Respect: An Infidelity series Novel

by Aleatha Romig

  That night I drove to Newark, to a warehouse in the Ironbound District. I knew the location, but I hadn’t realized that this was where he fought. There was no signage, but the cars in the dilapidated parking lot let me know I was in the right place. I followed the sound of people and paid for admittance at the door. The stench of sweat and testosterone permeated the stale air until my nostrils flared, begging for something fresh.

  As I moved closer to the tall chain-link cage, I heard the chants. Like years ago at a middle school football game, people were calling my son’s name, except they weren’t saying Lennox. They were chanting Nox, that ridiculous made-up stage name.

  One by one, opponents entered the ring, lined up to take a chance at knocking down the current champion—my son. As I watched Lennox’s technique, I saw something I’d refused to recognize in other settings. There was a side to him that I hadn’t seen, a rage that fueled him. I prided myself on my ability to read people, yet I hadn’t taken the time to read my own son.

  He was quick on his feet, dancing around each opponent. His punches were well timed, fists swinging and connecting with bone and smashing cartilage. The sport was brutal, and yet as young man after young man fell at his feet, Lennox remained relatively unscathed. He was good. Like with baseball or football, my son had talent in areas I’d never pursued.

  Oh, I’d taken a swing when necessary. When I did, I never missed and I never lost. However, the fuel behind my actions was never rage. I didn’t seek to wreak havoc, but punctuate my point. When I’d been moved to violence, hand-to-hand combat, it had always been for a reason—usually Costello. As in everything, I’d simply done what I needed to do. Watching my son, I saw something different.

  He enjoyed the brutality.

  The realization hurt as if he’d punched me.

  Angelina and I had sacrificed our marriage for his well-being, and yet the reality of his heritage—that he was equally a Costello—couldn’t be denied. It reared its head in a desire for destruction that we as his parents never shared.

  I left the warehouse that night and a few more times without letting him know I’d watched. Perhaps a part of me wanted to see him defeated. Once that happened, I believed he’d move on to a different interest.

  One evening I insisted on taking him to dinner. In his normal demeanor, he spoke in short sentences, huffs, and glares, reacting to my words more than responding.

  “Lennox,” I said, my tone low but serious, “look at me.”

  His light blue eyes snapped to my gaze. It hit me hard that they were the color of my eyes, not the vibrant deep color of his mother’s. He was still my son.

  “This pastime thing, the fighting...”

  “Dad, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I do. It’s MMA. I’ve watched you.”

  He scoffed. “Sure. Just like you watched my games in high school.”

  I probably deserved his animosity, but now wasn’t the time. “About the same.” I’d been to three nights of his MMA fighting. I wasn’t sure how many football or baseball games I attended. “The point is you have to stop.”

  “No, I don’t. I’m good. If you’ve been there, you would know that.”

  “I do know that. Do you realize where you’re fighting?”

  “In a warehouse...”

  “In Newark.”

  “So?” he said casually.

  My gaze narrowed. “Have we really sheltered you that much?”

  “If you’re talking about Uncle Vincent and territories, that shit is over. It ended years ago. It was all made-up bullshit from the feds and movies. The real deal all ended about the time when I was born.”

  I consciously stopped myself from shaking my head in disbelief. “It’s over? Who told you that?”

  “No one told me. I’m not dumb. I know Mom’s maiden name. I know Vincent’s name. I can read, but all that bullshit is more fiction than real. I’ve known Vincent all my life and Uncle Carmine too. They aren’t what people like to say they are.”

  This time I shook my head. “Your Uncle Carmine loved you. Vincent loves you. What you’re doing...where you’re doing it...is disrespectful to him and to Carmine’s memory. I don’t care what you think you know. You’ve grown up with blinders on, and your mom and I were the ones who kept them in place.”

  Lennox’s jaw clenched. “Don’t talk about Mom.”

  I exhaled. “It’s not about her. It’s about you. Stop this. If you have so much extra time, start working at Demetri. It’s time to learn the family business.” The family business I wanted him to learn.

  His broad shoulders shrugged. “Just because I’m taking business classes, what makes you think that I ever want to work at Demetri?”

