In a cooler on the floor is bottled water. Fiji, of course. I reach into the ice and pull one out. I twist the cap.
“Let me make you something!”
Brice!
“I could make you a mint julep. Yeah, you look like a mint julep kind of girl.” He moves closer and sidles up to me. I take a step back. Brice laughs lightly, giving it a fake quality.
“No, thanks. Water is fine,” I answer firmly.
“Come on. A special girl needs a special drink. How about a martini? I have all of the finest liquors.” I smile my trademark, practiced fake smile at his offer.
“I’m sure you do, but I’m going to pass,” I say with the same false air I’ve taught myself to exude.
Since we came to school, I've been hiding behind this smile. I don't really care about these people. They’re a diversion and an escape from a memory too deep and raw to melt away completely. It sits on the cusp of the every day, waiting to spoil whatever comes my way.
“Let me give you that tour.” He holds his arm out chivalrously for me to entwine my hand around.
“Brice! Oh my God! Your house is awesome!” A girl from my gym class, who always seems to get out of participating, suddenly gushes all over Brice.
Thanks for the chance to escape, Becky! I tell her in my head. I smile and excuse myself. I quickly walk away, pretending I’m looking for someone. I head to the living room, where there are mile long couches arranged in a perfect L.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Did u get the flowers?
Connor? Shit!
Yes, they’re in a trash bag. I want to tell him. I never even looked at the card. I figured they were from Brice: he has sent them before. He’s never asked me out though. Thank God!
Connor, my ex-boyfriend, has stepped up his “sorry” game. Texting and calling aren’t working. He’s trying to win me back. I dated Connor, slept with him, he cheated, end of the freakin’ Connor story. Except it was one unrelated shit storm at the beginning of a trail that made my mind check out.
It’s not easy to cope, but I’m trying. I try to remember what it was like to be normal, and I hold onto that. I don’t want my body to take over again. I don’t understand why is it instinctual to want to run away from bad things instead of facing them head-on. Danger, car bombs, and having a gun held to my head were all that my mind could take. Connor was the least of my problems after that. It made his betrayal insignificant in the grand scheme of things. In fact, the thought of him doesn't even bother me at all anymore. He's an asshole. I guess he always was. I'm glad I found out about his true nature sooner rather than later, when it would have hurt even more.
I ignore his text like I always do. I need to find out how he got my number. This is bordering on harassment. Asshole harassment!
I could tell Joey or Megan, but that would just cause more crap. Eventually, it’ll stop on its own.
My phone buzzes with another text. Speak of the devil, it’s Megan.
Meg: U at party?
Me: Yes
Meg: Fun?
Me: Yes, just got here.
Meg: Joey there?
Meg wouldn’t think to ask that!
This is definitely Antonio using Megan’s phone to check up on me. I grin. I love him - he’s awesome. He watches out for me, and he’s great to my sister. He’s attentive, caring, smart, and a little deadly... but, you know, you’ve got to take the good with the bad, like Dr. Howie says. I’ve learned to do that over the past year.
Me: Yes, Tonio!
Tonio: You behaving?
Me: I’m not a little kid!
Tonio: Well, ur little
Me: Knock it off, I’m trying to enjoy myself.
Tonio: Not too much! I’ll kill them!
Yikes, he means it. I text:
I’m ignoring everyone & sitting in a corner by myself.
Long pause, I text back:
Just Kidding!
Tonio: Have fun & stay by Joey
Me: KK
“Erin!” Brice calls out. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” I put my phone away and take a deep sip of my water. I use it as an opportunity to stall. “Have I told you tonight how beautiful you look?”
“Sorry, I’m really thirsty,” I tell him, ignoring the compliment and gulping my water. His eyes are mischievous. He holds his arm out for me to take again. “You know. I should find Clarissa.”
“We can find her together,” he says.
Dammit! I consider just walking away, but the scene that would cause makes me quickly rethink that option. I reluctantly take his arm and wrap my hand around it.
