by Leah Wilde
I walked up to the counter. “Pepperoni,” I growled to the teenage girl working the register. She gulped as she drank me in. Her face swam with the same mixture of emotions I always inspired in women. There was the fear. I was, after all, a big motherfucker, standing nearly six feet five with shoulders that every now and then required me to push through slim doorways turned sideways.
Inevitably, after the fear came the thirst. They saw my blue eyes and my teeth, which were somehow straight and white despite the years of hard living and shitty nutrition I’d had while growing up.
And after the thirst was the awe. That was when it all came together. It only took a word or two for them to see that I was the kind of man who did not take no for an answer. I was a force of nature. It didn’t take a genius to see that right off the bat.
The girl hadn’t moved since I’d first spoken. I raised an eyebrow. “The pizza?” I said questioningly.
“Oh, right.” She blushed, turning as red as a stoplight. “I’m so sorry. I’ll get that for you right away.” She scurried off to the side to scoop a piece from the trays sitting under the hot lamps behind the glass. Hustling back over, she slid the paper plate over the counter in my direction. “That’ll be a dollar fifty, please,” she murmured. She didn’t lift her eyes from the register keyboard.
I gave her a twenty and walked away without waiting to see what she’d say.
Outside, the morning was sneaking across the sky. It had started to warm up a little bit, but the air was still nippy. I raised the pizza to my mouth and took a bite. I almost spat it out again right away. The thing was somehow disgustingly greasy and stale as hell at the same. Honestly, I was a little impressed with the new depths they’d reached. I guessed that was what I should have expected from the only pizza place to be open this early in the morning.
I scanned around the sidewalk, looking for a trashcan, when something else caught my eye. A little kid was peering out at me from around the corner of a nearby alleyway. His clothes were tattered and filthy, he was hardly more than skin and bones, but there was something in his eyes that made me look twice.
He had that survivor’s glare, an expression that said, “I may look small and weak, but you just wait. One day, I’ll make it.” I recognized that glare. It was the same one I’d had when I first ran away.
“Hey, kid,” I said. I gave a short whistle. He panicked for a moment, then steeled himself and took two steps towards me.
“What do you want?” he said defiantly. I saw he was barefoot.
“You want the rest of this?” I asked, offering the pizza in his direction.
He hesitated for the briefest of moments before pouncing towards me and snatching it out of my hands. He devoured the food hungrily, barely waiting to chew before swallowing it down into his aching belly. I knew that feeling. Hunger was a motherfucker. A bite of hot food could make all the difference in the world.
He had finished sucking down the pizza and was licking the grease from his fingers when another thought occurred to me. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the pimp’s wallet. The gold stitching glimmered in the light that had just started to peek over the tops of the buildings. I took out the ID card and tossed the rest of it towards the kid. He caught it in two hands against his chest. When he opened it up and saw the hundreds of dollars tucked inside the billfold, his jaw dropped.
“Go buy yourself some shoes,” I told him.
“Thanks…thank you, mister,” the kid finally managed to splutter.
“Don’t mention it,” I told him. “I know what it’s like to be out here hungry and alone.”
I checked my watch. An hour had passed since we’d ditched the car. I figured it was safe now to go retrieve my motorcycle and head to the clubhouse to report to Crown. He’d be wondering how things had gone.
Chapter 8
Isabel
I stood outside of the double French doors, balancing a tea tray on my knee. I raised one hand and knocked twice on the wooden frame.
“Come in,” warbled a weak voice from the other side.
I twisted the handle and pushed my way within.
The cutlery on the tray clinked as I set it down on the bedside table. Frank looked at me from his bed and gave me a warm smile. He opened his mouth to say something, but a coughing fit interrupted. His thin chest wheezed with the strain. He doubled over, hacking into a handkerchief pressed against his mouth. When he pulled it away, I saw spots of blood staining the white fabric.
I rushed to his side and bent over to rest my hand gently on his back until the attack subsided. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” I asked quietly.
Frank patted my hand where it lay on the covers. “Don’t worry about me, Isabel. I’m an old man. This body ain’t the lean, mean fighting machine that it used to be.” He smiled again. His eyes, hazel and wise, were starting to cloud with age.
I tried to smile back, but part of my heart was too sad to make much of an effort. It killed me to see Frank suffering like this. He’d been bedridden for weeks now, under the doctor’s orders, trying desperately to stave off a cancer that wouldn’t take no for an answer. No matter what we did, though, the coughing grew worse, his strength faded, and bit by bit, his mind started to fail him. It was heart wrenching to witness.
In theory, I should have been glad he was dying. Frank Capparelli was the reason I’d ended up in this life. This was his crime family keeping me prisoner, reducing me to little more than a servant in their home. I slaved day in and day out to make their food, clean their clothes, tidy the furniture, and on and on, endless chores that stripped the skin from my knees and the joy from my soul. Twelve years of this had taken its toll on me.
