Menace

by J. M. Darhower

  He nods. “You break a nose, they’ll recover once the adrenaline kicks in, but you take an eye out and they’re fucked. They can’t catch you if they can’t find you.”

  Huh. “I’ll have to remember that.”

  Chapter Ten

  The pink nightgown had always been the little girl’s favorite. Ruffled short sleeves, soft cotton, with a big bow on the front of it. Her mother told her she was a beautiful princess whenever she wore it, and she had felt that way.

  But as the little girl sat in the Tin Man’s den, perched in a black leather chair way too big for her small body, she felt kind of like Cinderella before she went to the ball, the one with the wicked stepmother, except the little girl had a Papa.

  She didn’t like the new nightgown he’d given her. It was white and made her skin itchy. She kept scratching... and scratching... and scratching. Ugh. She stared at the flickering flames in the fireplace as it ate up what was left of the pink fabric.

  “Why couldn’t I keep it?” she asked quietly, looking to the Tin Man sitting in the identical chair beside her, a small table separating the two of them.

  He plucked a glass off of that table, filled almost to the top with a clear liquid. It looked like water, but he grimaced when he drank it, which told the little girl it might’ve been something different.

  “It stunk,” he said, his voice lazy, words slurring. He slouched, long legs spread out, his knee constantly moving.

  “You couldn’t clean it?” she asked.

  He took another drink before casting a flat look her way, no humor in his watery, bloodshot eyes. “It stunk like your mother.”

  The little girl still didn’t understand. Her mother always smelled so pretty.

  “But if we washed it—”

  “Enough!” His voice was sharp as he slammed the glass down on the table, spilling some out, sloshing it onto his skin. He shook his hand angrily, a sprinkle splashing the little girl as he waved toward the fire. “It is gone, kitten. Ash. You cannot have it back. It is not worth your tears and neither is she, so stop crying. Do you hear me? Stop crying!”

  She wasn’t crying, not right then, but as he screamed those words, tears streamed down his cheeks. Picking up the glass again, he hauled his arm back, flinging it across the room, shattering it in the fireplace.

  The little girl tried to slink away as the flames roared. The Tin Man ran his hands down his face, wiping away his tears. Growling, he stood, his hands clenched. In a rage, he beat himself in the chest with his fist as he snarled, “Stop this, right now! Stop it!”

  She whimpered, his anger scaring her, the sound drawing his attention. The Tin Man turned her way, flexing his fingers. “Go to your room. I cannot deal with you... not while I am still grieving her.”

  The little girl got up, running from the room, wanting out of his sight before her own tears started to fall. As soon as she was in the hallway, she heard him scream, just like she’d heard that night a week ago. Except, he was alone now. Her mother wasn’t there for him to turn his anger into pain.

  Her mother was gone.

  But where?

  Chapter Eleven

  My stepfather, Edoardo Accardi, ex-enforcer for the now extinct Genova crime family (you’re welcome for that, by the way), had a certain flair for theatrics. The man had a way of talking, of saying things, like he was always standing on a stage in a one-man show of his own fucked-up production, and most of the time, only one person sat in his audience: yours truly. It wasn’t voluntary, I can tell you that much. No, the man targeted his monologues right at me, assaulting me with the words just as hard as he used to batter me with his fists. This is for your own good, Lorenzo, he’d say. Toughen up. Stop crying. Don’t beg. Be a man, goddamn it. Be a fucking man! Never mind the fact that I’d been just a boy at the time… a boy who couldn’t understand how beating me unconscious was for my own good… a boy who heard nothing but riddles whenever the man spoke.

  But he succeeded, because all these years later, I can still hear his voice. His words bounce around in my head, taunting me, turning me into the monster he’d tried—and failed—to put down so long ago. And while I can’t exactly claim to be fond of his methods, I’ll give credit where credit is due—the man certainly knew what he was doing.

  The hardest part of the business is minding your own.

  He used to say that all the time. I never really understood it until I came to New York.