  My son was a fighter, and he’d just hit me below the belt. “I don’t care if you want to or not. Do it. Gain experience. When you’re older, start your own business, one without my name on the letterhead. The choice is yours.” Because we’ve given you a choice. “Right now, working at Demetri would be best.”

  “Dad, I think you lost the ability to decide what’s best for me a long time ago.”

  My tone hardened. “No more fighting. You’re done.”

  “Sure, whatever.”

  With my appetite gone, I paid the check and stood. However, before I left, I said, “Come to Demetri after class tomorrow. I’ll tell HR where to start you.”

  “I’m busy tomorrow.”

  I should have called Angelina. I should have done many things. That was the story of my life. Instead, I did what I had always done and worked. I juggled Costello and Demetri balls while reading reports and avoiding audits. Time passed, but not too much. It was one evening as I was working, one appointment still to go, that I received Vincent’s call.

  “Respect,” Vincent said through the phone. “I told you to teach him... It's time he learned.”

  “I have. He's young.”

  “He’s had his birthday. He’s twenty. That’s an old man in our world.”

  “He's not in our world.”

  “He put himself there,” Vincent said.

  We spoke for a few more minutes, or should I say Vincent spoke and I did what I’d always done, offering to pay Lennox’s price—whatever Vincent had planned—in my son’s stead.

  “Newark,” Vincent replied before the line went dead.

  At the mention of the location of the warehouse, my stomach dropped—a free fall from my office high in the sky within the financial district straight down to the street below.

  “Hold my calls. Cancel my appointments,” I called.

  Julie was on a much-deserved vacation. The secretary in her absence was named Michelle. She was competent but didn’t hear or understand the urgency in my voice. She told me about a meeting, a man waiting in the outside office.

  He was a judge, one who’d helped Demetri in the past, looking for a quid pro quo. He was interested in stopping a trend toward the legalization of marijuana. It was a nickel-and-dime racket compared to the heroin, crack, and other more lucrative substances. But then again, it was a gateway drug, the first step for users on the road to dependence. While the legalization created tax revenue, people like Judge Walters had made their way by scratching backs. Keeping marijuana illegal was his way of helping those who had helped him.

  He offered me information on an impending emissions bill in exchange for my assistance. The knowledge alone would save Demetri a fortune. If the bill went through, we’d need to work on our specifications. Knowledge of the impending legislation allowed us to lobby against it. In the long run, despite the money to the lobbyists, we could save millions.

  Putting aside the potential, I cut our meeting short, leaving the judge behind as I ironically drove into one of the best-known drug-infested territories. I paid my admission at the door and squeezed my way through the crowd. The scene inside the chain-linked octagon was different than any I’d seen before. When I’d hoped for my son’s defeat, my prayers never included having it come at the han
ds of his cousin.

  Perhaps Lennox was a better fighter than Vincent or Luca had predicted. I couldn’t fathom what was running through Vincent’s head as he sat ringside, watching as our sons continued to fight. While this wasn’t boxing, there were rules. It was painfully obvious that the referee slash announcer or whomever the man standing guard was had no intention to call the fight until Vincent gave his signal.

  This was Bonetti territory, but the Costello boss was currently in charge.

  The boys who’d grown up together, who’d slept side by side in a playpen, and played in tents created from blankets...the childhood best friends were literally beating one another in a fight to the death. If I were to presume the motivation to continue, for Lennox I would assume it was pride. He was the reigning champion and didn’t want to be uncrowned. For Luca, I would predict a different motivator. His was more simplistic. He’d been given a task by the boss, and being the good soldier Vincent expected, Luca intended to be victorious.

  Both of the boys’ faces had begun to swell and turn red and black. With each connection, blood and spit splattered the first few rows of spectators.

  Pushing Jimmy out of the way, I sat in my thousand-dollar suit beside Angelina's cousin in the splash zone. “Tell me what you want and make this stop,” I pleaded. “They're going to kill each other and then what do we have? We both lose our son. Is that what you want?” I wanted to remind him of the past, how he’d trusted me with Luca, Bella, and Luisa. I wanted to say so much, but fear for my son kept me from overanalyzing. This needed to stop, and it needed to stop now.

