by Jc Emery
"I get it." He put his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into him. I lean in, taking whatever comfort I can get. "You want me to talk to him for you?" My eyes light up, hopeful. He scoffs and starts laughing so hard I think he’s going to choke on air.
"You think I'm going to talk to ‘The Iceman’ for you?" He snorts, using the name my father’s men call him. Yeah, Michael is a real bad ass using different mafia-related nicknames when my father can't hear him, but to his face it’s all "yes, sir" and "no, sir."
There are two hard knocks on my bedroom door. My father. When the door opens, I see his tired face staring back at us. He walks in and slumps into the chair by my vanity, a faint amusement in his eyes.
"’The Iceman’, huh?" Carlo says. Michael's face falls. He looks at his feet and starts wringing his hands together. "If you're going to talk about people, son, you need to be brave enough to say it to their face."
I don't like this. I've seen it before with Tony. My father’s grooming my brother so when he’s ready to earn his bones his attitude will command respect. My eyes dart away in discomfort. This is not what I want for my brother.
Michael is so smart and has such a big heart. Our mother wouldn't have wanted this for him, and she wouldn't have wanted it for my future husband, either. If she were here, she'd rein my father in, in her own quiet way. She would distract him from all of these little lessons he’s trying to impart upon my brother. She would be so much better at it than I am.
"He called you ‘The Iceman’ because I called you ‘The Godfather’. I'm sorry," I rush out, staring my father in the eyes, unable to stand the silence and Michael's fidgeting. My father nods his head.
"You see, Michael, your sister—a girl—has the guts to be honest with me. Right now, this little girl is being more of a man than you are. I know you want to show me that you're ready to be a man and all, so start showing me now. What did you say right before I came into this room?" His tone is light, but I know better than to assume that means all’s well. Michael stands up and faces our father, squaring his shoulders.
"Sir, I called you ‘The Iceman’," Michael says without a hint of nervousness. My father stands and walks toward him. Before I can shield myself from it, he’s got Michael by his throat. Michael doesn't move a muscle; his eyes don't waiver. I know my father's grip around his neck isn't very tight. He’s making a point. My father leans in and touches his nose to Michael's.
"As your father, inside of this house, I find the childish jokes funny. I enjoy your sense of humor. But outside of this house, if you come to work for me, that can't happen. If you want me to teach you what I know, if you want me to guide you so that one day your own smart ass kid can call you bullshit names while you're trying to show him the ropes, then you need to watch your tongue. I want to leave this to you, son, but in order to do that, you have to want it. I'll always be your father, but that won't matter if you join my family. I just want you to be prepared for that."
He lets go of Michael’s neck and takes a step back. I keep my eyes trained on my paisley bedspread, rattled that my father has let me be witness to this conversation. He’s always very careful to skirt the lines around me, never saying too much.
"It's time you learn about this side of the family, Alexandra. One day you'll have a husband and you'll have his children. You need to know what you're getting into. I just wish your mother were here to help guide you." He trails off at the end. I nod. He wants me to know my place as a wife and mother so I’ll know what I’m marrying into. The problem is he’s overlooked the fact that I was born in it. It doesn't matter who I marry. I’m already in the life, and there’s no changing that.
"Hey, Dad?" Michael says, relaxing to his normal self. For a moment I think he’s going to keep up the tough guy look in front of our father, and I worry that means he will always keep the tough guy look when he’s around. Staring at my father and brother, so much alike and growing more alike every day, my heart aches. It’s like being faced with Michael turning into somebody he isn't before my eyes.
My father smiles at him. "Hey, Mike."
"Tony's having a party tonight. Am I clear to go?" I wait for it—the moment where my father tells Michael he can take off. The verbal acknowledgement of the disparity in treatment between me and my brother. Maybe I should be more excited about being married off. I wouldn't have to deal with my father's gross injustices any longer. No, then I'll have to deal with my husband's—a husband I didn't even get the chance to pick.
