by Nicole Fox
Despite it all, I want to call my dad. He has always made it clear he will move heaven and earth to take care of me, to make sure no one is mean to me, and I want his support right now. But the support he offered me when a girl tripped me during soccer practice and made me miss the net won’t apply here. He will tell me to come home. To put down my apron and knife and focus on more meaningful pursuits. And that is the last thing I want to hear right now.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts list, hoping to see a spark of hope amidst the names, but there is nothing. I’ve lost touch with everyone since I started culinary school. There hasn’t been time for friends.
This is probably the kind of situation where most girls would turn to their moms, but she hasn’t been in the picture since I was six years old. Even if I had her number, I wouldn’t call her. Dad hasn’t always been perfect, but at least he was there. At least he cared enough to stay.
I untie my apron and pull it over my head, leaning back against the brick side of the restaurant.
“Take it off, baby!”
I look up and see a man on a motorcycle with his hair in a bun parked along the curb. He is waggling his eyebrows at me like I’m supposed to fall in love with him for harassing me on the street, and the fire that filled my veins inside hasn’t died out yet. The embers are still there, burning under the skin, and I step towards him, lips pulled back in a smile.
He looks surprised, and I’m sure he is. That move has probably never worked for him before. He smiles back at me, his tongue darting out to lick his lower lip.
“Is that your bike?” I purr.
He nods. “Want a ride?”
My voice is still sticky sweet as I respond, “So sweet of you to offer. I’d rather choke and die on that grease ball you call a man bun, but thanks anyway, hon.”
It takes him a second to realize my words don’t match the tone. When it hits him, he snarls, “Bitch.”
“Asshole.” I flip him the bird over my shoulder and start the long walk home.
3
Eve
My feet hit the floor before I’m fully awake, and it takes me a second to understand why I’m up and moving at all. Someone is pounding on my front door. I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It is just before seven in the morning.
I stayed up late last night, nervously waiting for Cal Higgs to call and inform me I was fired after the stunt I pulled in the dining room. Not only did I spill wine on the mean Russian man, but the rest of the guests saw it. I’d put the reputation of The Floating Crown at risk, and firing me seemed like the only way Cal could set things right. But he didn’t call, so I reluctantly fell asleep, wondering when the other shoe would drop. Seven A.M., apparently.
Early morning light is filtering through the white curtains in my apartment, bathing the rooms in light, but my eyes are too busy adjusting to the brightness to do anything other than squint. I grab a sweater from the back of the couch, wrap it around myself to cover my bubblegum pink pajama shorts and tank top, and peer through the peep hole. I expect to see Cal Higgs or someone else from the restaurant there to fire me and bring me the purse I left in my locker since I was too busy running away to grab my things.
Instead, I see my father.
As soon as I slide the bolt over, my father opens the door from the other side and pushes past me. “What were you thinking, Eve?” he hisses.
I stumble back and shake my head. It is far too early for this. “What? Why are you here?”
My dad is a tall, thin man. Most men—especially in his line of work—are muscled and intimidating, but my father has always been intimidating in another regard. His natural thinness gives his face a gaunt appearance—eyes sunken in, cheeks hollowed, chin pointed. Like a skeleton. He looks like Death himself if the Grim Reaper ever gave up the shroud and scythe.
Of course, to me, he has always been my dad. But my love for him doesn’t mean I can’t see what other people see.
When he turns on me, I shrink back into the wall, terrified of the black fury in his eyes. “You started a feud with the Volkov Bratva.”
I hear the words, but they don’t connect. It feels like I’m outside my body watching myself. A passive observer rather than an active participant. I haven’t been awake long enough to handle what is currently happening, so after a long pause, I run a hand down my face and shake my head. “Excuse me?”
“The man you spilled wine on!” my father roars. “Do you remember that?”
I squeeze my eyes closed. “Yes. Obviously. How did you hear about that?”
My father sighs and steps forward, grabbing me by the shoulders gently. He bends forward so he is looking in my eyes. “The man you spilled wine on was Ivan Volkov.”
This time, his words connect. “Shit.”
He lets out a long exhale like he is relieved to know I’m not as stupid as I just appeared to be. “Shit, indeed.”
“I didn’t know,” I say, breaking out of his hold and pacing back and forth in front of my apartment door. “He was just such a jerk, and I…I lost it.”
I look up at my dad. His eyes are turned down in the corners, sorry, but his lips are still pinched together in frustration. He doesn’t know the reason I lashed out at the man was because he reminded me of my father. Because, like my dad, the man expected me to aspire to nothing more than being some man’s trophy wife.
“It doesn’t matter what he said.” My dad walks into my small kitchen, grabs a glass from the cabinet next to the refrigerator, and fills it in the sink. He drinks all of it before he continues. “You need to apologize.”
“Apologize?” My eyebrows are so high they are probably lost in my hairline. “You think the boss of the Volkov Bratva is going to accept my earnest apology? I’m not sure if you’re aware, Dad, but you mob leaders aren’t the most understanding of men.”
