The Last Boss' Daughter

by Sam Mariano

  That sounds boring, so I nod and walk away to the other room.

  Well, I try, but walking is hard. Eventually I make it to the bedroom, kick the door closed, and collapse on my bed, feeling a bit weightless. The room feels spinny, but it’s not actually spinning, so I’m not afraid I’ll throw up. Everything just feels light and wonderful, and I wonder why I don’t get drunk every day. Life would be so much easier to handle.

  “Ah, right,” I say, to absolutely no one. “I can’t afford to!”

  Maybe I should be nice to my mom and Pietro to get some money.

  Nope. Not worth it. Even drunk, that’s absurd.

  The door creaks open and I sigh, put upon. Even though he’s close, I hear myself saying very loudly, “You should buy me more wine!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love wine. Wine makes me happy.”

  “Maybe your husband would if you’d be less of a bitch every day.”

  “You’re not my husband,” I inform him.

  He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t have to. That’s the unspeakable, and I’ve consumed enough alcohol to say it.

  He crosses the room in what seems like one angry stride and lifts me off the bed, but it isn’t sexy when he does it. He’s not powerful, he’s not strong, and he tries to hurt me, digging his bony fucking fingers into my shoulder as he shoves me across the room.

  “What’d you fucking say?”

  “You fucking heard me,” I say, and swat away the next hand that comes my way. He pushes me back against the wall, but with his pathetic little hands, not with his body, and I don’t want his body anywhere near mine anyway.

  I can see in his face he wants to hit me, but I just smile, like I don’t have a care in the world. “Go ahead, motherfucker. Hit me in the face. You’re so big and strong, you can harm little ol’ me. Go on!”

  But he doesn’t. I have no idea why. Normally he would. Probably not the face, but my arms, my chest, my sides, the softness of my abdomen where he could make me double over and feel like vomiting.

  He just shakes his head, looking like he hates me every bit as much as I hate him. “Fuck you,” he says instead.

  “Never,” I throw back, still smiling.

  That pisses him off more and I see the fist coming at me. Despite myself, I flinch, try to duck away from it, but it doesn’t connect with my face or my arm, it connects with the wall behind my head.

  “I hate coming home to you!” he screams.

  “So stop doing it,” I scream back, wanting to rip my long, dark hair out right at the roots. “For the love of God, you have to know I don’t want you here! Why can’t you just stay with someone else? Won’t you be happier?”

  I’m not even being mean at this point, the alcohol is just compelling me to sheer honesty, and it pisses him off like I’m throwing jabs. He storms out of the bedroom and down the hall, cursing and hitting walls.

  He’s gonna kill me someday.

  Sober, that might actually scare me, but I’m drunk and I don’t care.

  If I cared, I probably wouldn’t have snuck past two armed men to steal a couple of goddamn apples.

  Suddenly exhausted, I climb into bed and curl up with my blanket cocoon. I dreamed last night that my dad was still alive and I went to stay with him. Paul existed somewhere in the world, but he wasn’t my cross to bear anymore. I made dinner for me and my dad and we sat at our old dining room table and ate Grandma’s spaghetti while we talked. There were apples in a fruit bowl between us.

  Tears well in my eyes and I hate them.

  I pull the blanket up over my head, because I just can’t handle the world anymore today.

  Annabelle

  I have no memory of getting out of bed at any point during the night and getting my chicken parm out of the oven, let alone turning the oven off and putting the untouched chicken parm in a container and into my fridge. I spend about ten minutes walking through my kitchen, head cloudy, trying to figure out how this could have happened. I consider that Paul could’ve done it, but that’s ridiculous. I know he left; he wouldn’t have come back to do that, wouldn’t have even known I didn’t take it out myself. And if he would’ve, he would’ve eaten some.

  I take the container out of the fridge and lift the lid. Actually, it does look like someone ripped off a bottom piece, but it probably just stuck to the pan and my drunken, apparently sleepwalking self didn’t care.

  I toss the bowl on the counter, because I’m starving, and now I have lunch.