But Frank was also the one bright spot in my long, gray days of cleaning and shuffling quietly out of sight whenever someone entered a room in the mansion. I wasn’t supposed to be seen or noticed at all. As if the house just got cleaned by magic. Frank, though, wanted to see me. Every day that I walked into his room to bring him his pills and the medicinal tea he drank throughout the morning and afternoons, he gave me the same sunny smile and said the same words.
“You are such a beauty, Isabel.” His liver-spotted hand enclosed mine. There was frighteningly little strength in his fingers. The velvety skin was paper-thin, like tissue wrapped around a twig. I worried often that I’d make one wrong move and snap something of his. I couldn’t afford to do that. He was in enough pain already.
My response to him was always the same. “You’re a charmer, Frank.”
He winked back. “Pretty girls like you bring out the best in me.”
It was the same routine every day. A moment of sunshine in an otherwise cloud-dense life.
I never would have thought that a mob boss would be the one who treated me best of all. After all, Frank Capparelli was a name that struck terror into the hearts of just about everyone this side of Chicago. Police officers, lawyers, business owners, and petty thieves all feared and respected Frank and the powerful organization he had built. From what I could tell, it was a far-reaching business, with tentacles that stretched not just across the city but across the country and even the globe. There were always some out-of-towners staying at the mansion, waiting their turn to have an audience with Frank to discuss some business venture or racket or scheme. They came from far and wide to beg for the chance to work with him.
I still struggled to reconcile that image with the man who was laying in the bed next to me. Surely a man this powerful couldn’t succumb to a mere disease. That seemed almost ridiculous. Everything else in his life he solved with a snap of his fingers. How could this be any different?
But it was different. Hordes of doctors tramped in and out of his chambers all day long, but nothing they did was working. The cancer kept moving, taking over, invading, not unlike what Frank himself had done to the city.
“Here are your pills, Frank,” I said, offering a palm full of colorful capsules to him.
He groaned. “Oh no, didn’t I jus
t take my pills?”
“Those were your early morning pills. These are the mid-morning ones.”
“Early morning, mid-morning, late morning—it never ends!” He swished a hand back and forth through the air with each syllable, twisting his face into an exaggerated scowl. “Alright, alright, let’s have ’em,” he said. He reached forward to take them from my hands. I watched for a moment as his trembling fingertips combed and combed through the air. He couldn’t force them to cooperate. His body was failing him right before his eyes.
After a few long, agonizing seconds of Frank clumsily struggling to pluck the pills from my outstretched hand, I pushed him gently back against the pillows. He sighed and let me. “Here, let me help,” I said quietly. “Open up.”
He opened his mouth obediently and let me feed the pills to him one at a time, interspersed with sips of water from the glass on the table by his bed. He massaged his throat when he had swallowed the last of them.
“There we go, not so bad, right?” I said, smiling sweetly.
“I feel like a child,” he replied crossly.
I reminded him, “Children don’t own mansions.” Or slaves, said a sinister voice in the back of my head. I tried not to focus on it.
Frank chuckled. “No, I suppose they don’t.” He rolled onto his side, trying to grab for the newspaper on the tray I’d brought in, but it was too far out of reach. The effort set off a heart rate alarm that stood next to his bed.
“Sit back,” I reprimanded, slapping him playfully on the arm. He laughed and leaned back once more against the pillows. I handed him the paper.
“What’s on my docket today?” he asked as he started to leaf through the news.
“Antonio and Angela should be back from their trip early this afternoon,” I said quietly. My voice was somber. I kept my eyes fixed on the floor.
“The prodigal son returns home, girlfriend in tow,” he mused. His eyes flashed with something akin to anger. Antonio, Frank’s twenty-five-year-old son, was constantly falling in and out of his father’s graces. He was being groomed to take over the family once Frank was no longer up to the task, but it was almost impossible to fill his father’s shoes to the man’s satisfaction. There was only one Frank Capparelli, and try as he might, Antonio was not him. His latest endeavor, a trip to Boston to negotiate an arms shipment with some contacts Frank had made there years ago, had gone horribly awry. Frank had spent all night on the phone, ironing out the messy wrinkles that Antonio had managed to inject into the situation. It left him in a foul mood wherever his son was involved.
Angela, Antonio’s long-time girlfriend, had taken to whispering in Antonio’s ear about all the things he’d be free to do once Frank kicked the bucket. I’d heard them talking late at night a dozen times or more, Angela curled up next to Antonio and stroking his hair while murmuring that Frank was old, Frank was senile, Antonio was so much smarter and more ruthless. The rift growing between father and son was becoming scarier by the minute.
Even worse for my sake, Angela had taken an intense dislike to me. I couldn’t figure out the reason why. Maybe it was because of how Frank complimented my looks so often. Every time he did, I could see her lip curl into a sneer if she was anywhere within hearing distance. As long as Frank was nearby, though, I was safe. But the second I stepped out of his sight, she pounced, flinging more chores and harsh accusations in my face without warning.
