Blood Bound

by Sasha Leone

  Luca wipes what’s left of his thinning, black hair from his forehead and nods to his father. He’s probably already been thoroughly chewed out in private—that discretion is only afforded to family members. Lowly non-Italians, like me, get to be publicly tarred and feathered.

  “What are our sources saying?” Gianni asks. His voice is low and gravelly, like the devil come to life.

  Luca hesitates before he starts. I tense in expectation of bad news. “There’s no word on Santino yet. But... But if he’s still in the city, we’ll find him. We have to.”

  Gianni’s scowl deepens. He stares at his son with nary an ounce of love in his expression. “IF he’s still in the city?” Gianni’s voice echoes around the vast oakwood lined office of his penthouse suite. Books on law and philosophy and war and peace line the great bookshelf behind the don. His big, black looming chair lifts him above everyone else in the room. Luca’s a large human being, but even he looks like a child next to his father.

  “We don’t know where he is...” Luca clarifies. I can almost feel the room start to shake. Gianni is good at controlling the full wrath of his anger, but even I fear he might break this time. There’s so much at stake.

  The old man’s balled-up fist slams against the varnished oakwood of his expansive desk. The documents and folders that surround him jump off the table, before collapsing back down into place in a huff. Even the war medals and hand grenades, which Gianni keeps on his desk to remind everyone that he can fight just as well as he can lead, stir in the commotion. I almost flinch—is Gianni crazy enough to have live grenades on his desk? I almost wouldn’t put it past him. The godfather is stronger than he looks, even after all these years. “We meet with the Russian’s in three days,” he reminds everyone present. “If we don’t have this situation with Santino figured out by then, everything falls apart. We can’t have that now, can we?” He’s not looking at me, but I can still feel his stare. As much as Luca fucked up, this is still my fault. I had a chance to put Santino in the ground last night, but I got distracted. I never get distracted... but that woman did something to me.

  A witch, I joke to myself. It isn’t a funny joke. I make a mental note to stop trying to make jokes.

  Gianni’s fiery gaze finds me again, and I stand up just a little straighter. If he hadn’t once saved me from a life of certain destitution and homelessness, I might have already tried to kill the man. I don’t like being in his debt, and I don’t like his lashings, but to turn on him now would be wrong. Loyalty is key to this whole criminal underworld that we occupy. Without loyalty, everything falls apart. Empire’s crumble, and the life I’ve managed to build for myself disappears into thin air.

  Still, as he stares at me with disappointed loathing, I can’t help but twitch my trigger finger. The least I can do is keep my hands in my pockets.

  Gianni knows as well as anybody that I’m not to be fucked with too badly. I’ve destroyed nearly everything that’s ever scared me, but, still, two things remain seemingly indestructible, and I’m sure he knows that he’s one of them.

  “Ronan,” he bellows.

  I step forward, tense as a trigger wire.

  “I’m making you personally responsible for Santino Costa.”

  That’s all he says. He doesn’t need to utter the threat behind his words. I’m not family, and I’m definitely not Italian. As useful as I am to him, I can be dealt with in a much harsher manner than most.

  I step back into my place and try my best to control the sneer desperately trying to take control of my face. I hate that I’ve been put in this spot. I hate that Gianni trusts me enough to risk my entire existence on something so important. I hate that I have no choice in the matter. I hate that I hate this all. I don’t hate my job, but I hate being told how to do it. It’s an internal conflict that’s made me the man I am today, for better or for worse. I have no life outside of the Barone family, and it’s of my own doing. How could I let anyone else control my life? Even if through avenues other than fear and intimidation... I have a hard-enough time letting one person pull my strings—two is more than I can handle, and I know that from experience.

  “Dismissed,” Gianni commands, and the room quickly empties. I don’t stick around to be glared at any longer. I’m one of the first soldiers out of the office.

  Before I can leave the Barone-owned building altogether, though, Luca tries to stop me—but he’s not his father. I don’t stop for him. I keep walking and let him catch up.