"You know the rules," my father says, pointing his finger at my brother with a proud smile on his face. We’re not kids anymore, both nineteen now, but with me being a girl I don’t step a toe out the door without permission. Michael, however, unofficially works for our father. He’s on call 24/7 and not really confident enough to stop asking for permission to go out and do stuff.
"I'll do you proud, Old Man," Michael says. He smirks and blocks the playful punches my father throws at him, while throwing out a few of his own.
"Okay, have fun, ragazzone. Avvolgere tuo uccello," my father says as he walks out of the door. He turns around and looks at me and rubs his neck. I know what he said, and the expression on his face tells me he’d forgotten I was still in the room He wouldn't have told my brother to use a condom had he remembered I was sitting right here.
"Why don't you go check on your Aunt Gloria, and lock up the liquor while you're at it. It's about time all those sciocchi go home anyway." It’s not a request. My father disappears down the hall, and the moment I know he’s out of earshot, I turn on my brother.
"Yeah, ragazzone," I say in frustration. "Wrap your fucking dick." I turn away from Michael's grin and flip him the bird as I stand up and leave the room.
Chapter 2
This life of ours, this is a wonderful life. If you can get through life like this and get away with it, hey that's great. But it's very unpredictable. There's so many ways you can screw it up.
- Michael Castellano, suspected Colombo family associate
DOWNSTAIRS, THE CROWD’S thinning out. First, I lock up the liquor cabinet, then find Aunt Gloria and kindly take her glass of wine from her. She’s actually pretty awesome when she’s sober; sharp as a tack, and more guts than half the men I know. Unfortunately, she’s usually sloshed, and that means her natural charm rarely makes an appearance.
Once I have her in her coat and Uncle Emilio ready to go, I see the rest of the guests out. They all know that once Emilio leaves it’s time for them to leave as well. I don’t see Leo go, and actually, I’m pretty grateful for it. I don’t know how I’m supposed to talk to the man who was bargaining for my hand with my father not a half hour ago. Being a family man I guess it’s never occurred to Leo that his intended should be with him because she wants to, not because her father sold her down the river.
The front parlor is a mess; so are the dining room and the kitchen. I steel myself for the task of cleaning everything up. Somehow all these people get the pleasure of coming over, creating a mess, and then leaving. There are splatters of meatballs under the dinner table, stray noodles stuck to the floor, and even a few plastic forks strewn about, half broken.
"Pigs," I mutter.
"Tell me about it," a deep voice says from behind me. I scream loudly and jump up so fast I nearly pass out from the head rush. When I regain my senses, I realize it’s Leo. I feel my face heat immediately. I don't want to marry the guy or anything, but I don't want to make a bad impression either; I was raised to mind my manners. He smiles kindly at me despite the spastic look I just know I’m giving him.
"I didn't mean to startle you," he says, putting his hands in the air.
"Not the first time you've done that, is it?" I ask, motioning to his raised hands. I regret it immediately. Despite my comment, Leo smiles even brighter.
"You're a lot mouthier than Carlo lets on," he says. I stand frozen, not sure what he expects from me. Am I supposed to smile and flirt back, or am I supposed to play the obedient little principessa? T
hat's why Leo’s interested in me, isn't it? Because I’m obedient? That I’m Carlo Mancuso's daughter? That I’m his ticket up the ranks? He doesn't even know me. Clearly, I’m a business deal, and above all, that pisses me off. I’m used to being seen for who my father is and not who I am, but this still bothers me. I could get stuck with this guy’s ring on my finger, my body in his bed, and my belly full of his kids. I cringe at the thought of my entire life being planned out for me. No surprise, no option, no choice.
Leo bends down and picks up the trash that’s at his feet. He walks into the kitchen and pokes through drawers until he finds where I keep the trash bags. He’s got two out and hands one to me before he opens the other for himself. I mean to tell him that he doesn't have to help. I want to tell him to stop helping, but I can't get my lips to move. Here he is, one of my father's favorite soldatos, wearing an Armani suit, picking up trash in my dining room. As he bends over, I notice the gold Desert Eagle gun at his hip and stifle the sigh that threatens to break through. He’s on the job. He’ll always be on the job, and when I get stuck married to him, I can't expect anything less.