If something in the house was broken, it was my fault. If a staircase was dusty or a picture frame crooked, I was the one getting the dressing down. She’d positioned herself as the mistress in charge of the house, like some twisted mob version of an evil stepmother, and I was the one on the receiving end of her venom. Her absence the last few days had been an immense relief. I was less than thrilled that she’d be coming back today.
“Won’t you be glad to see Antonio again?” I asked.
“Hmph,” Frank snorted. “After he muffed the deal in Boston? Not thrilled, my dear, no.” His words were fatherly, if irascible, but his tone was something different. He didn’t sound like the good-natured, television-ready dad that he perhaps intended to portray himself as. No, there was too much blood and violence in Frank’s past for that. When Frank was disappointed, people died.
It scared me. I had yet to understand how a man could have two completely contrasting sides to him. My daddy had been the same way, though, until he died. For the vast majority of my life, he’d been a bitter, broken old man with spittle flying from his mouth as he went off the handle at me. But every once in a while, he’d come into my room and sit on my bed to read stories to me until I fell asleep. I remembered thinking that his face seemed so soft when he did that. Like he was a whole different man. It didn’t make sense to me then, either.
I tried not to think of Daddy too often. Part of me hated him, had always hated him. But the part of me that remembered those bedtime stories would grow sad at the thought that he was gone and the memory of how it had happened. All that blood. Try as I might, I could never wipe it away from my mind.
The best way to go about my days was in a numb trance. Head down and hands busy, that was the recipe for survival. I didn’t want to attract anyone’s attention, least of all Angela’s. These people had tempers that too often ended in agony and misery for those unlucky enough to be in their warpath. I didn’t want that to be me. So far, I was fortunate.
I stood up from Frank’s bed. “Leaving me already?” he asked, arching an eyebrow as he looked at me over the top edge of the newspaper.
“I’ve got to clean the living room today,” I murmured, “before Angela gets home.”
“Don’t let her get to you, Isabel,” he admonished. “She’s all bark, no bite.”
I bit my lip to hold back my tongue. Of course, she would never dare abuse me in front of Frank. She knew he had a soft spot for me. But if only he knew what happened when he was out of earshot.
I shuddered. I needed to make sure the living room was spotless prior to her arrival. I picked up the tray and started to head out.
“Never be afraid to stand up for yourself,” Frank called out to me just before I slipped through the doors.
I froze. Stand up for yourself. A boy in an alleyway had told me that a long time ago. I’d never forgotten it. Hearing those words come out of Frank’s mouth was spooky.
“I won’t,” I said softly. But that wasn’t true. I’d stopped standing up for myself the day that the Capparellis took me from my father. Standing up would only get me killed.
Chapter 9
Dominic
Two knocks, a pause, two more. The door grill slid open at eye level. Two hazy brown irises looked out from the dim interior. It slammed shut again, then the mechanisms of the locks began to click open and the door swung aside to let me in.
The prospect who was standing guard to the front door of the clubhouse stepped out of the way as I passed by him. I nodded in silent greeting, then walked down the dark entry hallway and emerged into the rosy light of the bar area.
A few men were scattered about, nursing beers or talking to each other in rumbling voices. I remembered how intimidating everything had seemed the first time I came here twelve years ago at Slim’s side. That was back when Jawbone had first become president. So much shit had happened since then. This room, though, had hardly changed. Sometimes I wondered if the same men in here now were the ones who’d been in here when I walked in that day so many years back.
Another time, I might find a quiet corner and down a beer of my own. But right now, there was business to be taken care of.
I made my way between the tables and chairs towards the back hallway. An office door was set in the left hand side of the wall. I knocked. A voice bellowed for me to enter.
Sliding inside, I made sure to close the door firmly behind me. Jawbone was seated behind his desk, smoking and brooding over a thin file in front of him.
“Ah, just the man I was waiting for. Take a seat, brother,” he said, pointing with his cigarette
at the chair across from him.
I settled into the seat. “Here,” I said. I tossed the pimp’s ID card onto the desktop. Jawbone picked it up and studied it. His face was a maze of scars, tattoos, and skin tanned by years of hard riding. Metal studs jutted out from his eyebrow and nose. Everything about him screamed Do not touch.
He looked up at me. “How’d it go? Any trouble?”
I shrugged. “Went fine. Gordo took his sweet time, so I had to ditch a few cops. Nothing major.”
Jawbone grimaced and dug the heel of his hand into his tired eyes. “I know you well enough to know that when you say ‘Nothing major,’ it means some serious shit went down. How close was it?”
“Like I said, just had to ditch a few cops. I took the alleyway down south that leads from the residential block over towards the junkyard. Lost ’em there.”
He whistled and leaned back in his chair, impressed. “You whipped your car through that little gap?”