  And here on the rooftop of the rundown walk-up, tucked into a shitty-ass Lower East Side block, freezing my nutsack off as I sit on the cold concrete ledge beside a crazy pickpocket with red lips and watery eyes, I’m having a hell of a time minding my own business, because there’s a big part of me itching to dig into hers.

  Women are distractions and feelings are detrimental, but I’m finding myself feeling some type of way about this woman at the moment, and I don’t appreciate it. There’s voodoo in her blood, and it makes me want to slit her fucking throat so it’ll all spill out, rain red down on the city beneath us before shoving her over the side.

  Fly, little witch. Don’t forget your fucking broom.

  But I don’t do it. I don’t do anything. Because I try to not be that kind of person—the kind of person that beats others for their own good.

  Edoardo Accardi might be in my head, but he’s never been in my blood.

  Scarlet stares off into the distance, like she’s lost in a void somewhere along the edge of the neighborhood. I can see part of the river a few blocks away. Hell, from right here, I can just about see the dock I stood on in the darkness the night I first encountered Scarlet, when I met whatshisname to talk about his boss’s problems.

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my beat up old metal tin and flip it open, taking out a joint and the battered book of matches, ripping one off and striking it against the back of the pack, igniting the flame on the first try. Lighting the joint, I inhale deeply, taking the smoke in and holding it, before extinguishing the flame with the flick of my wrist and tossing the match over the side of the building.

  “Did you fuck him?” I ask, slowly releasing the smoke from my lungs.

  Scarlet’s brow furrows as she turns my way, her eyes flickering to the tin as I close it. “Who?”

  “Whoever put the hickey on your neck.”

  It takes her a moment before she lifts her hand, fingertips pressing against the side of her neck, surprise on her face. The patch is small, more red than purple, which means it’s fresh. I took it as a thumbprint at first, like someone had choked her, but the more I looked, the more I saw the bruised lips forming on her skin. Someone marked her not long ago, probably while I was already here, waiting in her apartment. Chances are, whoever that is probably also fucked her, and while that might not be any of my business, I find it curious.

  Curious, because of the hunger I saw in her eyes when I had her pinned against the door, as she ground against me, practically fucking the gun tucked in my waistband, desperate to satisfy an ache.

  Which means they might’ve fucked her, sure, but they didn’t do a goddamn thing for her.

  She looks away again without answering.

  “Figured,” I say, taking another hit, letting the smoke burn my lungs as the sensations soothe my muscles, calming the storm in my mind. “Was it your little cop friend again?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, not really. I don’t get down with the whole sloppy seconds thing, no matter who it is. Not in the business of picking up another man’s slack.”

  “You can leave, you know,” Scarlet says, her voice flat. “Really, you can go.”

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  She doesn’t answer again, acting as if I didn’t ask that question, continuing to stare out into the city. Icy fog surrounds her with each shallow breath, but she doesn’t otherwise seem bothered by the cold. It’s strange to me, considering I’m finding it damn near intolerable. My asscheeks are like ice cubes.

  “So, where are you from?�
�� I ask.

  A moment passes before Scarlet turns my way. “Really? You had your hand down my pants five minutes ago, a knife to my throat a minute before that, and you want to make small talk now? What’s next… the weather?”

  I shrug. “The cold doesn’t seem to bother you.”

  She sighs loudly as she looks back away. “I was born and raised upstate. I’m used to the cold.”

  “How’d you end up here?”

  “I saw a movie that made me want to see the city, so I ran away and never looked back.”

  “Ah, let me guess. Breakfast at Tiffany’s? Oh, no, wait… Westside Story?”

  She shakes her head. “The Muppets Take Manhattan.”

  Okay, that makes me laugh. “Sounds life-changing.”

  “You’ve never seen it?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “They come to the city to make it on Broadway, and I figured, you know, what was stopping me from doing that?”

  “Can you sing?”

  “Nope.”

  “Dance?”

  “Not the kind of dancing they’re looking for.”