  My stomach heaved as the crunch of cartilage and bone forced us both to turn toward the ring. This time it was Luca who'd taken the hit. He spat onto the floor, a deep red pool of blood.

  During any other fight, the winner would have already been declared. Despite the carnage, or maybe because of it, the crowd around us was going wild.

  “Ten percent on all,” Vincent said.

  “All?” I asked. I paid the Costellos ten percent of all earnings in New York, but Demetri Enterprises had grown globally. Then again, there was no price too great for Lennox.

  “All.”

  “Fine. Make it stop. You're nearly killing our sons over money?”

  “Respect,” Vincent said. “I stop this, you pay. Lennox, he's good. He has talent. It's time that he uses it in an honorable way—for the family.”

  “I'll pay,” I confirmed. “Stop this now.” Looking up to the ring, both young men teetered on the balls of their bare feet, appearing as though they might fall helplessly to the blood-splattered mat at any moment.

  Vincent turned to Jimmy and nodded. Immediately, the man with the power stepped into the ring, and the vise that had been crushing my chest loosened a notch.

  Instantaneously, I stood, my new focus on getting to Lennox when Vincent grabbed my arm. “We'll talk.”

  It wasn't a request but a summons. “Yes, Vincent. We'll talk.”

  Lennox's left eye was nearly eclipsed by the red and purple swelling as I supported his weight, and he draped an arm over my shoulder. The crowd parted as I helped—carried—Lennox, my over six-foot-tall son, and Vincent and Jimmy did the same for Luca.

  “Brooklyn,” Vincent said, his way of telling me to take Lennox somewhere else. Luca would be seeking medical treatment in Brooklyn. Both of the boys couldn't be at the same hospital, or it could raise questions.

  I nodded and assessed my son. Was he well enough to tolerate the drive to Westchester? “Lennox, do you hear me?”

  “H-he...Luca...a hit? It’s real?”

  “Do you hear me?”

  “I'm still alive.”

  Blood thinned by spit dribbled from his mouth. With each word spoken, it splattered on his wife-beater T-shirt, creating a kaleidoscope of red and pink droplets. He was bruised and battered, but his assessment had been correct. He was alive.

  Chapter 40

  With the line drawn in the proverbial sand, the years of devotion and loyalty hung in the balance as I wracked my brain for alternatives, and Lennox clung on to life. He made it to Rye, though he’d lost consciousness somewhere between. I called from the car, and Angelina met us at the hospital.

  I contemplated possibilities. If Lennox survived, I could send him to London. I’d been thinking about moving there. Looking up to see my ex-wife pacing back and forth, I knew she wouldn’t be in favor of his move, but with Vincent’s alternative, she might agree.

  The waiting room around us was empty, save for us and a TV that she’d turned off as soon as we entered. The soles of her shoes over the tile floor created a rhythm, providing a comforting backdrop as my mind refused to believe our son would not be all right. I let my thoughts wander. The windows along one wall reflected the plain interior, turning the night’s dark sky into a distorted mirror. Sighing, I sat back on an orange vinyl-covered chair and stretched out my legs. Red droplets upon the top of my leather shoes caught my attention, bringing back the reality. I'd washed Lennox's blood from my hands, but my suit and maybe my shoes were probably ruined.

  “Blood don’t clean.” Testa’s words came back to me. The irony that this time it was my son’s blood churned my already-twisted gut. This time was different. This time I didn’t get sick. Maybe I had grown callous since Carmine’s shooting.

  “I don't understand,” Angelina said, her blue eyes darkening as her comment pulled me from my inner thoughts. “What did you do?”

  “Me? What did I do? I saved our son's life.”

  “Luca...” She paced back and forth, her head shaking. “This isn’t right. We're family, Vincent and I. He wouldn't do this if he didn't have a reason.”

  “He had a reason. He said he was teaching Lennox respect. He’d warned, but I never imagined...” My words faded away.

