
“Really push backwards with your heels,” Ira’s soothing voice coached. “Push.”