by Gabby Grace
There is one bright spot to this whole fucked up turning of events.
I get to see Bella.
16
Bella
My eyes are so tired, they feel like burning embers and I just want to douse them with Visine. I can’t focus on the computer screen anymore, so I shut it down, make myself a nice cup of Chamomile tea, and snuggle up on the couch to watch a little TV before I hit the sack. Having sex with Vito all last night definitely didn’t help my stamina today.
It’s been an emotional roller coaster day of extreme highs and lows, and now I feel like I’m slipping into another low. I’m flipping the channels trying to calm my mind, and catch the tail end of a Sex in the City rerun. Trouble is, all the sexual undertones reminds me of Vito. Mr. Big has nothing on him.
Back to flipping through the channels again, I stop on the news station to get the weather. Maybe I’ll hit the beach tomorrow after some morning work. I don’t have the time, but I need to pencil in a couple hours so I can try to relax. The sun and the waves rolling in are the tonic I need. The newscaster tells us he’ll get to the weather soon, but first there’s a breaking news story.
He describes a giant warehouse fire that started last night before midnight and consumed three entire buildings in the docks district. It was still not under control, and it had been burning close to twenty-four hours. I turn up the volume on the remote.
The anchor breaks to Melanie Timmons, the reporter at the scene of the fire. We’re here on Macawber Street in the docks section of the city. You can see the scene behind me. This fire is totally out of control and still threatening all the buildings around. Two firefighters have been injured. We’ll bring you an update before the top of the hour.
Macawber Street. Where have I heard that?
I shoot up like a firecracker, my heartbeat quickening to the point of sudden nausea. I walk quickly to the wastebasket next to the dryer, reach down inside it, and smooth out the crumpled yellow post-it note I found in Vito’s pants last night. A shrill gasp escapes me, as my hand goes to my mouth. I look at the address to confirm what I already know is scrawled in pencil on that paper: 141 Macawber Street.
I slide unsteadily down the wall, my hand still covering my mouth, trying to process what I’ve just learned. On the floor, I feel detached from my body, my mind scrambling, a plethora of emotions coursing through my mind.
I process what I know. There is a huge fire still raging on Macawber Street that’s been burning for close to twenty-four hours. It’s 11:15 now, Vito was knocking on my door at close to 12:30 a.m. That would have given him a little over an hour to make it from there to my house. He came in here reeking of smoke and told me he was at a bonfire with his friends. I didn’t question it. Why would I?
My mind is racing so fast, I can’t get it to slow down. Could Vito have started that fire? Why would he burn down a warehouse? Was he just an innocent bystander? None of this was making any sense.
A troubling thought entered my head, and I tried to push it back, but couldn’t. Should I call the police?
I don’t know what to think, or do, or feel, so I do nothing. I slowly rise up to my feet, still trying to collect my bearings, and plod back to the couch. I turn off the TV and pull a blanket off the back of the couch and up over my weary body, snuggling my head down deep into a couch pillow. I need some rest. If I get some rest, then I’ll be able to think clearly. At least that’s what I tell myself.
My eyes are heavy and my heart feels like it’s shattered into a million pieces. I’m losing the battle to stay awake any longer, the fatigue in my mind crushing me under its enormous weight.
The worst part: he lied to me.
_____
Ding dong.
You’ve got to be kidding me? I have no idea what time it is, but it’s fucking late. I went to sleep at eleven-thirty which means it must be well past midnight.
Ding dong.
I slowly rise up on my elbows from my spot on the couch, rubbing my eyes. I slowly get up to pad over to the door, the pile from the plush white carpet swallowing up my bare feet, the blanket falling from around my shoulders. I peer out the side window next to the door. My eyes must be deceiving me.
It’s Vito.
Oh shit. My heart starts beating so frantically it feels like it’s going to climb out of my throat. What am I going to do? I’m not ready for this. I need to let him in. But what if he’s dangerous? I remember sensing there was something dark about him when we were on the plane, yes, but nothing he’s done since then has shown he’s a danger to me.
Ding dong.
This is stupid, but women die every day from letting psychos into their house. Then I hear my phone ringing in the back office. I run to it. It’s Vito. It has to be safe to answer the phone.
“Hello?”
“Bella, it’s me, Vito. I’m on your front stoop ringing your doorbell. Do you hear me, or are you not home?
“I heard you.”
“Why don’t you answer the door?”
“You have some fucking explaining to do, Vito.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry I ran out of here yesterday. I had to go meet my boss back in New York, but now I’m back. Are you going to let me in?”
“Where were you last night?”
“When? I was with you.”
“Before that?”
“I told you, I was hanging with some friends on the beach.”
“You’re lying.”
“What?”
“What do you know about that fire on Macawber Street?”
There’s silence, and then, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. I’m hanging up unless you start talking, and it had better be the truth.”
“You don’t want the truth, Bella. It’s fucking ugly.”
“I don’t care. I want to know.”
More silence.
“What’s it going to be, Vito?”
