by Nova Rain
“Whatever you have with this guy is doomed to end in tears.”
I didn’t wish to believe it at the time. How could I do that to my savior? In my eyes, he was more than an angel. I didn’t tell him, but he was more like a God to me: my own, imposing, demanding God who could smite anyone who tried to hurt me. However, it was he who shattered the world that we had built for each other. It was he that wrecked our relationship.
Things take a turn for the worse on my flight home. After more than two hours of reminiscing about him, the plane lands in JFK, but just then, the song that plays from the speakers makes me want to smash the window and jump out. It’s Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead Or Alive,” the ballad he played for me on that beach in Sands Point. It may not be a love song, but it doesn’t matter. The things he did for me that night were loud and clear. Each and every one of them said “I love you,”: the bonfire, the guitar, the amazing sex he gave me later in his apartment… It’s unbelievable to think that the man who orchestrated all that, and the man who participated in a bloody truck heist, are actually the same person. But then again, this is who Joe Mancini is: a devil and an angel in the same body.
Daylight is beginning to fade as I reach Brooklyn on that crisp, October night. I can’t wait to get to my apartment, take a shower, and get some rest. Nevertheless, by doing so, I will torture myself even more. I’m well aware that more memories will pour through my mind the minute I set foot in there. And that bastard made sure to give me plenty of those, starting with the night of our first date. So, I stop by Ava’s house, eager to discuss the fate of my relationship with her.
Spotting me on the curb outside her property, she strolls across her pathway, welcoming me with her usual, sweet smile. Yet, I don’t have the heart to return that smile. I drag my feet, feeling my knees weaken with every step I take.
“Hey, girl,” Ava chirps. “Let me guess. Vermont?”
“Vermont?” I squint up at her.
“Yeah, you and your boy went away on a romantic vacation,” she explains. “I’ve been trying to reach you, but my phone calls went straight to voicemail. I figured you didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“I wish,” I sigh, heading for her house alongside her. “I was out of the state. I need a drink. Bad.”
“That can’t be good,” Ava presumes, gesturing me towards the table on her porch. “Gin with a twist?”
“Tequila,” My blunt request causes her to stare at me, surprise written all over her face.
“I’ll kill him,” she states, disappearing into her home. I seat myself, the view of her large lawn offering me a sense of calmness. I envy her, not just because she makes a lot of money, but also because she’s got the stomach to do what most women can’t, and actually enjoy it. Ava’s job doesn’t bother her one bit. She’s a master at male psychology, and can wrap men around her finger without even breaking a sweat.
“Start talking,” She urges, setting a tray of glasses and a bottle of tequila down on the table.
“I take it you’ve read about that armored truck heist down in Dallas,” I assume, curling my fingers around my glass.
“Yeah, it’s all over the internet,” Ava admits, taking up her seat beside me. “Why?”
“It was Joe,” I announce, shaking my head in disappointment. “Joe and his buddies robbed that truck.”
“Holy cow!” she exclaims, her brows shooting up. “They did that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I confirm, raising my glass up to my lips. The powerful beverage slides down my tongue, the image of the dead people on the street coming back into my mind. “I suspected they were up to something big when he said we were going down there, but that was just insane. Of course, he wouldn’t tell me what it was. I heard about it on TV.”
“It was gutsy if you ask me,” Ava shares her opinion, sipping some tequila. “I mean, they went halfway through the country to steal from a casino. Not a lot of people have the heart to even think of doing that.”
“The theft didn’t bother me,” I point out, interlocking my fingers over my stomach. “I bet Joe’s done that hundreds of times in the past. They killed those men, Ava. Why in the world did they do that?”
“I don’t know, but I think they did the world a favor,” she claims, trailing her index finger around her glass. “I just read a report on those two. The driver was a widower. He was accused for the murder of his wife, but the police were never able to find her body. He was sentenced to twelve years in prison for attempting to murder his neighbor. That prick was out in four, because his employer got him a reduced sentence. The other guy was even more fascinating. He’d been charged with assault six times, but was only convicted once. Back in 2014, he ran over his cousin. The judge gave him eight years, but he too got out in three.”