The arm thing is a formal gesture, but that’s the way things are here. People hide behind the proper and formal, but deep down they’re just as uncivil as the rest of the world. They think money and breeding saves them from the true nature that lurks underneath their skin. They look down on us, but at least everything with the mafia is out in the open. It’s not hidden behind smiles and false promises. The Mafia code is criminal, but it follows a code unlike the code of politics. Mobsters don’t smile at you and tell you what you want to hear, they tell you exactly how it is.
Brice and I walk together towards the French doors that lead out to the patio. Outside is an enormous pool with geysers spraying into the sky. Bobbing up and down are artificial candles that look like red roses. This is what the classic lifestyle of the rich and famous looks like. I’m truly surprised that this palace is not on a T.V. show. The patio area is lined with tables and chairs, decorated with candles and blood red tablecloth. Music thumps tastefully from speakers hidden in the landscaping.
People are scattered everywhere. Waiters in red jackets weave in and out, carrying trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Brice snatches a tall drink from one of the polished silver trays.
“Would you like to try this? It’s a daiquiri.” He’s gleaming. He wants to see my drunk, or at least tipsy.
“No, thank you,” I decline gracefully.
In the corner, by a building in the backyard, there’s a more rambunctious group. They’re playing quarters. A drinking game in this environment seems tacky.
“Dude, you cheated!” I hear Joey’s voice. Brice steers us towards them.
Joey stands up. I see him tower over every one sitting around him. His face is twisted in irritation and his fists are clenched. Oh no!
“Did not!” A voice slurs.
We walk faster towards the scene. I look at the table. Clarissa is sitting with a bunch of drinks laid out in front of her.
“Don’t Joey. If he has to cheat to win, he’s not worth it,” Clarissa says, putting a hand on Joey.
I know Joey’s look all too well. He’s wearing the Italian-Mafia-Death-Glare-New-Jersey-Style-Special. Not exactly a designer brand, but one could say it’s the brand of the Mafia. They all do it - Antonio, Vito, Joey…
Thwack!
It happens so abruptly that I don’t think most people see it. Joey punches the guy like lightning with one swoop. Fast. Quick. The cheater slumps in the chair, out cold. Joey sits back down.
“Next,” he says, like nothing happened.
Brice leaves me and goes over to Joey quietly. Everyone is slightly stunned. Brice leans down and speaks into Joey’s ear.
The whole cheating thing must have been bad because it takes a lot to rile Joey. He has a lot of self-control, unlike Vito. Vito probably would have hit the guy sooner. And harder.
“He deserved it,” Joey says softly. Clarissa’s eyes are glossy, but she still appears to be quite sober.
Without any uproar or disturbance, everyone disperses from the table, leaving the cheater, collapsed and unconscious, in the chair... alone.
Clarissa and Joey walk with Brice and me. We approach the food table silently. None of us speak. Joey needs to calm down. The best way for that to happen is just leave him alone for a while. Brice is not happy - his face is marred with angry lines. Clarissa picks up some weird wonton looking thing and nibbles on it he
sitantly. The corners of her mouth give away that she’s more amused than Brice.
We’re all silent for the moment. Then Clarissa looks at me, and we both burst out laughing. Who did that guy think he was? He was stupid for messing with Joey, that’s for sure. Clarissa grew up in a casino with a Mob boss for a father. Gambling and drinking games are her specialty. She can crush anyone who challenges her. She sees this stuff all the time.
Joey grabs Clarissa around the neck playfully and kneads her head with his knuckles.
“What am I going to do with you?” he jokes. They both laugh.
Joey and Clarissa are two peas in a pod. Carlo is Clarissa’s actual brother, but he has to help his father run the casino and be a “mobster.” Carlo’s responsibilities run deep into the Chicago underground.
Brice turns to me. He takes my hand, and I flinch. Holding onto his arm like we are a couple was torture enough.
“Can I show you the guest house?” Brice offers.
“She’s not going in there,” Joey says coarsely.
