by Harper Riley
I glance over at her, the remarkable woman I can finally take out.
Her face is creased with the effort of carrying Carlos.
“Sorry babe,” I say, “I do have some guys who could help us but if I asked them to help I’d also ask them to accidentally-on-purpose kill this bastard.”
Torrie nods, holding back a smile.
“Yeah, think it’s better I figured this one out myself. And Gavin?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m ready for that date when you are.”
We laugh, and I pump up my fist victoriously.
“And to earn it, all I had to do was blow up your two compounds, find out your true identity and almost kill your brother.”
At the door, I stagger with a sudden jolt of pain.
I look down at my leg, the white pant of my lower leg now all red. I had completely forgotten the bullet lodged in it with all the craziness.
“Your leg!” Torrie exclaims, “Are you ok?”
“Yes, I...”
I take a step forward and fall down, dropping Carlos’ feet on the ground.
Pain rips through my whole leg and I shake my head.
“No, I...think we need to staunch the bleeding.”
Torrie places Carlos’ upper body on the ground. Then, taking a knife out of her pocket, she crouches down and slices through the bottom of her shirt, cutting off a wide strip of fabric.
I grin at her newly showcased bare torso.
“Well, that’s an improvement.”
Grinning herself, Torrie lifts my pant leg., pulls it back, then puts the fabric over top of it, ties it round as tight as she can.
Together, we head inside, though I can walk by myself now. The pain is almost completely gone actually. Torrie’s tourniquet may have just saved the day.
As we enter the house through the sliding door, I glance over into the living room, where the men from before are, flopped unconscious.
“Hey... where are the – how did you get by them?” I ask.
“Oh, my traitorous lieutenants? I just shot them in both hands,” Torrie answers casually.
We plop Carlos on the kitchen floor and, as Torrie takes out her phone, I gape at her.
“What?” she asks, “I’ve been a sharpshooter since I was a kid.”
She dials on her phone then, glancing up, says, “Don’t believe me? Check their hands. I’m calling an ambulance.”
While Torrie goes upstairs to talk to an ambulance, I head over to the couches to get a good look at the men’s hands.
But once I do, I have to stop, crouch down and stare for a good minute to make sure I’m actually seeing what I think I’m seeing.
In all four of their hands, the bullet hole is dead center in each of their palms.
As I rise and turn around, there’s a gun to my chest.
“Don’t you go trying anything,” a Mexican woman says.
Behind her, Torrie’s dog barks at me.
“Uhh... who are you?” I ask.
“Who am I?” she demands, eyes flashing, “Who are you?”
She looks like a maid, and she’s holding the gun like a maid, all tilted wrong and in the incorrect position for shooting.
I could take her out easily, but I better not until I know it’s okay with Torrie.
“I’m Gavin Pierson,” I say, “Torrie’s boyfriend.”
“Now I know you are lying,” the woman snaps, “Torrie does not have a boyfriend.”
The woman shakes her bunned head, and Jane barks out her agreement.
At this very opportune moment, Torrie’s voice comes down the stairs, “Gavin?”
The woman squints then glares at me, raises her nose in the air.
Footsteps and then, “Maria Fernanda!”
Maria Fernanda sniffs, doesn't lower the gun. “He says he is your boyfriend. I do not believe him.”
Smiling, Torrie walks over, asks, “Oh, is that so?”
“Would be so if you’d ever go out on a date with me,” I say, then, with a glance at the gun still pressed against my chest, “And if this Maria Fernanda of yours doesn’t kill me first.”
“Maria Fernanda,” Torrie says in a reproving tone. She takes the gun.
Maria Fernanda, however, only turns on her heel and stalks off, Jane close behind. At the top of stairs, she declares, “Jane doesn’t like him either.” The door slams behind her.
Holding back a smile, Torrie turns to me. “Sorry, that’s my maid. She has very strong opinions.”
I glance down at the indent on my shirt from where the gun was pressed. “Understood. Next time I’ll come with two bouquets of flowers.”
Torrie giggles, and I kiss her. Mid-kiss, I remember, pull back. “Shit!”
“What is it?” Torrie asks.
“The guys... I... did you see an iPhone 7 anywhere when you were gunning down those lieutenants of yours?”
Torrie heads for the couches.
“I was pretty preoccupied with shooting two pairs of hands, but let’s check now.”
Sure enough, wedged deep in the recesses of the taupe couch is my beloved iPhone 7.
The message I see which they must’ve sent to Jaws makes me smile: Nothing yet. Wait for my order.
That was sent ten minutes ago.
I show the text to Torrie with a grin, then gesture outside.
“C’mon, I want you to meet the boys.”
She nods.
“Okay, but first let’s stash all of them in the secret room, so they can’t escape while we go.”
“Good idea,” I say.
And, slowly but surely, one by one we drag the dead weight down and throw it in the secret room.
Finally, once we’ve shoved the armchair in front, we cast each other tired victorious smiles and head out.
The boys aren’t still waiting at the front door, and I don’t blame them. It’s been a good 30 minutes. They probably figured I found Torrie and wanted to have a bit of fun before I let them know.
As we walk there, Torrie pauses, stares into my face.