  “Hate to break it to you, Scarlet, but that’s probably what was stopping you.”

  “Yeah, well, in my defense, I was only fourteen at the time, so I had no idea what I was getting into. I was convinced that all I needed was a ticket to New York City and everything would work out, that someone would take one look at me and think, ‘yep, she’s the one,’ and my life would be perfect.”

  “You’ve been on your own since you were fourteen?”

  “I ran away when I was fourteen, but I was on my own long before that. I didn’t really have anything here, you know, but I had even less there. At least here I had the freedom to do whatever I wanted to do, to be whoever I wanted to be. I figured whatever trouble I got into in the city would pale in comparison to what I went through before.” Frowning, her voice is quiet as she adds, “Turns out I was wrong.”

  “What trouble did you get into?”

  “A guy promised me the world only to destroy my world instead,” she says, cutting her eyes my direction. “Or however you put it.”

  “Tough break.”

  “Yeah, well, it is what it is. So, what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “What’s your story?”

  “I have no story.”

  “Everyone has a story.”

  I consider that, continuing to smoke, grateful when it starts to warm me up, fending off the bitter cold. The world always feels better when a haze covers it, hiding a little bit of the harsh reality. “I was just a normal guy… normal family, normal life. But I was at the wrong place, at the wrong time, and saw something I shouldn’t have seen. The mob killed my family, tried to kill me, but I survived, and well… I’ve been gunning for them ever since. Doesn’t matter what I have to do, who I have to kill. I’ll get my revenge.”

  “A vigilante? That’s what you’re telling me? Just a guy trying to punish all the bad in the world?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Rolling her eyes, she swings around, shoving away from the ledge as her feet hit the roof. She comes right at me, pressing up against me, as I let out a stream of smoke, blowing it right into her pale face.

  She inhales slowly, glaring at me. “Bullshit.”

  I cock an eyebrow at her.

  “That’s the Punisher,” she says, “so unless your real name is Frank Castle, that’s not your story.”

  “You calling me a liar?”

  “I’m calling you a bullshitter.”

  A smile slowly spreads across my lips as she backs away, clearly done listening to my bullshit. She’s right, of course. That’s not my story at all, but my story isn’t for the faint of heart, so I keep it to myself. “You’re the first one to ever figure that out.”

  “No, I’m just the first one to call you out on it,” she says. “They’re all too afraid to call a spade a spade, but I’ve long ago moved past being scared of people like you. If you don’t want to tell me, fine… don’t tell me. But I don’t have time to play games. You can’t even give me the courtesy of a simple truth. Hell, I don’t even know your name. All I know is that they call you Sc—”

  “Don’t say it.” I cut her off, my voice sharp as I drop the joint to the rooftop and smash it out before stepping toward her, surprised when she doesn’t retreat. Brave little soul. “I know what they call me. I don’t need you to remind me.”

  “Yeah, well, good for you, I guess,” she says. “I’m glad at least you know who you are.”

  I watch her walk toward the entrance back to her apartment, itching to follow her, but my fingertips are tingling and there’s a good chance I might strangle her if I get close enough. She’s annoyed, and maybe she has reason to be, but that doesn’t make her attitude any easier to deal with.

  “Lorenzo,” I call out.

  Her footsteps falter as she looks back. “What?”

  “My name,” I say. “It’s Lorenzo.”

  Her eyes scan my face in the darkness, like she’s expecting some sign of deception, but she won’t find it. A simple truth. That’s what she asked for, so that’s what I’m giving her.

  “Your turn,” I say. “I want a name.”

  “You know my name.”

  “Not your name. I want the name of the man who broke you.”

  Her gaze shifts to her feet as she kicks at the cold tar-covered rooftop, like she’s avoiding having to answer, before her lips part with a long exhale. “I’m not broken.”

  “Save the theatrics, Scarlet. Just give me the man’s name.”

  “Kassian Aristov.”

  Kassian Aristov.

