When I was a kid, my father was in deep. I have a strong flashback to his funeral. That was another time when I was sure there were spies in our midst. My mother died giving birth to my brother, and I was so young, I barely remember her. There was no one there to hold my hand, to tell me to look on the bright side and that it would be okay.
Instead, a bunch of burly, linebacker-looking men folded their hands into the pockets of their trench coats and stared at my father’s coffin with disdain. It was barely five years ago, and I was an adult, but their presence made me feel like a scared little child. I held onto my brother for support. He had just started high school at the time, but he was almost fully grown. We had no other family, and Dad had no regular friends or coworkers.
The priest said a generic blessing. He didn’t know my father any more than we knew him. He was just saying things he thought the family would find comforting, but the mood of the funeral was even more sedate than what I assume funerals are meant to be.
I knew Dad was into some very dangerous things, but I didn’t know how deep it ran. I still don’t. Except for that single black rose that someone laid on his coffin, I wouldn’t have had any clue.
I remember picking up that rose all those years ago and feeling a chill wash through me. The priest approached me at the gravesite and put his arm around my shoulder. I allowed myselfto cry for a moment, holding that macabre flower as if it was the last piece of my father.
“Why is this rose black?” I’d sobbed. It seemed as if the color was trying to tell me something, as if death itself was caked into every petal.
“It’s a sign from the mafia,” the priest shared, his voice low. “Your family is marked. Be careful.”
Shortly after the funeral, I changed my last name, moved into a new apartment, and let go of everything I ever loved about my old life. My brother came along with me too, and for a while we shared a two-bedroom apartment. But then he went off to college and left me alone. Thank goodness I found Rebecca, or I would have been completely alienated from the rest of the world.
The thought of the past is making me sick. I can feel the vodka stirring uncomfortably in my stomach. I haven’t even had half of the drink and already I’m feeling nauseous.
“I’m sorry,” I say abruptly.
“What for?” Rebecca asks.
“I have to go,” I explain, standing up a little too quickly.
I start to teeter, and Rebecca reaches over to steady me. I know I’ve got to get out of this enclosed space, back to somewhere familiar where I can lock the door and keep the ghosts out. I barely say my goodbyes before racing away into the night. Maybe it’s best that I’m all alone. I can’t afford to get too close to anyone. I’ll always have a mafia target on my back, no matter where I go. I’d only put Rebecca in jeopardy if she knew the whole truth.
I manage to make it to my car without turning into a basket case. Checking the backseat for any suspicious figures, I lock all the doors behind me. I sit still and breathe for a moment. It’s times like these when I feel so unsafe that I wish things could be different. I wish I didn’t have to look over my shoulder all the time. I wish I had a regular job, a regular life, and a regular family history. I’d even settle for one of those three, but the reality is, my life will never be ordinary. When I finally calm down enough to drive, I open the car door again before turning on the ignition. That way, if there’s a bomb, I stand a fair chance of being blown free and surviving. You can never be too careful when you’re marked by the mob.
CHAPTER 8
FRANCISCO
The sun beats down on my shoulders, and it feels good to be outside. I stand on the golf course, Giovanni by my side. We shoot the breeze, looking around at all the fancy folk who come to the club for a little R & R. They think their shit doesn’t stink, but I know better.
Whenever we come to the country club, people point and whisper. I’m okay with that. I know they don’t like me. They would prefer that I be like them, with their cutthroat deals made in back rooms that cut union workers off at the knees. Instead, I am the union workers on steroids, and I never let them forget it.
It’s hilarious to watch some of these old biddies twist themselves in knots to forget what it is I really do. They’re all attracted to my money and yet repulsed by the idea of violence. Yet, I think that in their heart of hearts, they may also be drawn to the dark side.
I’ve seen some of the tennis bunnies glance my way occasionally. Some of them will even wink. I could have one or two if I so choose, but I mostly refrain from sampling the women. Plenty of men in my shoes might be tempted. Hell, plenty of men in my shoes would give in, and hop from one chick to the next. I’m notlike that. I was in love with Alessia, and it feels wrong just to stick it to any woman who looks my way. Like I’m disrespecting her memory or something.
Even so, I appreciate some of the looks. I keep myself trim, and it’s nice to know that I’ve got options. Giovanni isn’t quite so circumspect. He tastes the goods when he gets a mind to. He’s mixed it up with a few of the wealthy families at the country club, sleeping with both mothers and daughters.
No one gets in our way, though. Fathers and husbands may be pissed, but they’re not stupid. They know not to mess with us, and that’s the way I like it. Of course, we’re not going to get any golfing partners from among the sheep. But we aren’t the only ones who have a dangerous past.
I’ve got a number of acquaintances at the club who’ve been known to gamble and get in fights. There are all levels of criminals on the golf course, from the white collar to the blue collar and everywhere in between.
I spy the mayor on the green, and I roll up my sleeves. The golf course is an excellent place to do business. The mayor isn’t corrupt, but he won’t turn down a good deal either, and I’d like him to sign off on a project I’m financing. It’s for a series of wind turbines on the outskirts of town.
“Bob!” I say, approaching him with my golf club in hand.
“Cisco,” he responds, using the nickname that only a select few are allowed. I don’t mind. He’s telling the world and all his golfing buddies that we’re close. He’s giving me a nod to let me know that he’s willing to listen to my request, and that he values my friendship.
We shake hands and play a few holes before getting down to business.
“I was wondering when I would hear from you,” Bob says.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been pretty busy,” I respond.
“Aren’t we all?” He chuckles.
