This isn’t the end.
This is the beginning.
And one day soon, he’ll wish to God he’d finished the job.
I'm not sure how long I lay there on the wet concrete floor, watching the water mix with my blood, plotting my next step. I manage to get up on my feet, with my hands bound behind me, but I can't get out of the locked room. I'm not sure if Carlos will send men back to finish the job, or if I'm supposed to die alone in this rat-infested dump, but I won't sit back and wait for either.
The door is steel, as my feet can attest to after I try kicking it in a few times. The windows are high, but they look like my only option. I make my way over to a pile of rubbish when the door squeaks open. I turn to find Mario, holding a knife in his hand. I get into a defensive stance, but Mario holds his hands up. "I come in peace."
"Sure," I laugh.
"Fine," he drops the knife and kicks it over to me. "Have it your way."
It's not elegant, but I get back down and cut the zip ties. Mario just stands there, watching.
"Did Carlos send you?" I finally ask.
He shakes his head. I shake out my hands and use the knife to cut my shirt into strips. Some for my face, others for the cuts on my arms that I got while getting the zip ties off. Tilting my head, I wait for him to go on.
"You want out because you want to build something," Mario states.
Something in his voice makes me curious. If he didn't come back on Carlos's orders, he's here on his own. Risking his neck to help me. Nobody helps anybody in our business without wanting something in return, especially when the help they offer is risky.
"Carlos won't be happy with you helping me," I toss out, trying again to figure out his intentions.
"If Carlos wanted you dead, you'd be dead. He won't care one bit that I came." His words strike a chord in me. He's right. So why does Carlos not want me dead? Before I have a chance to think that through, he continues, "I've been watching you. You're good with finding people's weaknesses, patterns, and shit like that."
"Yeah, what about it?"
"I think Smiley is talking to someone. I can't prove it." He shrugs.
I listen. Because when a man who has worked for the Cosa Nostra as long as he has wants to tell you something, you shut up and open your ears. Mario is in his forties, and he's one of Carlos's higher-up loan sharks. Smiley is one of his middlemen.
"You think you can figure it out?"
"Can you stitch me up?"
"Won't be pretty," he admits. "Your handsome face won't be as handsome anymore."
"Well fuck, I heard chicks dig scars."
He laughs and puts his arm out. I lean on him, as a sign of trust, not because I can't walk on my own two feet, although I'm pretty sure Carlos's fuckers broke a rib or two. "Let's go see Doc Brown, and after that, we'll have a drink, and I’ll tell you more."
That's the best offer I've had all day. "I don't have anything better to do."
Six months later…
They say you’ll justknowon your wedding day.
Know if it’s right.
Know if it’s love.
Know if you’re making a mistake.
I don’t know anything.
But I do know this: I’m calm. My hands aren’t shaking. My lips curve when they’re supposed to. My mother would’ve said that means I’m ready, that I’m doing what’s expected of me. That’s the Orsi way: do your duty, smile beautifully, bleed quietly if you must.