“Hey are you okay?”
I shrug.
“Yeah my leg doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“No, I mean... what Carlos said about your mom.”
I keep on walking.
“We don't have time for this.”
“Hey,” she says, putting her hand on my cheek, “Are you okay, Gavin?”
I stop, keep my gaze on her hand, my voice steady, “I always wondered why my father left after mom was killed. Now I know, I guess. He found out the truth and couldn’t take it.”
I shake my head.
“It’s funny, all this time I’ve hated him so much that I forced him out of my mind – I never spoke of him, never even thought about him. He tried getting back in contact, and I pushed him away. I wanted nothing to do with him. But now, I still don’t condone what he did, but I at least understand it. I never did before, and this is why – not knowing that mom was cheating. This is the missing piece.”
I take Torrie’s hand, squeeze it – “C’mon” – and we continue on.
Down the street, I can hear the music from half a block away.
When we near the van, Torrie and I stand off behind a mailbox so we won’t be seen. Here, we watch them, the whole van bobbing with the Rolling Stones, while my three friends wedged in the front seat sway from side to side, their arms slung round each another, singing their heads off. When the song finally falls silent, I knock on the window. Jaws glances over, freezes, his smile sliding down.
He rolls down the window, sighs.
“We missed it, didn’t we?”
I nod, grin.
“That’s not all.”
Looking past me, to Torrie, Jaws sighs again.
“You didn’t kill her, did you?”
I step back, sling my arm around Torrie, open the door.
“Boys, meet my girlfriend, Torrie Piccolo.”
They all shake her hand in silence.
Pulse is the one who finally
says it, “So uh, yeah, Torrie Piccolo. So, isn’t she something of what you’d call our enemy? Yeah?”
Torrie smiles.
“Not for long. I’m changing the Piccolo family business. Going legitimate. We won’t be giving you boys any more trouble.”
Everyone nods their approval, then Jaws pats Torrie’s arm.
“Hey Boss? This one ain’t so bad.”
We all laugh.
“Gav got shot,” Torrie says, “He’ll have to be taken to a hospital.”
They all nod, then Jaws shoots me a sidelong look.
“Hey Boss, what do you say to a Dairy Queen run after the hospital? SKOR Treatzza pizza, eh?”
“You wanna come?” I ask Torrie, but she shakes her head.
“My family could be back here any minute, and then the ambulance is on its way too. You go.”
I step away. “I want to be here for you.”
She smiles. “You have been. But you’re hurt, you need to go to the hospital. Besides, it’s best if you leave now, if I talk to my family myself. It’s going to be a shit show as it is.”
I take her hand. “You sure?”
She kisses me. “I’m sure.”
I kiss her again, this time savoring it, as the boys give supportive whoops.
I get in the van, and she waves. “Goodbye Gavin Pierson.”
I wave back. “Goodbye Torrie Piccolo.”
Then I close the door and we’re off.
Chapter 34 - Torrie
My driveway is a sea of screaming, blaring vehicles.
Looks like the Piccolos all finally got back from the funeral, and they are not happy.
They’re yelling at the paramedics, barring their way.
As I walk up, a red-faced paramedic demands, “Are you Torrie Piccolo?”
“Yes, we need you inside,” I say, “Several men have been hurt, shot. They’re in a room in the basement. I’ll join you there in a minute.”
Even as the other paramedics rush past, Oma is bellowing protests, “A mistake, there has to be a mistake! The Piccolos are a good family! There can’t be men shot inside!”
Taking her wrinkled hand in my own, I lean in to her, speak softly to her, “Oma, it’s okay. There’s been an accident, but it’s fine now. It’s all going to be fine now.”
She falls silent, gives her head a sort of wobble-nod.
I lead her and, with a gesture of my arm, the rest of my family into the house, into the living room.
As they sit down, I go down to the basement, where the paramedics are waiting. Before they have time to voice their unimpressed looks, I shove the armchair over then gesture to the newly revealed flap door.
“They’re in there.”
The paramedics shoot me some wary looks, and I nod, say, “Just through the flap. There was an accident.”
The angriest-looking paramedic, the one who I spoke to outside, crouches down, peers his head in and inhales sharply.
Poking his head out, he nods to the others.
“Three men, all shot but alive. Like she said.”
I head back to the stairs.
“Sorry, I have to go talk with my family,” I tell him, “I’ll be in the living room at the end of the hallway if you need anything.”
Then I return upstairs, head for the living room from which murmurs of dissent are audible even down the hallway.
Around the corner, still out of sight, I stop.
Inhale, then exhale.
This isn’t going to be easy.
My family has been drifting apart for a while now. The only time I’ve really been seeing Oma and Opa has been for Christmas and Easter, and yet, this may be what breaks us apart for good.
I shake my head.
I can’t be responsible for the ultimate splitting up of my family.
I glance up, find myself face to face with a picture of Guillaume Piccolo, the original Italian who came from Italy, settled down here and made a massive success of himself.
He’s looking at me under derisive eyebrows, and I swallow.
I can do this. I have to.
Inside, everyone is sitting down, on the couches, on the floor – my whole room is a veritable Piccolo family reunion.
