Protected by the Monster

by Hamel, B. B.

“Clair—”

  “Mom, please, I just wanted to tell you that I’m okay. I’m going to stay here for now. I don’t want Uncle Luciano to do something drastic and drag you into this, okay? So I’m going to stay put. I have my phone, so I can call you. But please, don’t call the police, don’t do anything.”

  “Clair,” she said and the tears in her voice made my own throat choke. I forced back the sob and took a breath.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “I promise. Can you promise you won’t call anyone?”

  “I won’t call anyone,” she said. “But you have to promise me you’re okay. You’re okay, aren’t you?”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “I love you, Mom. I should probably go before the asshole downstairs realizes I’m talking to you.”

  “Wait, someone’s there with you?”

  “Some bodyguard.” I chewed my lip, remembering the man downstairs, his dark eyes and handsome face. “I don’t remember his name.”

  “Just be careful,” Mom said. “And call me. And make sure you don’t do anything stupid. And keep calling me.”

  “I promise, Mom,” I said. “I’m going to get this sorted out. I don’t even want all this money, I never asked for any of it.”

  “Do not give it to Luciano,” she said, her voice a rough whisper. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He’ll bleed you dry, Clair. I promise you that, if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s bleeding people dry.”

  I felt my hands start to shake again. I knew this was a bad idea, but I knew I had to call her sooner or later. She would’ve worried if I went another day or two without calling, and her worry might’ve turned into worse.

  “I’ll talk to you soon,” I said, and hung up before she could respond.

  I stared down at my phone and felt the room vibrate around me.

  It had been a long, long time since I heard my mother sound that afraid, not since I was a little girl. A memory came back to me, startling and fresh. My mother sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette, although I couldn’t remember her ever smoking again. She looked down at me and reached out her hand like she was clawing at the air. I stood out of her reach, afraid of her, afraid of the look in her eyes.

  “Don’t go outside today,” she said, so many years ago. I must have been thirteen or so. We were in the apartment she rented right after my dad got killed. “Don’t go outside today, do you understand?”

  “Why not?” I asked back then, like an idiot. I should’ve known.

  “They’re going to come, sooner or later,” she’d said.

  That was the most afraid I’d ever seen my mother. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought about that in so many years, and yet sitting on that bed, staring down at the phone, my hands shaking, my legs kicking, it came back to me as clear as the day it happened.

  My mother was afraid, and she had every right to be. She had more reasons than most to be terrified of Uncle Luciano.

  I stared at the phone, at the floor, then up to the bedroom door.

  I wondered if the lock would hold if that big guy downstairs decided to come up here and break it down.

  I got out of bed, walked to the bureau, and pushed it across the floor. It made loud scraping sounds as the wood dragged, but it felt like it was empty. The Matryoshka dolls fell over, rolled along the top, hit the floor and bounced a few times, before settling under the bed.

  I wedged the bureau in front of the door and stepped back, my heart racing.

  That would slow him down at least.

  I threw myself down on the unfamiliar bed and buried myself under the pillows, hoping maybe if I wished it hard enough, I’d open my eyes back home, and this would all be a dream.

  But the smell of old moth-eaten comforters and fresh paint lingered, and I went nowhere.

  3

  Luca

  The house was quiet for the most part. I kept my feet kicked up, watched some golf, and the only time I heard a peep from the girl was when it sounded like she rearranged some furniture up in that room of hers.

  Not that I cared. The girl could rip the place apart if she wanted to, so long as she stayed inside and didn’t make trouble.

  A few peaceful hours passed, and soon peaceful turned into boring.

  As I flipped through the channels, finally settling on a college basketball game, I heard a door slam shut outside the house. I sat forward, instantly on edge, my hand on the Glock I had slipped into the waistband of my jeans.

  Footsteps on the steps. Someone stood at the door, turned the knob, pushed it open.

  I had my gun out and up, finger on the trigger, as Roberto stepped inside.

  “Shit,” he said, flinching away.

  I lowered the gun, took my finger off the trigger.

  “What the fuck, Roberto?” I asked. “You trying to get shot?”

  “What the fuck yourself, Luca,” he said, his voice an angry growl. “You can’t just pull your gun.”

  “You didn’t identify yourself. The Don said my job’s to keep the girl safe.”

  Roberto glared at me then shook his head, sharp and fast. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll knock next time.” He tossed a black duffel bag onto the floor. It slid into the living room and stopped with a plop against the coffee table. “Shit for the girl.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Clothes. Toothbrush. Shit from her apartment, I don’t know what. Had one of the guys go in there and take a look around.”

  I stood up and put the gun down on the coffee table, barrel pointing away from Roberto. I walked over and hefted it up.

  “I’ll make sure she gets it,” I said.

  “Good, you do that.” He gave me a vicious little smile. “Hope you have fun babysitting.”

  “Hope you have fun fucking off, shithead,” I said.

  He laughed and left, slamming the door behind him.