  “What’s the plan?” he asks, trying to fix his off-kilter tie.

  “You don’t need to worry about it,” I grumble. “I’m going to find Santino, and I’m going to kill him, then I’m going to bring his cold, dead body to the meeting with the Russians. Capiche?”

  Luca grins. “I love it when you Irishmen try to use Italian words.”

  I bite my tongue. I’m not in the mood for his air of superiority. I storm off; I know he can’t keep up, even if I am in a weakened state. “Hey, where are you going!?” he calls after me.

  I don’t need to tell him; I know all too well where I’m going: back to Baker street. It’s about time I go stalking. There’s no doubt in my mind that Santino’s left a trail behind him—he’s not smart enough not to have—and I’m going to follow his slime until I have my hands wrapped around his stringy neck.

  I tug at the sleeve of my new leather jacket. I’ve already burned the one I was shot in last night—it was only evidence, after all. The bulky bandage around my left arm feels like an anvil. I curse to myself as I hop in my black range rover and speed back to my place.

  Last night, I’d had a long scalding shower before being stitched up, but I can somehow still feel the stick of my blood along my skin. I’m so stupid. What the hell got into me? Santino had fallen right into my trap, but he caught me flat-footed.

  I take a sharp angry turn onto the highway and slam an open palm against my steering wheel. The vibration sends a shot of pain through my left arm. Fuck. And I thought I was in bad shape before. Now, I won’t even be able to hit the gym for at least a couple of weeks because of this injury. I’m lucky Santino’s bullet only pierced some muscle. Sure, I lost a lot of blood, but that’s better than losing my life... right?

  I take no solace in the fact that I’m still alive. The rubber of my wheels screech against the pavement as I fly into the underground parking lot of my loft.

  I fucked up so bad, and it was all her fault.

  I try to shake her image from my head, but those big, glistening brown eyes won’t leave me alone. I can still feel the hot touch of her soft fingers on my injured arm—it’s almost worse that the bullet hole. I don’t know exactly how long I’d been unconscious for, but it had been the heat flowing from that woman’s tender hand that had brought me back from the darkness. I don’t know if I should thank her or curse her. I feel like I’ve been branded.

  I slam the driver door and my car shakes enough for me to hear the clanging of metal in the backseat. Shit. I forgot to drop off the spoils from my trip to Alonzo’s at the Barone’s family safe. I quickly whip open my backdoor and lift up the black blanket I’m using to cover the jewelry that I stole from the dead man’s apartment. I don’t need the money, but you learn quickly enough that you always make a hit look like a robbery. If the police can excuse every murder that happens in this god-forsaken city on a robbery gone wrong, then everyone leaves happy. We don’t get any heat, and the pigs don’t have to come after us—we both know a fight between the two of us isn’t going to end well for anyone.

  I leave the loot hidden in my backseat. I don’t know if I could even carry it all upstairs if I wanted to. I curse myself again for letting that small detail slip from my mind—you always ‘deposit’ your loot into the Barone family ‘bank’; doing otherwise could be seen as a sign of disrespect.

  I’ll have to get to it eventually.

  I get in my personal elevator and smash the button for the top floor. I’m going straight to the armory. I have three days to
bring Santino’s head to Gianni, or else it will be my head. There’s no time to waste, even if I’m feeling weaker than ever. Last night, the Barone family’s physician had pumped me full of someone else’s blood, to make up for the pints I lost in my gunfight, and I don’t know if it was pig’s blood or what, but it doesn’t seem to be helping. I catch my reflection on the shiny golden walls of my elevator’s door—I look like a ghost. Fitting. I’m a dead man until I can get to Santino.

  The doors ding open and I step into the red-brick room. To an ignorant eye, this might look like any other ordinary room, but a single punch to the right brick sends a whole arsenal sliding out of the walls. Snipers, assault rifles, and all sorts of sharp pointy things present themselves to me. I have more weapons than I could ever need. I have so many, in fact, that I probably couldn’t even name them all. All I know for sure is that I could take on a small army from up in here. Hell, I once even had a bazooka when I was younger; it could still be here, for all I know. God, that was stupid... but also so much fun. I’ve since learned that fun is how you get killed in this game. You have to be cold and unfeeling to survive, which is ironic, because it hardly feels like living at all.