“Joe tried to rationalize it. He, uh…” I draw in a sharp breath, tequila wetting my friend’s lips once more. “He said they shot them because they couldn’t leave any witnesses. He also said that he stole all that money so we could leave the country. But I couldn’t stay with someone who shoots people in cold blood. I dumped him, right then and there.”
Ava’s beverage flies out of her nostrils at the end of my sentence, droplets landing over the table.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Ava poses a question, furrowing her brow, her widened eyes locked with mine.
“You heard me,” I add, my tone calm. “I can’t be with someone with no regard for human life.”
“Forget what I said about killing him,” she states, her voice dropping an octave. “I’ll kill you instead.”
“What?” I squeak, my face twisting into an expression of surprise and confusion.
“Well, the guy put his ass on the line for you. Again,” Ava speaks in sarcastic tones. “This time, he took it a little further. He stole twenty-five million bucks and shot a couple of lowlifes, so that they couldn’t connect him to the heist. And instead of thanking him, you break his heart. Congratulations,” she gives four, sarcastic slaps. “You’ve just won the ‘Girlfriend of The Year’ award.”
“I can’t believe you’re defending him,” I confess, glaring up at her.
“Me neither,” she mutters under her breath. “I never liked the idea of you dating him, you know that. But you’re wrong here, honey: very wrong.”
“So, I should have…” I pause, “...given him a hug and forgotten what he did? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No,” Ava disagrees. “I’m saying you should cherish what he did for the rest of your life. Jesus, Michelle. He’s done everything he can to keep you safe, and you’re complaining because he got rid of a couple of thugs? I mean, what else does he have to do to prove his love for you?”
“Thanks for the drink,” I tell her, rising from my seat. “Don’t bother calling me a cab. I’ll walk.”
I turn on my heels and stride off, unable to believe what I’ve just heard. My dear friend, the person who told me the truth about Joe, someone who hated seeing us together, is actually sticking up for him. I can’t stand being close to her, not now anyway. I need to collect my thoughts, without any interference from Ava, Helena, or any other friend of mine. Maybe some time to myself will help me determine whether I made the right decision or not.
Chapter Eighty
Joe
Four days have passed since the heist, and I still can’t wrap my head around what happened between Michelle and me. I feel like someone’s stabbed me in the back, and the wound is still gaping. That someone is none other than the posh barista who stole my heart first, and then crushed it, why? Well, she’s the only one who can answer that question. She tried to, back in Dallas, but she didn’t make any sense.
I’m up in the Catskills, splitting my time between gazing out at the mountain peaks, staring at the fire in my fireplace, and shedding tears for her. Those two things got a whole new meaning while she and I were together. Somehow, they felt different, as if she’d touched them with her magic wand and made them more beautiful than they really are
. Now that she’s gone, and I’m struggling to see that beauty, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t. I guess she took it with her when she walked out of my life.
Something else has been puzzling me since my return from Dallas. My cut from that heist was over six million bucks. Six. Million. Bucks. I’ve got what I wanted. More money than I can spend. If I had it about a month ago, my first move would be visiting a Ferrari dealership. I’d spend an hour or two driving around in their most expensive models, and then buy my absolute favorite: A 458 Italia. It’d cost me more than three hundred grand, but I’d pay even more to own that magnificent machine. Still, my breakup with Michelle has made that dream feel trivial and childish. My heart is in pieces. A supercar can’t heal it. There’s just one remedy, one cure that will put it back together and bring it back to life. Still, that remedy is more than a hundred miles away, the victim of her own stubbornness and one of the things I admired about her: her humanity. I didn’t respect it back in Highland Park, and now, I’m paying the price.
After I’ve chopped down a balsam fir tree, I chop the trunk into smaller logs. Winter is just around the corner. I’d rather do this now, while the slope is still free of snow. I carry the wood up the hill, feeling the strain in my muscles. Seconds before I reach my cabin though, my cell phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text message from Jimmy.