“You’re not going to give him a fruit basket,” he snaps. He rounds my kitchen island, grabs my arm, and leads me over to my couch. I’m too tired to resist when he forces me down on the cushion and then sits across from me on the coffee table. A bigger man would break the legs, but my dad doesn’t weigh much more than I do. “You are going to beg for forgiveness, Eve. You are going to make this right by giving Ivan whatever he wants.”
I wonder if my dad knows what he is asking me to do, but when his mouth twists to one side and his eyes go glassy, I know he does. Ivan Volkov could want anything. Anything. I can’t promise him that.
“I can’t do that,” I say. “I can’t.”
He takes a deep breath. “I’m not asking you, Eve. You ruined a business relationship for me, so you don’t have a choice.”
I’m too shocked to find the words to argue. My dad reaches out and runs a thumb across my cheek. “You fucked up, kid. Now, it’s time to fix it.”
I’m still sitting on the couch, staring at the corner of the coffee table where my father had been sitting, when he closes my apartment door behind him.
By the time I’m shoving my toothbrush and some back-up underwear into a small backpack, it is late afternoon. My shift at The Floating Crown had been creeping closer and closer as the sun moved across the sky, and the closer it got, the more I realized I couldn’t go.
I can’t walk into the restaurant and bow to my father’s wishes. I can’t apologize to a man who doesn’t deserve my apology. Regardless of who he is within the city and my father’s world, begging him for forgiveness and turning myself into his personal slave is not an option. So, I’ll leave.
Too many people throughout my life have made me painfully aware that they don’t think I could survive on my own. Growing up the daughter of a don, they think everything in my life has been handed to me. And in a sense, it has. My time at culinary school was the first time in my life where I accomplished something by myself and for myself. And it was incredible. So, why not continue doing that? My father has made it clear that as much as he loves me, he loves his power and position more, so why should I stick around and be blindly l
oyal to him? I’m going to get out of the city and start over somewhere else. Even if I end up flipping burgers, it will be better than handing myself over to the Volkov family.
I have enough money in savings to get out of the city and begin the process of starting over somewhere new, so, an hour before service is set to start at the restaurant, I buy a ticket and hop on a bus headed south.
Public transportation is anything but luxurious. The man behind me is sleeping with his face pressed against the window, the glass fogging from his heavy breathing. A woman is changing a baby in the front seat. She drops a wipe with a brown smear on it and doesn’t notice. I look away. I just have to endure it for a few hours, and then I’ll be getting off the bus and heading into a new life. Whatever problems I’m leaving in the city, my father can deal with them.
The driver—a middle-aged woman with a bald spot and two silver front teeth—pulls the doors shut and begins pulling away from the station before suddenly slamming on her brakes. The doors open and a man runs up the steps of the bus. He has a black hood on despite the heat and doesn’t wave to the driver in apology for being late. He doesn’t smile or say ‘thanks.’ He just walks on with his head down, claims the seat across from mine, and sits down. Once again, the driver pulls the doors shut and this time, we actually pull away from the station.
I watch the people walking down the street. Some alone, some in groups, some pushing strollers. Everyone’s life is so varied and different, and I wonder what shape my life will take when I start over. I wonder where I will settle, who I will meet, and who I will become. I’m still pondering my future when I look over and realize the man in the seat next to me is looking over at me.
His hood is down now, and he is staring at me, his entire body pointed in my direction. When our eyes meet, he is not embarrassed to have been caught or apologetic. He simply smiles.
A chill rocks down my spine, and I look out my window, unseeing. Moments before, I saw the bus as a projectile to my future. A smelly, strangely populated vessel that would deliver me to a new life. Now, it feels like a prison. I’m trapped. I can feel the man watching me even when I don’t look at him. Is he crazy? Deranged? Surely, he wouldn’t attack me in the middle of the bus, right?
When my seat shifts from the weight of a person claiming the seat next to me, I don’t have to turn to know it is the man in the hood.
“What do you want?” I ask, refusing to turn and acknowledge him. “Who are you?”
“You can’t run from us,” he hisses. “If you stay, you can make amends. If you run, the Volkov family will have you rehabilitated.”
I let my eyes fall closed, disappointment wrapping around me like chains. “I’ve never heard of that. Rehabilitation?”
“Not many people have,” the man says, relaxing in the seat. “Those who go through the experience rarely come out the other side.”
Goosebumps rise on my arms, and I finally turn towards him. He is young, not much older than me, if at all, but there are small, ragged scars all across his face and neck. His body is pocked and painted with the violence he has endured and no doubt inflicted. My gaze shifts lower, and I see the familiar bulge of a gun in his waistband. “What do you want?”
“To do my job and get home,” he says. “You have to come with me.”
“And if I don’t?”
He twines his fingers together and bends them back, the knuckles popping loudly. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Eve Furino. You know what will happen.”
Just like my father said in my apartment this morning. I don’t have a choice.
At the second to last stop before the bus leaves town, the man stands up, moves to the aisle, and motions for me to lead the way off the bus. I think about calling out for help from one of the passengers, but they can’t help me. They are innocent people, half-asleep or wrangling children. None of them are equipped to fight off a trained assassin. So, I walk off the bus, and immediately notice a black car with deeply tinted windows parked along the curb. The man points over my shoulder at the car and then pushes the same finger in the center of my back.