"You don't—" I start, but stop the moment I see my father come into the room. Leo looks up at my father from his crouched position and stands immediately.
"What's going on in here?" Carlo asks, looking confused. I open my mouth to speak, but I don't know what to say. None of Carlo's men have ever helped me clean before.
"I wanted to help Alexandra clean up, Sir. Then I was going to ask her if she would like to go for dessert with me, since you said I could ask her out and all," Leo explains. My mouth still isn't working, but a strange feeling appears in my stomach. It’s like a hundred butterflies have settled in my belly and are trying to take flight. Nobody has ever asked my father for permission to take me out before.
My first boyfriend and I snuck around as much as we could, which didn't amount to anything. After we'd dated a few months and I'd given him my virginity, he had the nerve to ask if my father was looking for any new runners. That was the first time I'd ever seen Michael fly into a rage—it was terrifying. I made it a point after that to never tell Michael when someone broke my heart. As much as I like to see the softer side of him, my brother has a violent streak just like our father. He believes in an eye for an eye. To this day I don't know what Michael did to the guy, but he put him in the hospital—something about his heart.
"Si vuole veramente colpo su di lei, non è vero?" my father says, asking Leo if he really wants to impress me. For whatever reason, anytime there’s something my father doesn't want me to hear he’ll say it in Italian, as though I'm not fluent. Leo responds in Italian, telling my father that he does want to impress me. I blush again, not sure I can take much more of this—them talking about me right in front of me.
"Gelato mi impressiona," I say, telling them that gelato impresses me. Leo raises his eyebrows, and my father smiles softly. He walks over to me and kisses my forehead gently. "In case you've forgotten, Daddy, you're the one who taught me to speak Italian."
"Forget? No," my father says. "Sometimes, though. I do like to forget that you're no longer a little girl." My father walks toward the game room before turning around and staring at Leo. "Leave the mess, son. You've got a girl to impress. Just have her home by eleven." He leaves the room without turning around.
"That was a little awkward, wasn't it?" Leo asks. I blink at him before regaining my composure.
"What? Oh, no. My dad sold me to a Turk down the street for two sheep last week," I deadpan. I’m loosening up around Leo, and I can't decide if I like that or not. On one hand, I want to hate him and refuse to get to know him based on principle. On the other hand, he’s offering gelato and the chance to ditch cleaning duties. Once the smile brakes out on Leo's face, I decide that this doesn't have to be so bad after all. I just have to give him a chance.
"Seriously? I just paid three sheep. I think I've been ripped off," Leo says, laughing. I can't stop the smile that comes to my face.
"Whatever." I wave him off, setting the trash bag on the dining room table. "I'm going to let you take me out for gelato. That is so totally worth four sheep."
Leo leads me down the center hallway and out through the front door. We walk up to a black Mercedes sedan. He comes around the passenger's side and opens the door for me. I climb in; when he’s settled in the driver's seat, I look to him.
"Mafia Black, how original." I smile teasingly.
"Hey, it's standard issue. You know, your father didn't tell me how big of a smart ass you are."
I roll my eyes. "I'm sure there are a lot of things he didn't tell you," I respond. This conversation is making me uncomfortable. I don't like discussing my father with people I don't know very well.
"Is that so?" his eyes seem to darken as he looks at me, like he'd discovered something new and hidden. I wiggle in my seat, growing uncomfortable with the intensity in his eyes.
"Well, I am nineteen," I defend myself.
"Nineteen, right," he says and starts the car. The rest of the drive to the gelato shop is silent. I choose not to overanalyze it and instead just enjoy the quiet. Just as we are pulling up to A Taste of Sicily, I speak.
"You're twenty-three, right?" I ask. Leo confirms what I already know. "So why are you interested in a nineteen-year-old?" I stumble over my words, trying to make the question sound better, less insinuating, but no matter how I phrase it, it sounds insulting.