“I did what you asked. I’ve been monitoring him for a couple of days. Bryan told me what you’re looking for. I’m sending a video segment. Take care.”
Another buzz later, an image pops up on the screen. It’s Eric, sitting at his desk, and an old man sitting in the chair to his left. I press the “play” button, wondering what that kid’s been able to pull off this time.
“Mr. Santone, I’ve had that will in my possession for almost two months. I’m afraid I cannot delay this any further. I’m notifying Ms. Garner. She needs to be made aware of this.” The old man’s words remind me of the information that Decker had given me outside Michelle’s bar.
“One of Eric’s maids sent the will out to his contract dealer by mistake.”
“You’ll do nothing, Tyler. Unless you want your wife to find out you’ve been banging your secretary. Besides, I’ll take care of her pretty soon,” Santone rebuts with a smirk.
“Please understand, Mr. Santone. I’m required to notify her by law,” Duncan insists, leaning forward.
“You’re not worried about the law when your distributors sell my meth. Why are you worried now?” Santone asks, reaching into the box of cigars on his right. “You grew a conscience all of a sudden?”
The few seconds of this video give me an answer on a question that’s been puzzling me for a while. Okay, Thomas Santone’s will did reach his son’s contract dealer, Ben Tyler, but that didn’t sound like a real problem for Eric. He could have had him whacked and made it all go away. Yet, he couldn’t really, because he’d been using Tyler’s network of distributors to sell his drugs. Without it, he’d have to build a new network from scratch, and that would take years.
There’s one more thing, even more important than the reason why Eric hadn’t had that man executed. This video is solid proof of his intention to take out Michelle. I can take it to his fellow Dons now. They will decide on his fate. Of course, I can’t be sure if they will act on it or not, but they’re supposed to. A little voice inside is begging me to stay out of this. I’ve suffered for her, I’ve bled for her, and all I got was rejection and heartache. I’m not in her life anymore, so why should I bother? But then, a louder voice silences the first one, urging me to intervene. Sitting on my hands will mean that every single thing I did for Michelle will have been for nothing. Sooner or later, Santone will have her killed. I also think that putting an end to this will help me heal faster. So, I call Don Maltese, eager to meet with him.
“Hello?”
“Don Maltese, Joe Mancini here.”
“You’re about the last person I expected to hear from. What do you want?” The anger in his tone isn’t a good sign, but I can’t back down now.
“There’s something you need to know. I can’t talk about it over the phone. Can we meet?”
“You’ve got balls, Giuseppe, I’ll give you that. But tell me,” he pauses. “Why should I sit down with someone who blew up one of my finest men?”
“I did what?” I ask, surprise sending my voice up an octave.
“Don’t deny it, kid. We both know how much you wanted to kill him,” he says, calmness returning in his tone.
“I can explain everything. And believe me, Decker wasn’t one of your finest men. He worked for Santone on the side. I’ll prove this to you if you give me a chance,” I state, my heartbeat escalating.
“What the fuck did you just say?!” he yells, forcing me to pull my cell phone away from my ear.
“It’s true,” I insist. “Your boy Decker had sold you out.”
“You’d better not be fucking with me, boy. Times Square, ‘Carmella’s,’ eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”
The Don’s angry. Huge surprise… Not. Of course he’d be mad at me. I took out what he thought was a valuable asset. I’d love to see the look in his eyes when he learns the truth about one of his lieutenants.
Hours later, that thought hasn’t left my mind. I welcome the distraction. It keeps the pain from my breakup with Michelle away. I know it won’t last, but it’s a lot better than remembering that dawn in that motel room. She and I had made quite a few memories, but that outburst has been dominating my thoughts. Recalling all that anger, that disappointment, and that agony in her eyes, is just pure torture. For once, I have to believe that time will help me heal. I need to believe that memories will fade. It’s one of the few things that keep me sane, for now at least.