  When I grab a plate for my lunch, I realize the sink is empty.

  I mean, I had it empty when I put the chicken in the oven, but the pan I’d cooked it in should be in there, courtesy of Drunk Annabelle.

  It’s not. It’s clean and dry in the strainer beside my sink. I washed it?

  Since I went to bed so early last night, I’m up a little earlier than I planned to be. I’m not hungover, but I’m definitely foggy. I look for my wine where I’d left it on the counter, but I find it with the top back on in the refrigerator.

  Did I really drink enough to black out?

  God.

  I shudder, thankful—hoping—that Paul didn’t come back last night. He could’ve done anything to me and I wouldn’t even know.

  “Maybe we’ll cut you off at two glasses next time,” I tell the wine as I slide the remaining portion of chicken parm back in the fridge for later.

  I wish I could change the locks, but it’s his house. He might actually combust if he came back to changed locks. A girl can dream.

  I feel a little on the gross side though, so after lunch I shower and spend the day doing laundry. I clean all the bedding so it doesn’t smell like a wine factory and vacuum all the carpeted floors. I don’t feel like cleaning the wood floors, so I don’t.

  This house was such a wreck when we first got it. Paul hadn’t believed me when I assured him we could make it nice without spending a fortune, but I saw the potential.

  In the house, not in him. I’m not crazy.

  And I did make it nice, piece by piece, room by room. But it was still his, so it could never be mine, so I couldn’t really even find any pride in the accomplishment.

  One more task off the to-do list. Sometimes my whole life feels like a to-do list, and I’m just waiting until I finish it all so I can take that final dirt nap.

  The phone rings, pulling me from my delightfully morbid thoughts.

  It’s my mother on the other end. “What are you doing?”

  “Fixing to wash the lunch dishes. Why?”

  “I need you to come with me to pick up my dress for the party.”

  “No.”

  She pauses, like she didn’t hear me. “Huh?”

  “No.”

  The 10 year anniversary of my father’s death has barely passed, and she’s buying a dress for her 10 year wedding anniversary. Because my mother remarried with her husband’s body barely cool in the ground.

  To the bastard responsible for killing him, but let’s not even go there right now, because wine fog.

  “I can’t.”

  Not entirely accurate. More like “I won’t,” but in that, my foot was going down.

  “Come on,” she whines. “I wanna buy you a new dress, too.”

  I feel like a faithless, sellout bastard for even agreeing to attend the party. “I don’t need a new dress. I have dresses.”

  “I’ll kill you if you wear black,” she states, because she knows me.

  I smile at the idea, but say nothing.

  “Annabelle, I’m serious.”

  I finally tell her I’ll go dress shopping with her one day next week, just to get her off my back—and off the phone.

  I didn’t always dislike my mother, of course. Once upon a time we’d been closer. When I was little, we were even close, no r needed. When my father was alive and we were a family and everything was fine. Before I knew the atrocities of the world I’d been born into, before she married one of them.

  Not anymore. Too much dama
ge has been done and I don’t even desire to resuscitate the relationship at this point.

  She betrayed my father and ruined my life.

  She’ll never admit she did.

  We’re at an impasse.

  The day passes in a fog. I get a lot done around the house early on, then I’m exhausted and I crash in the afternoon. I accomplish nothing more. I don’t put a pizza in the oven or consider calling to have one delivered. I don’t warm up chicken parm. I don’t do anything. I stay in bed, wrapped up in my blanket cocoon, because that’s the only safe place in the world.

  I don’t even know if he’ll come home tonight. He probably won’t. Usually when we have a big blowout, he stays gone overnight. Well, if he has a girlfriend who will put up with that. The one he has now seems like a real dipshit; she’s put up with all of his crap—and my existence—for a year now. I can’t imagine a woman wanting him, let alone enough to deal with all that, but to each her own. As long as she does her job and keeps the bastard busy, she’s fine by me.