I look at Joey, surprised and thankful. I don’t want to spend another second with this guy. Actually, I’m ready to leave.
“Oh,” Brice says taken back. “Okay. Why don’t we all have a seat over here?”
“I’m going to say hi to a couple of people over there,” Clarissa tosses out to us, not the least bit interested in sitting with Brice.
“Stay out of trouble,” Joey warns.
Clarissa winks at him and bounces away.
We’re not even situated in our seats when a bunch of girls come over to get Brice’s attention. Relief washes over me.
“Where’s the ladies room?” a perky bleach blonde asks him.
“Go through the living room towards the kitchen. First door on your right.”
“Can you show us?” she whines. “Please.” Miss Perky actually bats her eyelashes at him.
Please show them. Please show them.
Brice gets up and excuses himself in a very gentlemanly manner, like a good Senator’s son. I let the breath whoosh out of me. I can only take him for so long. He thinks his family’s status and money cover up his sliminess. I see right through him, and I don’t trust him.
Trusting has been an issue for me throughout the past year. I always trusted people and was comfortable around them. I always thought the best of people. But that was before. I guess I was just naive and stupid then. What I’ve learned and seen has changed me. It’s caused me to lose a part of myself. I know now what lives underneath the skin of people. They can be cold, cruel, and heartless. I don't ever want to go through what I experienced again.
For months I was in a solitary abyss, floating in blackness. There was no color to anything. The world had lost is splendor. My brain needed time to digest what my soul rejected - harsh reality. Every time I replay the ugliness in my mind I feel idiotic in my ignorance. Feelings of foolishness, betrayal, and loss consume me. In a way, I think I’ve been grieving over the past few months. Doc. Howie never used the word grief, but that’s what it feels like - like someone died.
“Earth to Erin... Come in Erin...” Joey’s voice punctures through my thoughts. “Where did you go?” he asks, laughing.
“Stop it. I didn’t go anywhere.”
Joey’s face loses the jovial light that typically enshrouds him.
“You... just... You scare me when you space out like that,” he says very carefully.
“I’m fine.” I smile. I’m so well practiced at it. I wish I could pat myself on the back. “I’m getting tired, that’s all. Can’t I get tired like everyone else?” I shoot at him cockily.
“Of course.” He reaches out and pats my forearm. “You can be anything you want to be.” Joey refers to Clarissa and me as “his girls,” really we’re his “charges” while we are here. He’s probably one of the few people in my life that I trust. Joey has never lied to me or given me a false sense of anything. He is genuinely nice and lays everything out on the table.
“Are you ready to head out then?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll go wrestle Clarissa to the door,” he states.
I hope Clarissa isn’t too disappointed that we didn’t party all night here at the Mansion de Brice. I’ll make it up to her when Joey takes us to Club Ruin. Without Brice hanging on me, I can keep my game face on longer.
Vito
The alley by the docks over by the old mattress factory is just as I remember it. I haven’t been here in ages. I kind of grew out of coming here. Or maybe I just have more important things to do now. I used to live for Friday Night Fights, and I used take in a shit load of money. John, Baby Ticks, runs the racket. Sometimes even Tonio and his Pop would come with me. They make a cut off this joint whether they show up or not. Every Monday, Donny - the knife- head enforcer - comes to collect from Baby for the Friday Night Fights.
It’s kind of a sick tradition that has been going on for generations. It’s moved around over the years, but for the last ten it has been in this rundown warehouse.
I kick a rusty can across the asphalt while walking down the narrow alley. The hood of my sweatshirt scratches against the side of my face. The closer I get, the easier it is to hear the yelling of spectators watching men beat the shit out of each other. I knock four times in rapid succession and the door squeaks open a crack.
“Yeah,” Dolly says, deadpan. Dolly is a man, and a big one.
“It’s me, Dolly,” I say.
“Vito! My boy!” The door opens wide and the toothless grin of Dolly assaults me. “Where’ve you been? The Delisi’s keepin’ yous busy?” He pats me warmly on the back.