I arrive at ‘Carmella’s’ café twenty minutes early, and sweep the buzzing hall for Peter Maltese. It’s weird, but he’s already there. The tall, graying man with the receding hairline is waving at me from the lower left corner. And surprises of surprises, six men in black suits are at the tables around him. Dons are so predictable. They don’t go anywhere without their security detail.
“Have a seat,” he requests, pointing at the chair across from him.
“Evening, sir,” I tip my head down in a polite gesture, pulling the chair from the table.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Maltese tightens his voice, leaning forward. “You threw a serious allegation this morning.”
“Yes, I did,” I admit with a nod. “My boss recently found out that his father had left a will. He only gets five percent of Thomas’s fortune. The rest goes to a Michelle Garner, Thomas’s illegitimate daughter with his maid. Deck…”
“So, it is true,” he interrupts, narrowing his eyes.
“What’s that?”
“The rumor,” Maltese goes on. “There’s been a rumor about Thomas leaving a will for a while now. I’ve just never bothered confirming it. You were saying something about that Garner girl.”
“Yeah, she works in a bar down the street where Decker blew up,” I explain, folding my arms across my chest. “He detonated a car behind mine up in North Haven to keep us off the streets until Decker planted that bomb in Michelle’s bar, but he failed. When I spotted him outside, he was carrying that thing. He told me everything about Santone’s plan. Would you have let him live if you were me?”
Maltese drops his gaze down to his feet. “No. I still don’t know why you interfered, though.”
“I had a thing with Michelle,” I confess, understanding that hiding the truth from him is pretty much useless. “You’re a reasonable man, Don Maltese. Will you let him go unpunished?”
“What are you asking of me, kid?” He wonders, his gaze shooting up to meet mine.
“To uphold your own rules,” I explain, intensifying my stare. “Santone is hell-bent on taking his flesh and blood out. And I know for a fact that the organization doesn’t condone this.”
“You’re right,” Maltese nods in agreement. “We don’t. But…” He f
alters. “This is too much, Giuseppe. No Don has ever gone after another Don, just to uphold that rule. War is bad for business.”
“No war,” I retort, pursing my lips. “I’m talking about just one man here.”
“You’re disappointing me,” He complains, his tone stiffer. “How do you think his family will take it if I have him killed? Eric may be a prick, but he’s still the head of the Santone family. Face it, kid. Murdering him will mean all-out war with them.”
“So, there’s nothing I can do about it?” I shrug, tension creeping into my voice.
“That’s not what I said,” Maltese claims. “You did the right thing by coming to me first. It shows honor. You’re nothing like that degenerate boss of yours. I can’t wait to see that bum die. There’s a fundraiser tomorrow night, down in Bellmore Hotel. Do you know where that is?”
“Yeah, it’s in Manhattan,” I reply, intrigued by his words. “Why?”
“I’m bringing in a group of Russian showgirls,” He announces, a wicked smile spreading across his face. “It’s no secret Eric likes to grope. He won’t do it in public. He’ll need someplace more private, like, let’s say, the roof.”
“Hmmm…” I hum, scratching my jaw. “I like that.”
“One last thing,” Maltese pitches his voice higher. “Do not shoot him. It will raise suspicion. Make it look like an accident. I’ll give you a call before he takes those girls up on the roof.”
“I will,” I assure, offering my hand as I rise from my seat. “Thank you, Don Maltese.”
“Don’t let me down, Giuseppe,” he urges, shaking my hand. “I’m counting on you.”
Making an accident happen on a two-hundred foot tall roof? Well, that’s not hard to figure out, is it? All I have to do is sit and wait for him to show me, for the millionth time, what kind of a perverted prick he is. Eric can never keep his hands to himself. I feel sorry for those girls, I really do. Still, it’s up to me to make sure that this is the last time he gets to grope anybody. After tomorrow night, Eric Santone and his crappy manners will be nothing more than a bad memory.