  I pack a black duffle bag full of fire, and strap enough heat to my own body to blast through a brick wall. My stomach growls but I grind my teeth and savor the pain. I don’t deserve a meal until I at least have a hint of where Santino’s gone. Still, when my cell phone buzzes with a text from Finn, asking about our next move, I tell him to meet me back at the end of Baker street in an hour, and to bring some dinner.

  6

  Nia

  At least I’m not alone anymore.

  Carlos has come back to work, too. He wasn’t going to show up, but when he found out I had to at least grab my clothes and purse, he told me he’d be there for me.

  At least I have a friend... thank god for that.

  True to her nature, Mrs. Cheng has already thrown up a replacement window of saran wrap and taped a makeshift sign to the front door that read: YES, WE’RE STILL OPEN. Also true to her nature, she had been working the place all on her own since 10am. She may be a demanding boss, but at least I know she can walk the walk.

  I admire her in a way, she’s got the work ethic of an angry bull, but she also doesn’t have a boss to tell her what to do. I’ve always been most effective when left to my own devices—that’s why I did so poorly in high school, when every adult was trying to control me, yet so well in my first year at nursing school. Post-secondary professors don’t try to control you; they already have your money, so it’s up to you to work your ass off and make the most of the price. That’s exactly what I did, until the price tag became more than I could afford.

  I’m doing my best to build my way back up to that dream, but no one’s going to give me another loan until I can pay off my last one, and as long as I want a roof over my head, I’m going to have to pay the monthly bills first. It’s a vicious cycle.

  Maybe Mrs. Cheng will give me a raise, because of the hardships I’ve endured? I nearly choke on my laughter. Yeah, right.

  I’m actually surprised at the scene at Chelly’s when I finally show up. Mrs. Cheng has cleaned up all of the glass shards from the ground, and if it wasn’t for the saran-wrap window, a stranger might not be able to guess what had happened here last night at all. There’s no police tape or investors nosing around. It’s almost eerie.

  Still, before I can step in through the front door, I spot a Rorschach stain of dried blood along the sidewalk. Guess they can’t erase what happened here that easily, huh?

  “Where the hell are the cops!?” Carlos throws his hands up in the air, as he takes his first break a few hours into my shift. It’s starting to get dark already, and the nightly wind is picking up again. I turn the heat up and watch the saran-wrap window struggle against the growing breeze. Usually I wouldn’t dare mess with the thermometer, but Mrs. Cheng can kiss my ass if she’s going to complain. I can hardly believe I’m even back here at work so soon after what happened. I must be crazy... or just flat broke.

  “How isn’t there an investigation going on right now!?” Carlos continues to rave as I watch people scurry home outside. “I was asked like two questions last night before they saw me off. They didn’t even bother putting police tape up!”

  Most people don’t live in this area. Our street is filled almost entirely with small businesses that close long before Chelly’s does. Carlos and I may have been the only civilians caught in the crossfire last night.

  I cross my fingers and hope that no one else comes in for the rest of my shift. Some things never change.

  To Mrs. Cheng’s credit, she’s offered Carlos and I time-and-a-half pay to keep working so soon after the incident. I couldn’t say no. As long as she’s offering more money, I’m going to keep working—I know she can’t afford to shut this place down for too long, anyway. I might actually have some leverage over someone for once in my life...

  Hey, maybe this whole shootout business wasn’t so bad after all.

  “Niaaa...” Carlos snaps his fingers in front of my eyes. I shake my head and draw a tight smile on my lips.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Just thinking...”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Carlos’s arm finds its way over my shoulder. “When I was in the back last night, and I heard those loud-ass gunshots, my first reaction was to hide. It took me way too long to come find you.”