His frustration is palpable as he clenches and unclenches his grip on the steering wheel. Parking the car, he unbuckles himself and turns his large torso toward me. "I'm not interested in a nineteen-year-old, Alexandra. I'm interested in you. And you'll be twenty in a few months anyway. I’m not that much older than you." Leo's voice has taken on a darker note. He doesn't sound nearly as pleasant as he did earlier. He quickly composes himself, his face relaxing, and he’s back to being Mr. Charming.
"I didn't mean for it to come out like that," I say apologetically. He shrugs and gets out of the car, comes around to the passenger side and opens the door for me. He has manners, I'll give him that. I get out of the car and turn to the street. I've been to this place a hundred times or more. It’s not far from the house, but is even closer to Tony's place. This is the closest I'll be getting to Tony's party tonight. I don't think I want to be there, knowing what goes on and all, but I hate knowing I can't make that decision for myself. Mr. Muscles with the gold gun will see to it that I don't step foot in that direction.
Slick black sedans race down the street toward Tony's house—all of them Mercedes—completely indistinguishable from one another. They’re going well above the posted speed limit, which is unusual. My father's men know better than to break traffic laws for no apparent reason. It draws attention to them—puts a spotlight on the organization.
An ear-piercing, feminine scream rings out in the night air, and sounds of shouting follow. Leo stiffens immediately and wraps his hand around my upper arm, putting his body between me and the madness down the street. It isn't often that this kind of trouble happens around here these days. It’s pretty rare in fact. Since my father scooped up two other families, the competition’s been down, and his family has become too strong to really mess with.
More screams, more shouting—and then the screaming stops and there’s only a deep male voice yelling over the others. "I'll kill you, Fortino!" Michael.
I don’t think there will be a time when I’ll ever not know his deep baritone screams. My stomach sinks. We don’t say those words unless we mean them.
The boom comes first to silence my thoughts. Every part of my body freezes. Leo's large body swings around as he wraps me in his arms and rushes into the gelato shop. Stuck in a tunnel of panic, all I can hear is the heavy thud of my own heart. All at once my senses come back to me, flooding my entire body.
Leo runs out of the gelato shop as the screams start up again. This time they’re more guttural. I wish I didn't know what those screams sound like. They sound like death.
I rush out after Leo. He’s at the street, unmoving, unaware that I've followed him. More gunshots ring out and more shouting, but the only voice I can hear is Tony's. Words twist in agony, a voice about to break, Tony screams through sobs. He keeps screaming "dead" again and again and again.
Michael.
I run past Leo at a sprint. I can vaguely make out his shouting from behind me, but I’m too fast. For all that muscle and length, he can't catch up to me. I run toward the large crowd that’s wrapped around the agonizing screaming. The pounding in my ears grows louder and louder until I can't hear anything else. I push my way through the crowd. Elbows try to block me, arms shoot out, but I’m determined.
Michael.
I break through to the center of the crowd to find some young guy I don't recognize pointing a Glock toward the ground in front of him. I follow the line of his gun to Tony, lying on the pavement, propped up by one elbow, his other hand over his gut, which is drenched with dark red blood. The man with the gun forgotten, I race toward Tony and slip behind him so I can support his weight.
Not Michael.
I breathe a selfish sigh of relief that it’s not Michael.
Rough hands grab at my shoulders, but I fight them off. I can't turn away. The man with the gun redirects the Glock from Tony's gut toward my head. I grew up around guns and was raised to not fear them, but all of that goes out the window when I have one pointed at me. Still, I refuse to leave Tony. He’s hotheaded and twisted from the inside out, but he's always been good to me. He’s hotheaded and twisted from the inside out, but he’s always been good to me and Michael. He's the one who showed Michael how to cover up that mess he'd gotten himself into with my first boyfriend.
"Put the gun down, Junior!" Michael shouts from beside my ear. Startled, I now feel Michael’s presence behind me. If he’s trying to pull me away, that means he’s safe. He’s okay. Michael isn't dead. A weight lifts from my heart, and I say a silent "Thanks" to God that he’s okay. But then I remember the man with the gun and realize that this could change.