“A little. How’s it runnin’ tonight?”
“Eh! No one is good as yous. Baby is gonna go oobatz when he sees you! Get down there and show’em how it’s done!”
I shake Dolly’s hand and add a hard pat on his shoulder.
“I will. I need it.”
I take the cement steps down, down, and down into the decrepit cellar of the warehouse. Giant unprotected hundred watt light bulbs with exposed wires swing from the ceiling. Thick cigarette and cigar smoke hangs eerily in the air against the lights. A sea of dark heads of hair move just below the haze.
A view of people in a haphazard circle becomes clearer as I walk past the bathrooms. Men huddle inside, betting, layering their gambling. At the makeshift bar, I buy a beer. I lean against the splintered wood and suck down the entire glass.
“Eh! It’s Vito!” Someone yells and a bunch of guys from the neighborhood swarm around me.
“Hey,” I say back.
“We’ve missed yous,” Ty Santo says, another fighter. He’s good, I’ve fought him before.
The broad guy next to him sizes me up, smiles and reaches out to shake my hand.
“Hey, I’m Mike.”
“Hi Mike,” I return, shaking his hand back.
“Heard a lot about you,” he adds.
I get a slap on the back from a few guys milling about in the must and smoke, taking my attention away from Ty and Mike. Great guys I knew growing up when I spent every Friday here learning the ropes and how to fight.
I don’t get a chance to catch up with the guys because one of Baby’s enforcers comes up to me.
“Baby would like to speak with you,” the enforcer says properly.
“Sure.” I place my beer glass on the table. “See ya later.”
I walk over to the “office,” which is a pile of old wooden crates stacked for a desk off to the side of the main room. This place is a seedy dump.
Baby is sitting behind it with a stogie hanging out of his mouth. His bottom lip is swollen and gray. It falls forward unnaturally, exposing the fleshy inside of his lip. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him without a stogie. He talks with it in his mouth.
“You here to play or watch?” he asks while organizing a pile of fifty’s.
“I’ll play.”
Baby looks up and meets my eyes, his glance eager with greed.
> “Good boy. You’re up in ten.”
Hollering kicks up as two men enter the ad-hoc fighting ring. I peer over the crowd. My adrenaline pumps as I wait for them to start hitting. No gloves and no rules. Knock ‘em out, you win. Simple, easy…well, for me, anyway.
The first punch is thrown. It’s a good one, solid, on the jaw. I get engrossed in the sick tap dance of two men beating the shit out of each other. These guys appear evenly matched. Neither one can get a leg up on the other. Fists roar through the dirty air, slamming hard on flesh.
I drag my attention away to warm up for my own fight. I toss my sweatshirt into a corner and begin bouncing on the balls of my feet to loosen up my muscles. It feels good to be in this hell hole- it’s nostalgic and familiar. I’m good at this. I grew up with it. I throw some jabs into the air and rev myself up.
Ty comes over to help me get ready. He rubs my shoulders, and then pounds his knuckles across my shoulder blades.
“Vito Rossi! Against Jacko Palmeiri!” Baby yells over the din of shouts.
“Go!” Ty yells. “Rip this guy a new one!” I nod.
I’ve never fought this guy Jacko before. He must be new.
I stride confidently to the ring. I swing my arms back and forth, stretching them out, and pace the floor to regain the feel. I can feel the same greasy slime that has always been here.
A guy about the same size as me steps into the ring. In fact, he could pass for a brother or first cousin. Tall, dark brown hair, built. And he’s looking as serious as shit right now. We pace, sizing each other up, formulating our plans of attack.
“You don’t look so tough!” Jacko spits at me. “The way they talk about you in this shit-pit makes you sound like a fuckin’ legend! I’m gonna wipe this dirty floor with your ass!” He points his nubby finger in my chest.
Trash talking! Really?! That’s a first.
Mobster's Angel (Mobster Series) Page 2