I stand at the front and take them in: my beloved, terrifying family.
On the couch to my left are Oma and Opa, their hands a wrinkled clasp; on the couch to my right and the floor is the mass of my cousins, all with similar hairstyles and irritated expressions; and then, sitting on a lone chair from the kitchen, tucked in the back, is my uncle, his bald head tilted in perplexity already.
I look at them, my skeptical, already-unimpressed family.
What if they don’t accept what I’m about to say? What if this doesn’t work?
I inhale, then exhale, then speak, “My family, forgive me. Today is a sad day. A day we were to honor the passing of my father. But recent events have thrown things into conflict and this has to be addressed now.”
I pause, walk over to the entrance, glance down the hallway at the picture of Guillaume Piccolo for inspiration. For anything. But he just glares back at me as surly as ever, indicating what I knew already: there is no right time for this, no right way to break the truth to my family – there’s only now, telling them the best way I know how.
I walk back to the front of the room and continue, “Earlier today, while you were at Papa’s funeral, the Piccolo family property was attacked by the Rebel Saints, a motorcycle gang we have been in conflict with for years. They blew up our two compounds, although I don’t think anyone was hurt in the blasts. After that, however, Carlos tried to have me shipped off.”
My family gawks at me, all their faces with the same question, the same, “Why?”
“Why?” I say. “Because, as some of you know, and others may not, for some time the Piccolos have been running an illegal business.”
I pause, scanning their mystified faces.
Clearly, I’m going to have to be more specific.
“We have been running a sex trafficking business,” I say, and the room explodes into sound.
Angry murmurs turn into enraged shouts.
Oma springs upright, “No, not my family! Not the Piccolos!”
I shake my head, hang it.
“Yes Oma, I’m sorry.”
At this, the room goes silent, and I continue, “I didn’t find out the truth until I was made head of the Piccolo family business when Papa got ill. I don’t want this to make you think any less of him. He was doing what he thought he had to in order to succeed. For me, however, shortly after finding out, I knew I had to change things. Or at least try. Carlos didn’t agree, and today he locked me up, planned to have me sent out with the latest shipment.”
At the sound of footsteps, I look over to the hallway to see the paramedics with Carlos on a stretcher.
The room is still deadly quiet, while everyone’s attention is rooted on me.
“I didn’t tell you all this to have you blacklist Carlos,” I say, “I told you this because this family has had too many secrets for too long. And, more than that, I’m telling you because I’d like your help. I’m taking the business legitimate, and I’d like all the help that I can get.”
Now the silence is terrifying, and the looks on their faces equally so -
they look like they are the ones shot. Gazing everywhere with glassy expressions, my family says nothing.
In a small voice, I ask, “So... what do you say?”
The silence is something of an answer in itself. Head hung, I turn away, prepare to slink off.
“Hell yes, is what we say,” a familiar old voice says.
I turn around to see Oma on her feet, her eyes fiery. A second later, Opa is nodding his agreement, standing up beside her.
“It’s official: you’re all nuts,” my uncle mutters with a sigh, standing up himself.
“Alright, okay,” my cousin that I’m pretty sure is named Muna says.
Next thing I know the whole room is erupting into a
collective murmur of agreement, rising, flocking to me, my family, taking me in their arms.
I bury my head into someone’s shoulder, let the tears fall down. Now, these tears are of an entirely different sort. Now, finally, everything is alright.
Chapter 35 - Gavin
What if she isn’t there?
As I tear through Toronto’s rush hour traffic, past lines of cars and the turning heads of stunned pedestrians, I push the question from my mind for the fifth time: What if she isn’t there?
Again, I glance at my phone: 6:03 pm. Three minutes late and I still have a ways to go. What if I get there and she isn’t there at all, has left, fed up with waiting?
It took a week for both of our schedules to calm down enough to see each other; I won’t be able to take messing this up.
But how could I have predicted that Hannah would call just as I was about to leave? Or that the flower shop would have a lineup as long as rush hour at McDonald’s? Or that traffic would be horrible and every other light would be against me?
I got roses, I dressed up in my best suit, there’s no way I’m letting this not work.
I can’t afford this.
Finally, at 6:07 I pull up to the familiar tower and park on the concrete in front.
I run to the elevator. Once inside, it ascends too slowly, while my heart beats too fast.
Calm down Gav, just calm down.
When the elevator finally stops, I saunter off and inside, past the hostess mid “Hi, how are—” and past tables of well-dressed women and well-bellied men, glazed-face families, and then, at the end of the room, I see her.
It would have been hard not to. She’s wearing that dress. The dress. The red one that clings to every curve of her body, that goes from her tits to her ass, that is one zipper-pull away from full-on nakedness.
Damn, how am I supposed to focus on the meal now?
As soon as I’m within hearing distance, I hold out the roses, say, “Sorry I’m late.”
Rising with a smile, she arches a brow then says, “I’ll consider forgiving you depending on how the meal goes.”
She accepts the roses with one hand, and I take the other and kiss it.
“Babe,” I say, “You’ll forgive me by the time the waiter brings our drinks.”
She lays a few fingers on my cheek, pats it, says, “We’ll see.”