  Apparently not, however, as come evening I hear his truck pull up. Either it’s getting louder or I’m dramatizing it in my head, but I’m pretty sure it’s getting louder. Probably needs fixing. I’d like to take it to someone legit, but it’s not in the budget, so I’ll tell him to take it to one of his chop shop guys.

  “I know,” he’ll whine, like he’d already thought of it and arranged it and God, why did I have to be so overbearing?

  “Ugh,” I mutter, already dreading his company and he’s not even through the front door.

  Maybe I’ll leave. It’s not too cold out, and surely I could find something to do. I eye up my camera, sitting in the corner, abandoned. I used to love to go out and take photographs, but I don’t find much joy in it anymore, so it’s been a while since I’ve picked it up.

  The thought makes me sad, so I curl up in my blankets.

  I expect him to come in, but a long stretch passes and he doesn’t. I relax a little. The room remains still, unbothered by him. I can almost imagine he’s not here, except I can hear the television on in the living room—and I never have it on.

  While he curls up on the couch alone, I curl up with my fantasies. Wild fantasies, like, wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could call the cops and report him? I wonder how long I would get to feel free before Pietro’s people would take me out and make it all go away, not wanting the cops to have a chance to talk to him.

  Wilder fantasies. Liam floats into my head, even though I’m sober. I imagine him kidnapping me, because, I don’t know, I discovered whatever the hell they were doing at the old shop. He doesn’t want to hurt me though. Neither does Raj, he just doesn’t know what to do with me. Liam volunteers to keep me with him until they can trust that I’m on their side. Sexy times ensue.

  I sigh, my hand lazily moving across my breast. I’d like to get myself off, but I won’t take the chance with Paul in the house.

  No one’s going to kidnap me away from the stupid lout.

  I can’t call the police.

  I’m trapped, and there’s no way out, only ways to dig in deeper. My mom’s pissed she doesn’t have grandkids yet, but I imagine she’d be a shit grandmother anyway. On the surface she wouldn’t—she’d buy them presents and fuss over them to all her friends, but if it ever came down to it and they really needed her, she wouldn’t be there. That’s her way.

  And, well, fuck that.

  Bringing anyone into Pietro’s world is nothing short of a travesty anyway. We’re all pawns—meaningless, unloved pawns, and no one deserves to live like that.

  Feeling worse than I did before, I can’t find the motivation to get out of bed. I do sort of have to pee, but I’m not convinced it’s worth it.

  Instead I close my eyes and go to my safe place, free of thoughts if my subconscious is feeling particularly kind tonight.

  I jolt awake.

  It’s dark and my head pounds, and for a disorienting moment, I’m not sure what woke me.

  “You gonna sleep all day?”

  Dread swallows me up like gooey, slow-moving quicksand.

  I smell alcohol, and I cleaned the bedding so it’s not from me. He’s hovering over my shoulder, head bobbing. I can feel his breath on my right bicep, and it makes me want to cut my arm off.

  “It’s dark,” I mutter, gravelly. Why would you wake a person up like that during the actual night? Maybe he is the devil.

  “You’ve been sleepin’ all damn day,” he says, slurring his words enough to make me tense up.

  I haven’t slept all day, I cleaned this morning, but I don’t argue.

  “Just leave me alone,” I say, wrapping my blanket tighter.

  He grabs it before I can tuck it beneath me, fisting it in his hands. He’s figured out my blankets are my safety, so he loves to rip them off me. I always end up letting go, simply because I know we can’t afford to replace them if they tear.

  I hate letting him win, but sometimes you have to lose the battle to win the war.

  Thing is, I’m tired and I don’t feel like fighting. I let him yank the blanket off me. I even roll over since he can’t pull the part that’s wedged under my body.

  “These fucking blankets,” he mutters.

  I say nothing. I close my eyes and try to mentally fend off what I know is coming. I get so tired of fighting. He leaves me alone, except when he drinks. Lately he drinks a lot more than he used to, and he’s draining me. I don’t know how much more I can take. I don’t know how much more he can take. We’re engaged in a deadly game of chicken, and one of us is going to lose big soon, I can feel it.

  Probably me.