“I’ll tell you… just let me in.”
I consider my options as I walk from my office back to the front door, I peer out the window at him again. There’s something about the expression on his face that tells me I can trust him. He looks… defeated.
I unlock the heavy wood door, open it slowly. As I do, he pulls the phone slightly away from his face, its display illuminating his sharp features, and then he drops it to his side and turns to face me squarely.
“Can I come in and explain?”
He asked me. He would have forced his way in by now if he was any danger to me.
I step to the side and allow him to pass. His smell intoxicates me, and I feel like I’m being dragged under his spell again. It’s instant. I shake my head as if to release the fuzziness affecting my ability to think clearly.
He sits down on the couch, and after turning on a small lamp with a white wooden base and a thin purple shade, I sit down next to him, leaving a little distance between us. Whether that space between us ever closes up again is largely dependent on what he says next.
My look must be so intense right now, but I don’t fucking care. “Explain why I saw a burning warehouse on the evening news and the address matched the one written on the post-it note in your pants last night.”
“Are you sure you want to hear this, Bella? It could put you in danger.” His words are measured.
“I don’t care.” I cross my arms over my chest and take in a deep breath.
“Alright.” He furls his brow, then continues. “If I leave anything out it’s because I have to. My job is not like ordinary jobs. In fact, I’m on the payroll of a major crime family in New York City. I was on a job yesterday. That warehouse was full of drugs. They’re processing heroin and shipping it up to where I live so it can be sold to women and children. You may want to lump all crime families into a shit pile and just think that everything they do is bad, and you’d be partially right, but my family doesn’t condone, or back, the selling of drugs in our communities.
It messes people’s lives up. It destroys communities. Communities we live in.”
“This sounds like a sack of shit.” I feel the temperature of my Latina blood rising up inside me. My reaction is mostly innate. On top of that, I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
His eyes look straight into mine. “It’s all true. I swear it.”
“So you admit to burning that place down?” I’m half flipping out right now, my hand gestures wild, but I manage to stay slightly in control.
“Yes. I had to. If I didn’t, they would have simply moved their operation somewhere else. Millions of dollars of heroin would have made it into my community, and maybe even some of the communities around here.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” I ask.
“Local crime families who are well-established both here and in New York. They’ve moved away from our alliance and broken our agreement to never get involved in trafficking heavy drugs.”
I stare off into the distance, softening a bit. “My cousin died from a heroin overdose. His name was Manuel.”
“Here in Miami?”
“No, in Colombia.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Yes. Medellin. He got involved with some of the drug dealers there. They gave him free drugs in exchange for distributing them to users in the local communities. One day, some rival guys drove by in a car and gunned him down like a dog in the street. It was one of the saddest days of my life. I was only sixteen.”
“I’m sorry, Bella.” He reaches for my shoulder, but I pull away. He lowers his hand, realizing I’m not open to affection right now. Not from him.
“It was a long time ago. But I remember what those drugs did to our communities. Girls. Boys. Women. Men. It takes hold of them and they change. Their lives were ruined.”
“It’s bad stuff.”
“So what now?” I glare right into him, head lowered, arms crossed, and pissed off.
“I have a job to do. That family I told you about is my family. We’re in a war, and I have to protect them.”
“What about us? Did you ever consider my feelings in all of this?” I am full-on emotionally charged-up right now, both fearful and pissed off, I make no apologies or excuses for my reactions. My heart hurts for him. I understand. It doesn't mean I approve, though.
“That’s up to you,” he answers calmly. “You know my secret. Sharing it will only put both of us in danger.”
“Why did you lie to me? That’s’ what disappoints me the most.” I lunge for his chest with the flat palms of my hands, pushing hard against him. He outweighs me by at least a hundred pounds, though, and barely moves.
“To protect you. To protect my family. I hated to do it, but how could I tell you about what I do and what I’m involved in? It’s not exactly normal first date-type of talk.”
“Will you ever lie to me again?”
“No. Not if you want the truth no matter how gritty and real.”
“I need time to think, Vito. It’s not because I don’t care about you, I do. It’s just…”
“I understand.” He throws his hands up and makes for the door, with no goodbye, no apologies. He rips open the door, storms out, and slams it shut behind him. A few seconds later, I hear the sound of a powerful engine roaring to life, then speeding away from me. Leaving me. Perhaps for good.
One thing is clear: Vito is not going to change for anyone. Truth is, I would never want him to. I either need to accept him for who he is, or we’re done.
17
Vito
I drove away from Bella’s feeling angry and exposed. When she looked me in the eyes, her own beautiful dark ones providing a glimpse right into her soul, and asked for the truth, I gave it to her.
Not because I had to. Because I wanted to.
Truth is, I didn’t want to leave her. I left because she wanted me to.
Needing to put this shit out of my mind, I focus on the business at hand. Frankie will be coming in tomorrow morning to meet me at a motel. When I find where I’ll be staying, I’ll text him the address. We have some dangerous work coming up, and I’m definitely going to need my rest.