  She blurts it out like she hadn’t meant to tell me, a pained expression crossing her face, full of regret right away. Huh.

  The name isn’t one I know, but then again, I don’t make it a habit to remember names. It’s familiar, though, like maybe I’ve heard it before, spoken in passing, and I think I might know why. “Russian, huh? He wouldn’t happen to be one of those Russians, would he? The Organizatsiya?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  I’ve come to learn lack of a response from her is as good as confirmation. The woman got mixed up with the Russian Mafia.

  She walks away, going back down to her apartment. I should leave. Mind your fucking business, I know, but I can’t help myself.

  I follow her.

  She’s in the kitchen, searching through the fridge. There’s not much in it—a jug of milk, a few takeout containers, some orange juice, and part of an old chocolate bar. It’s kind of pathetic. Scowling, Scarlet grabs the chocolate and gnaws on it before sipping orange juice straight from the carton. It’s some generic bullshit store brand juice, no pulp, watery. Smells sickeningly sweet. I know. I investigated before she got home. “How can you drink that?”

  She shuts the fridge door and leans back against the counter, regarding me as she holds the carton. “This coming from a guy who drinks rum straight from the bottle?”

  “Rum has its benefits. There’s no benefit to what you’re drinking. There’s not even any pulp in it.”

  “What are you, the orange juice police?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, Mister Minute Maid, this juice here only costs a dollar at the bodega on the corner. I’d certainly call that a benefit.”

  “Why don’t you have more money?” I ask, glancing around the gutted apartment. It’s barely livable, just the bare necessities. “You in debt to a loan shark or something? Is that the problem? The Aristotle asshole stealing everything from you?”

  She glares at me, biting off a hard corner of the plain chocolate bar and chewing slowly. “Why are you still here?”

  I shrug, knowing I’m striking a nerve. “I’m just saying... you’re gorgeous. Selling pussy, you ought to be able to afford more than this. Fucking you should cost a pretty penny. God knows that pussy’s probably worth it.”

  Her glare softens to just a stare. She�
�s quiet, like she’s getting her thoughts in order, before she says, “I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment or an insult.”

  “It’s whatever you make it, Scarlet,” I say. “I don’t pay to play, but my guys do, and you’re higher caliber than the women they usually slide on into. So you living like this makes no sense.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s really none of your business, is it?”

  “No.”

  “There you go, then,” she says, waving her juice at me before taking another swig. “Unless you’re planning to lick it or stick it, Lorenzo, keep your nose out of my business.”

  A smile touches my lips. Touché.

  Opening the fridge again, she shoves the carton back in, tossing what’s left of the chocolate bar in a nearby trashcan. She strolls toward me, her eyes scanning my face. I grab her before she can walk out of the kitchen, pulling her to me, catching her off guard. She gasps softly, the sound rushing through me as I cup her chin, pulling her face up.

  No hesitation, I press my lips to hers, kissing her hard. It’s only a few seconds before I push her back away, breaking the kiss already. She inhales sharply, eyes wide as she regards me, like she isn’t sure what the fuck to think about what just happened.

  I lick my lips. “It tastes cheap.”

  She blinks, face contorting, like I’ve offended her. “What?”

  “The orange juice,” I say. “I can taste it on your lips.”

  “Oh, I, uh... oh.”

  I sweep my thumb along her mouth as her lips part, like she wants me to kiss her again, even though we both know I’m not going to. “I prefer it with more of a bite. Maybe next time.”

  “Maybe,” she whispers.

  I pull my hand away and turn around. She says nothing as I leave.

  Maybe that means she wants me gone, after all.

  Or maybe she just knows she’ll see me again eventually.

  There’s this place over in Brooklyn, a club called Limerence. On paper it’s just another strip club, but in reality, it’s the one of the biggest whorehouses around. A couple hundred bucks can get you the best half-hour of your life with a gorgeous bendy brunette who can take even the biggest sinner straight to heaven with just the flick of her tongue.