  I don’t blame him. You’d have to be a fool to run towards something so scary. “I’ll forgive you for some steak and eggs,” I joke, trying to will some spirit back into my frayed body.

  Carlos doesn’t hesitate. “You got it, girl. Mrs. Cheng can eat dirt if she complains about me ‘wasting’ a steak right now. You deserve whatever you want.”

  I can’t even remember the last time I had a steak. Usually, people who order steaks around here don’t leave any leftovers. It’s only the less desirable food that gets left on customers plates for me to scavenge.

  So far today, we’ve had just as many customers as we usually do during an average day at Chelly’s. I suddenly wonder if Mrs. Cheng has somehow paid off the police to keep this shooting out of the news so that it won’t affect business. I smile at the ridiculousness of the thought... but Carlos does have a point. Why doesn’t there seem to be any investigation going on? Why isn’t news of what happened being reported anywhere?

  I start to get suspicious. Carlos goes back to the kitchen to cook up my meal for the day and I lean on the counter and look out onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, the image of the bloody stranger from last night pops into my mind. I instinctively bite my lip. Who are you...?

  I remember the light of the police siren that had been here during the shootout, but then left before a response team could show up. Were we dealing with some crooked cops here?

  A tendril of fear wraps around my heart in response to that thought. I was interviewed by a cop. He got my full name. If anyone’s looking to squash out the witnesses from last night, they won’t have to look far—and now I’m back at the scene of the crime too! Fuck.

  A chill runs up my spine. I look back through the kitchen window for Carlos. He’s there, concentrated on making me a meal. God bless that man. A flame skips off the grill and I realize I’m still cold as fuck. The wind is starting to really rattle the saran-wrap storefront window and I’m not sure how much longer it’s going to hold. I check my phone. Mrs. Cheng has given us permission to close up early tonight, if we want, but I’m still not sure if I will. I’m getting paid by the hour, and if I have to sit here in a cold diner with no customers just to help get my life back on track, then that’s what I’m going to do.

  I must be crazy.

  I go to the backroom and grab my coat. I stuff my cell phone into my pocket, and then immediately pat on it to make sure it’s still there. It’s funny how a single moment can change even the little things so drastically. I’ve been treating my phone like a pariah for the past year, keeping it at a distance, less a debtor, or
worse, calls, but now I’m not letting it leave my side. I don’t want to get caught flat-footed again. I’m nearly of the mind to practice dialing 911 in my free time.

  I wrap myself up nice and tight in my big, red puffy off-brand quilted jacket and watch twilight take over the street outside. The wind is stronger now than it was an hour earlier, but nowhere near as bad as it usually is. I give thanks to that fact, even if it could change for the worse in an instant, because there’s no way I’m staying here—time-and-a-half pay or not—if the saran-wrap window collapses.

  “Hungry?” Carlos sings in his familiar way from behind me. I can’t help but smile. Sometimes it’s just the little things that can make you feel better when everything else is going to shit. Carlos is still the same old Carlos, and I’m still alive and breathing. If I can just keep on surviving, I’m sure, one day, things will get better, and I’ll be able to get to where I want to be.

  ... Or I won’t. Shit. I don’t know. I’m just trying to stay positive. It’s all I can do to stay sane right now.

  “No drive tonight, honey. We’re on our own,” Carlos calls out to me from back in the kitchen.

  Shit.

  It’s been dark for hours now and I really don’t want to walk home, not after what happened last night. A few oblivious customers have straggled in and out since the sun set, but I’m not about to close up just yet. Another hour of time-and-a-half pay looks too good to pass up, even if I’m tired and sore. It doesn’t hurt that I’m scared of leaving.

  The saran-wrap window is holding up, but it’s making a hell of a racket in the wind. “What happened to your ride from last night?” I yell back.

  “Umm, he heard gunshots over the phone,” Carlos teases. Duh. Why would anyone who knew what had happened here last night willingly come back? Well, anyone other than us two dumbbells...