“Move. Ivan is waiting.”
To keep my mind busy, I search for escape routes as we drive, imagining myself jumping from the car and rolling across the road, sprinting into traffic to escape. But the doors are child-locked. Plus, I know the man won’t hesitate to shoot and kill me. Even if I managed to get the door open and get out, he would put a bullet in my back before I could take a step.
When I look over, he is staring at me, eyes gray and lifeless, his pointer finger curling against his thigh—only a few inches from where his gun is hidden—like he is pulling a trigger.
The car pulls up to the back doors of The Floating Crown. The man gets out without a word and extends a hand to me like I would actually let him help me out. I glare at him as I slide past, but he doesn’t notice or care. He roughly grabs my elbow and shoves me through the kitchen’s back door.
Cal Higgs is back in the kitchen, barking orders at Felix, who in the few seconds I observe him looks remarkably more competent than he was last night. Cal looks up when the doors slam shut, but he looks away just as quickly. Clearly, he is part of this plan. Or, at least knows enough about it to understand he should stay out of the way.
Makayla, however, looks horrified to see me. Her eyes are wide, and she tries to wave me over, but I just shake my head. She is a nice girl, and I don’t want her anywhere near this man or the mafia baggage that comes with being part of my life.
“Cook something,” the man says, shoving me forward. I stumble, catching myself on the corner of a cabinet, the metal corner scraping the palm of my hand. A small trickle of blood flows down my fingers, and I narrow my eyes at the man, but he is unaffected. “Whatever you make that is best.”
I don’t know what the plan is, but I do know making another lackluster meal will not help my situation in any way. So, I scan the kitchen for what is on the menu tonight, and after seeing fresh mussels near Felix’s station, I settle on the scoglio I mentioned to the drunk the night before. Seafood pasta is always a hit, and it fills a large plate, which means no one can complain about the serving size being too small.
The man hovers over me as I cook, staying no more than two feet away at all times, his hand resting on his gun. At first, it is hard to focus with him peering over my shoulder, but as I ease into the familiar rhythm of cooking, I can forget about him for several minutes at a time.
The kitchen has always been my happy place. No matter what is going on in life or how things might be falling apart, people have to eat. Cooking was something I could count on several times a day. A guaranteed chunk of time where I could get away from whatever scheme my father was planning with his men or whatever feud they were dealing with and cook. It became my escape.
“Are you almost done?” he snaps, pulling me back into the reality of the moment.
I sigh. “Unless you want whoever is going to eat this to have food poisoning, I’m going to need a few more minutes.”
The man growls under his breath, but stays quiet while I finish the meal and plate it up. I swirl oil around the rim of the plate, top it with freshly cracked black pepper, and slide the plate across the counter to him. “There you go.”
He shakes his head. “No, you are taking it out there.”
“I’m not in uniform,” I say, looking down at my jeans and plain t-shirt.
“You had a bag with you. What’s in there?” he asks. His eyes catch on my chest. “Maybe something a little less nun-like? Ivan is going to want a taste of more than just the food.”
A disgusting shiver runs through me, and I shake my head. “I only packed another pair of jeans.”
The man purses his lips and then reaches out and pinches my apron between his fingers. “Take off your jeans and wear this.”
“Just my apron?” I ask, eyes wide. I shake my head. “I can’t. My entire ass will be on display.”
The man looks at me like that wouldn’t be such a ba
d thing and shrugs. “Wear the apron or walk out naked.”
I stare at him, wishing more than anything I could jab both my fingers into his eyeballs, but he just stares at me with the same cocky smile until I march back to the employee locker area. The man follows me, leaning against the door frame to watch me change. I refuse to give him the pleasure.
I take off the robe, turn it sideways, and wrap it around myself like a skirt. The man never said how I had to wear the robe, though based on his scowl, he is wishing he’d been more specific. I wrap the neck and waist ties around my waist, so they look like a chunky matching belt, and then slide my jeans out from underneath. I move over to stand in the mirror, and the whole look isn’t half bad. The apron skirt is much shorter than I would normally wear, especially for work, but my ass isn’t hanging out, which feels like a very small win in the middle of a shitty situation. I turn back to the man.
“Can I get this over with now?”
He peruses my outfit for a moment and then steps aside with a scowl, gesturing for me to carry on. I hurry past him, grab the plate from the counter without looking at any of my coworkers, and walk into the dining room, fully aware that, no matter what has happened already on this shitty day, whatever happens next is going to be much, much worse.
4
Luka
I’ve never met Benedetto Furino’s daughter, but my father has asked me to kill her, and I will.
I’m his underboss, his son. It is my job. Plus, it makes no difference to me. Really, it will be a kind of justice. My father wants her dead because she embarrassed him in front of his friends and ruined his favorite suit. I want Benedetto to pay for his ambush on the soda factory. Had I not fought my way out, I could have been killed. My father could be mourning my death. So, it seems fitting Benedetto should mourn.