  I clenched my jaw and rocked back on my heels as I slung the bag over my shoulder. I glared at the door for a second, pissed off that Roberto thought he was such a tough guy throwing shit around and acting like an asshole. I turned back to the steps and stomped over, heading up toward the girl’s room.

  I stopped outside her door and knocked. It occurred to me, just for a second, that she might not be in there. Just for an insane, brief moment, I entertained the idea that maybe she ran, that she jumped out a window somehow, and that sound of her moving the furniture around was actually her escaping.

  If she was gone, I was going to have to go crawling back to Steven with my tail between my legs, and I definitely didn’t want to do that.

  There was no answer from inside. I knocked again, harder this time. Waited a few seconds, pounded on the door.

  “Open up,” I said.

  “Go away.” Her voice, muffled, from across the room.

  “Look, I just have something for you, okay?”

  “Go away.”

  “It’s shit for you, okay? Clothes, toothbrush, shit like that.”

  “Not interested.”

  “It’s from your apartment. It’s your own stuff.”

  Short pause. “Leave it on the floor out there and go away.”

  I grunted and shook my head, annoyed as hell. Roberto was bad enough, but the girl didn’t need to be a dick too. I didn’t do this to her, didn’t choose this for her. I wasn’t interested in this job, just like she wasn’t interested in having me out here.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’m going to cook dinner. You should come out and eat with me.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Try getting interested. We’re stuck in this house together, you know, and none of this is my fault. No need it take it out on me.”

  “You’re with them,” she said. “So it’s your fault.”

  “I see what you mean, but you’re wrong.” I leaned my shoulder against the door. “These kinds of decisions are over my head. I just follow orders.”

  “A good little soldier.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Just g
o away.” Her voice was a little louder, like she’d gotten up out of bed and come over to the door.

  “I hear you,” I said. “This is a crappy situation. But I’m just the messenger.”

  “Yeah? I shouldn’t shoot you, then?”

  “Pretty much,” I said, a little smile on my lips. “Come on, come out and have some dinner with me. I can cook a pretty decent chicken parm.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “What, just because I’m mafia, I can’t cook?”

  “No, you just don’t look like the cooking type.”

  “So just because I’m mafia, I can’t cook,” I said, grinning a little. “I get you. Prejudiced against mafia guys.”

  “You know, I almost want to deny that, but yeah, I’m definitely prejudiced against mafia guys.”

  “Fair enough, I hear you. But how about we pretend I’m not mafia for a little bit?”

  “And how about we pretend like I’m not trapped in this house?”

  “Sounds good to me. You come downstairs in forty minutes, we’ll act like we’re at a nice restaurant. I’ll go get some wine and food if you promise to stay here.”

  Silence for a few seconds. I thought she might have given up and walked away, but then I heard something heavy get pushed. It scraped against the floor, and I realized she’d put something in front of the door to block it.

  I moved away from the door, stood at the opposite side of the hall. I didn’t want to be too close when the door opened, didn’t want to scare the girl off.

  The handle unlocked, and the door opened a crack.

  She looked out at me, her light blue eyes narrowed.

  “Are you being serious?” she asked.

  “Very serious. But you’ve got to promise to still be here when I get back. I think there’s a little fresh grocer down the block I can get what we need.”

  “I am starving,” she said.

  “Good. You stay here, pretend like you’re not trapped. I’ll be back in a bit with wine and food. You come down when you’re ready.”

  “What’s your name again?” she asked.

  “Luca.”

  “I’m Clair.”

  “Good to meet you, Clair.”

  “I still think you’re a mafia asshole,” she said. “But chicken parm sounds really, really good.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, walking to the steps. “So long as you don’t run away, we’ll get along just fine.”

  She watched me head to the stairs. I looked back over my shoulder and smirked at her, unable to help myself. The girl was pretty, and I could tell she was interested, even if she was doing a pretty good job of pretending like she wasn’t.

  She bent over, picked up the duffel bag. I caught a glimpse of her breasts as her shirt fell open. She stood up again, glared at me, shut the door, and disappeared back into her room.

  I headed downstairs, whistling a little tune. I didn’t hear her push the bureau back into position, which I took as a good sign.

  4

  Clair

  The duffel had some clean clothes, clean underwear, hair products, toothbrush, face wash, and some soap. It was about as bare bones as it got, but it was enough to make it through a couple days at least.

  I took a shower and tried not to think about the mobster downstairs.

  Luca didn’t look anything like the mafia guys I remembered. They were all older men with slicked-back hair or big fat bald spots. They wore baggy suits and gold bracelets.

  Luca was trim and muscular with dark eyes, dark hair, full lips. His hair was messy, pushed off to the side with his fingers, almost too perfectly casual. He wore slim jeans, not too tight, not too loose, and a black long-sleeved Henley, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

  He looked like he belonged in a fashion magazine. He had the body for it, the face for it, but I knew he was mafia as soon as he opened his mouth.

  He had that sound to him, that cadence, like everything was some big joke and he couldn’t be bothered to care about anything.