  Termites like him always find a way to make it on to the next beautiful house, so they can eat away at its insides until it fucking crumbles.

  I do fight though. I always fight, even if I don’t have the energy. I don’t have the energy to smile or laugh or try to make him feel like shit. I wish I did, but I don’t.

  His hands are on me in a flash, knowing he’s in for a fight. He can’t move slow, like a lover, because he isn’t my lover, and I don’t want him. He knows, I know, so it can’t be like that, it has to be a fight.

  I don’t think I have the energy to win tonight. I usually win, but this time I anticipate a loss.

  He’s especially pissed tonight. I’ve been grating on his pathetic pride all week, and the incident with the wine was really bad. I said the thing that makes him angriest; I never pull that one out, regardless of how bitchy I am to him, because I don’t want to piss him off to the point he might be out for my actual blood. But I did, so I should’ve known this was coming. This is how he knows he can inflict pain, even if I feign otherwise.

  I try fighting but my arms are pinned down painfully. Not sexy. I buck and twist, try to get my knee up, but he mounted me in just the right position and none of it’s working.

  He’s fumbling with his pajama pants. I turn my face away in disgust. At least he can’t make me watch.

  I manage to jerk my hands free again while he fumbles but he lunges, recapturing them before I can even push him off. To punish my attempt, he crushes his thin, gross body against me and tries to kiss me. Not with tongue, since he knows I will legitimately fucking bite it off.

  My skin crawls. His fingernails bite into my wrists. I close my eyes and jerk my head away from his disgusting breath and his smarmy little lips. I can feel the hand he freed up working to push himself between my clenched legs. He pinches me, shoves me. I know there will be bruises on my thighs tomorrow.

  And then suddenly, his weight is gone. He isn’t crushing me—my arms are free.

  I hear a crash, a grunt, a yelp.

  Did he fall off the bed?

  I’m confused—and a little scared—but I open my eyes to see what’s going on.

  I jump, scurrying up the bed, trying to cover myself with my nightie.

  Paul is sprawled in the floor, mouth bloody, and a muddy black boot rests across his neck. I can’t believe my eyes as I follow the t
rail up from his boot. I have to be dreaming. Why would he be here?

  Liam from the junkyard is standing in my bedroom, muscles bathed in moonlight, with his boot across Paul’s throat. He leans forward, putting a little more weight on it. Paul flails. He’s crying—actually crying. I cover my mouth, because I want to laugh, I really do. I wonder if he’s pissed himself.

  As attracted to Liam as I was on sight, right now? Right now he’s a goddamn superhero.

  Liam spares me a glance over his shoulder and my heart pounds so hard, I think we must all hear it.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod, eyes wide, without words.

  A little more pressure, and I wonder if he might kill Paul. I’m curious, but by no means concerned. Maybe he has people who could clean that up. If not, maybe I could help him. He’s pretty strong, he could drag Paul’s body out of here. I’ll just tell Pietro’s guys Paul never came home from his girlfriend’s house.

  Liam hunches over so he can look Paul in the face. His stoicism might be even more terrifying than anger, and he’s completely calm when he says, “You ever lay an unwelcome hand on her again, and I’ll kill you.” He presses his boot down even harder. “Understand?”

  Tears streaming down his face, Paul tries to nod. Liam lets up, stepping off to the side, and Paul climbs shakily to his hands and knees, spittle and snot dripping from his long, pathetic face. He sits back on his knees and holds his throat, making pitiful little noises.

  The contrast between his wretched hunched form and Liam standing tall beside him is emblazoned in my fantasies forever.

  I meet Liam’s gaze and hold it for a moment, but neither of us says anything.

  Without sparing Paul another glance, Liam turns and barges right out of my life.

  Liam

  I’m on guard duty with Lance when I see her coming down the road.

  I’d been watching for her all morning, just on the off chance she came. I thought she might, against Raj’s warning and common sense, but I hoped she wouldn’t.

  I knew I shouldn’t have interfered last night, but I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t do nothing. I’d be as bad as her sniveling little shitbag husband.