About ten minutes from Bella’s house, I rumble up outside the Shady Palms Motel. It doesn’t look like too much of a dump, so I pull in, parking the Mustang near the front entrance. Lucky for me, I was able to secure the same car I was driving the last time I was here. Some things are meant to be.
The front desk is empty, but after ringing the bell, a guy I can only describe as repulsive slithers out from behind some curtains leading to the back, and judging by the audio, he was viewing an old-school Godzilla movie. He looks at me through thick coke-bottle glasses, his giant bug eyes magnified maybe three times larger than normal. He’s freaking me the fuck out. His greasy chestnut hair spraying off in all directions makes me want to choke him to death for the sake of humanity.
“I’ll take a room. One night to start and then we’ll see.”
“You’re in luck. We have a few rooms left.”
I wouldn’t call falling into this dump luck. “How much?’
“Sixty. Fifty if you pay cash.”
I hand him a President Grant, then take the red diamond-shaped key chain with a big white number 2 on it from the counter in front of me. I high-tail it to escape this creep show, the guy still standing behind the counter and staring at me as I walk out.
I grab my overnight bag from the car, and venture my way to the red motel room door with a brass 2 on it. When I flick the lights on, I can see this place is a shithole of epic proportions. Fuck it.
I don’t even bother washing up or brushing my teeth. I take a second to text Frankie the address, and then strip off the top cover sheet of the bed and throw it into the corner before falling down onto the bed. I’ve fucked women in motels like this before, and let me tell you, nasty shit happens on that top bedcover. A dump like this would wash them maybe once a month, if that. I can’t tell you how many loads I’ve blown on those things, but it has to number in the dozens.
Getting horizontal feels good after the fucking jet lag from flying back and forth twice in the last two days. My mind wanders to Bella and how good it would feel to have her naked body pressing up against me right about now. Finally, I drift into what will be a fitful night of sleep.
My dreams are about Bella. Someone is trying to take her away from me. I can’t see the face, but a strong arm is gripping her around the throat. The figure is backing up with her, while brandishing a weapon I can’t really make out. My legs are like concrete and I can’t get to her. I can only drag them along behind me in a desperate attempt to close the gap between me and the attacker. It’s no use. Every time I move forward, the figure backs up another step with her in a dance that will end up fatal for her unless I can figure something else out.
Knock, knock, knock.
What the fuck…where am I?
Knock. Knock. Pounding now.
I roll out of bed, plod to the door, look through the peephole and see it’s Frankie. I open the door, the bright morning light blinding me, and he man hugs me before I can do or say anything, a big shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
“What the fuck, Frankie?”
He let’s go of me then, and pushes me hard in the chest.
“What’s your problem, Sleepy Beauty? It’s ten o’clock, man.”
“Oh shit. C’mon in, brother.”
I hold my arm out showing him the way in.
Frankie just looks around for a second and then shakes his head. “What a fucking shit hole, huh, Vito? It reminds me of my old place in the Bronx.”
“Minus the rats.”
“Don’t remind me.”
I look him over and say, “You’re looking good. All tan and shit.”
“Yeah, you know. I’ve been down here more than a week. All I do is fuck Anna and lay on the beach.”
“That’s a tough life you got there, Frankie.”
“So
meone’s got to do it.” He shakes his head side to side and laughs.
“So, you hungry?”
“Yeah, Vito. By the looks of this place, there’s no breakfast buffet, so maybe we should go find a place to eat.”
____
My car is much nicer than Frankie’s, a Honda CRV rental, so we take mine. “What are you, a chick with that car? Maybe you need to check and see if you still got balls down there?”
“Fuck you, Vito. I got a deal on it. At least I don’t need to drive a penis extension to make up for my inadequate size.”
I laugh it off because we’re boys. We drive and spot a Denny’s not too far down the road from us. When we get inside the typical-looking place that looks the same all over the country, we both do a double-take, looking at each other and then back at the creepy scene in front of us. We’re the youngest people in here by forty years or so. Then Frankie sees the sign that it’s Senior Citizen half-price day, points it out to me, and then it goes from a Twilight Zone episode to making perfect sense.
“What the fuck, Vito? You get free Geritol with an order of pancakes?”
I don’t know what it is about guys, but we revert back to nine years old when hanging with old friends. I haven’t known Frankie that long, but it feels like I’ve known him for half a lifetime.
A large women walks up, just as Frankie is unscrewing the tops to the salt and pepper shakers. Our waitress, who has bleach blonde hair that hasn’t created its own pigment in at least twenty years, doesn’t look in the mood for our antics. She sighs and raises her eyebrows, pulling out the pencil she keeps hidden behind her ear to write down our order. She’s just as old as most of the people in here and has the vocal chords of a bus driver.
“What’ll you guys have?”
I order first. “I’ll have the Hungryman’s Platter with scrambled eggs.”
“Make it two.” Frankie holds his two fingers up for effect.