  When I got out of the shower, I toweled off, and put on a fresh pair of jeans and a light crewneck sweatshirt, the neckline ripped to be a frayed V, the sleeves pushed up along my arms. I opened the bedroom door just a crack and breathed deep. I could smell something cooking downstairs, and my stomach rumbled like a monster.

  I shut the door again and bit my lip. I could just stay in my room and eat something later. He’d have to go to sleep eventually, or I could order something with my phone. But I didn’t know the address of the house I was in, and I had a feeling getting stuff delivered wouldn’t go over too well with Luca.

  I clenched my jaw and resigned myself. Hunger won out as I left the room and shut the door behind me. I walked down the steps and into the living room. The TV was playing some basketball game as I headed back to the kitchen, the smell of cooking garlic and chicken wafting through the air.

  I stopped as I looked at the coffee table.

  A gun sat there, the barrel pointing toward the far wall.

  I stared at the gun and a strange feeling came over me. I felt like my hands were shaking again and a cold sweat broke out over my skin. I grew up in a house without guns, never shot one in my life, learned to respect and fear them.

  Guns were machines that killed people.

  I walked over to the coffee table, knelt down, and lifted it up. I was surprised at how heavy and solid it felt in my hand. I stood back up, staring at the thing, and carried it over to the kitchen.

  Luca stood in front of the stove, whistling to himself, a wooden spoon in his hand. Breaded chicken was frying in a pan while water boiled for pasta. Packages of pasta were lined up on the counter and a few store-bought jars of pasta were set up in front of them. He looked over his shoulder at me and smiled a handsome, crooked little grin, which melted away the instant he saw the gun in my hands.

  I held it flat on my palms like an offering.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “You left this out,” I said. “Just sitting on the coffee table.”

  He slowly put the wooden spoon down, his face hard, his eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I did,” he said. “I left it there on purpose.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because it’s uncomfortable to carry it around all the time, and I don’t think anyone’s coming for you tonight.”

  “Right.” I held it out to him. “You probably shouldn’t leave it where I can get it, right?”

  He cocked his head like he didn’t understand the question.

  “You going to shoot me, Clair?”

  “No,” I said and stared at the thing in my hands with wide eyes. “I’ve never even touched one of these before.”

  He walked over and reached out, plucking the weapon from me. I took a step back as he held it in his hands like an extension of himself, like he’d been born with his tiny fingers on a trigger.

  “Let me make something clear,” he said. “You touch my gun again, you better plan on killing me with it.”

  I took a hard breath then narrowed my eyes at him, my fists balling up. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means, you don’t touch a person’s weapon, no matter what.”

  “You just left it lying out there. You left a freaking gun lying around, for no reason.”

  “I thought that was better than bringing it with me to the grocery store.”

  “I thought you said it was uncomfortable.”

  “It is,” he said, pulled the slide back, a bullet popping out. He caught it, put it in his pocket, slid the gun into his waistband. “But apparently I’ll have to get used to it.”

  I opened my mouth, worked my jaw, shut it again. He stood there staring at me, his shirt tight against his muscular chest, his dark eyes intense and hard.

  I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

  “Come on,” he said, turning away. “Sit down. Have some wine.”

  I hesitated, still lingering in the doorway, as he walked back to the stove. He flipp
ed the chicken, stirred the pasta, then uncorked a bottle of red and poured two glasses.

  I walked over to the light metal, thinly padded chairs, took a seat, and let him place a glass in front of me.

  I didn’t touch it.

  “How long am I going to be here?” I asked.

  “I have no clue,” he said. “Honestly, the Don didn’t tell me much.”

  “You mean my uncle.”

  “Uncle, Don, sure,” he said, waving the wooden spoon. “You’ve got to understand, I’m just the muscle.”

  “Muscle,” I said with a little aggressive snort. “Something like that.”

  He looked over his shoulder, eyebrow arched, smile on his handsome lips. “You don’t like my muscles? Don’t think I’m big enough?”

  “I just mean—”

  “Nah, you think I’m big enough,” he said and laughed to himself. “You’re trying to bait me into getting pissed off.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Fun,” he said, shrugging, stirring the pasta. “Boredom. I don’t know. You’re angry about your situation, and I’m an easy target.”

  “Maybe I just don’t like you fundamentally.”

  “Fundamentally,” he said and laughed again. “Yeah, maybe that’s it. So you hate all mafia types?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “This must be a nightmare for you, then,” he said. “Getting all that mafia money.”

  “You have no clue.”

  “How much did the old gangster give you?” he asked. “Must be a lot, if the Don’s keeping you under lock and key.”

  “Is that really a question you want to ask me?”

  He looked over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed and sharp. For a second, I got the impression that he wasn’t just the idiot mafia musclehead I thought he was.

  But then he turned back to the food, took the chicken out of the pan, put it on a paper towel-lined plate.

  “Probably not,” he said. “But I’m guessing it’s a lot anyway. Maybe something else, since I doubt the Don cares all that much about straight cash. The family has cash in spades.”

  “Good for you,” she said.