  Angelina lowered her tone. “Lennox or you? Who did he warn, and why did he call you instead of me?”

  I stood and tried to keep my volume low. Twenty-plus years of Costello riddles to my credit, I could answer her last question with the blatant truthfulness that I might have restrained if we’d still been married. “Why’d he call me? Maybe he didn't want his princess cousin to show up in the warehouse district and watch her son beaten to death.”

  Angelina’s neck straightened. “You promised something, didn't you?”

  I shrugged. “Money. He wants more, a more inclusive cut.”

  Her lip disappeared between her teeth like it did when she was thinking as her head moved from side to side. “Money doesn't show respect. He wants more.” She stood taller, her petite frame radiating authority as she demanded, “Tell me.”

  The truth pained me, but I didn’t know how to help our son. All I could give Angelina was honesty. “He wants Lennox to work for the family.”

  Her blue eyes widened in panic. “Oh, God, Oren, tell me you didn't agree. Please tell me you said no.”

  “Fuck, have you ever said no to Vincent?”

  “Yes,” she said matter-of-factly, “and to Uncle Carmine, too.”

  “Well, I never wore the crown, so that’s never been an option. I didn't answer one way or the other. I purposely left it unanswered.”

  “Then I will.”

  I spun like a caged animal, unable to move more than a few feet in any direction, and ran my hand through my hair. “No, you can’t. It’ll make Lennox appear weak—and me appear weak. It's not a woman's—”

  “This isn’t about you or how you appear,” she interrupted. “It’s about Lennox, and I don’t care what you think: it’s a mother's place. If you don’t think Bella would fight for Luca, you’re wrong. It’s a mother’s right.”

  “Do you know how it looks when Lennox's mother is the one who faces down Vincent, fights his battles?”

  “It's not his battle yet. He’s in the hospital. I'll talk to Vincent before the request gets to Lennox.” Her voice grew louder. “I'll tell you how it looks. It looks like we're still a family...” She motioned between the two of us. “...like we still ta
lk, and that we both still care about our son's future. It looks like the princess finally decided to take control of her reign.”

  The door opened as the bottom strip scuffed across the tile floor, drawing our attention.

  “Excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Demetri?” the small woman in light green scrubs asked.

  We answered in unison. “Yes.”

  “You can see your son now.”

  I reached for Angelina's hand—was it out of habit or because together we were stronger? “I'll talk to Vincent if you want me to. I'd never ask you—”

  She squeezed my fingers and smiled. “No. You didn't ask. Let me do it. It'll go better. I'm certain. While I’ve told him no, it’s less frequent the other way around.”

  She was right. It probably would go better.

  “The money is his,” I confirmed. “I don't give a fuck.”

  “You do. You care and not just about the money. I guess I always knew that. I was just too hurt and lonely to always see it. We'll do this. Lennox deserves more than what we had. He deserves choices.”

  Despite the fact that there was someone new in my life, I couldn't take my eyes off of my ex-wife. It was different than it had been. The love was deeper, not superficial or physical, but an adoration that strengthened with time. Sometime during the last twenty years she'd become more, or had it just been since our divorce? “Mio angelo,” I began.

  She squeezed my hand again. “Oren, stop. This is about our son. We'll make it right.”

  “I'm just...” I searched for the right word. “...awed.”

  “Don't be. It’s taken time. It took me being me—seeing the world alone—to finally figure it all out. I'm sorry that I couldn't have done it when we were married.”

  “I wasn’t...”

  She smiled a sad, knowing smile. “We both did what we know, what we thought was best. We both have regrets. Whether Lennox ever admits it or not, he needs both of us.”

  Our son’s recovery took time. He had broken bones and a concussion. Through it all Lennox managed to keep up with his classes, but doing extra, going above and beyond, was a slow process. When he was finally able, he didn’t go back to fighting; instead, he did as I’d told him nearly a year earlier and went to work at Demetri Enterprises. I’m most certain that in his mind simply because his last name was on the company letterhead he deserved...well, anything—everything. He wasn’t alone in the entitlement generation. I understood that, knowing we’d done our part in propitiating the attitude.