The men fall on them. Even Vinnie eats one. Pink frosting smears his face. My cupcakes are too good to be ignored.
While the men are eating their fill, I putter around the kitchen for a few minutes, pretending to clean up. Then I take off my apron and visit the downstairs restroom again before sitting on the edge of the ugly couch in the front room, my hands folded in my lap like a good little girl. The wedding dress poofs around me.
Under the mix of cigarette fumes and the pleasant smell of cake, there’s a slight stench of rotten eggs starting to build up. It’s very faint. No one should notice it, unless they’re looking for it.
I watch the cheap clock askew on the wall. The seconds tick by.
It doesn’t even take a half hour, like it said on the box. Fifteen minutes in, the first mafioso groans and staggers to the bathroom.
This is the dangerous part. If Vinnie catches on and orders someone to put a bullet in my head for what I’ve done, it’s all over.
But he doesn’t. From the moans and groans all over the house, he and his men are making good use of the bathroom. In the closest bathroom there’s also some hacking and coughing. The toilet bowl cleanser I dumped in with the bleach in a stopped up tub must have produced some toxic gas.
I need to get out of here, fast.
I stand and step lightly over the creaking floorboards. The front door is wide open like someone rushed inside and forgot to shut it. They were probably trying to make it to a toilet before shitting their bowels out.
I don't have a phone or a car, but I glide out the door and start up the gravel drive towards the road. I make a great target in my white dress. Hopefully all the mafiosos are occupied trying not to die on the toilet. Or the other distractions I’ve set up will keep them occupied.
Inside the house, people are swearing. Someone in the bathroom upstairs is praying to God, loudly.
I’m a few quick steps down the walk when the fire alarm in the kitchen starts to beep. The mix of oil and crumbs I poured in the toaster oven finally did its job. Smoke’s pouring out ofthe kitchen, which means the bag of flour and sheaf of old newspapers I shoved in the oven are probably about to catch fire.
I pick up my skirts and start to run.
There are shouts behind me. A few shots ring out, and I duck, still rushing away from the house as fast as I can in this huge dress. I guess the laxatives wore off.
Royal’s dad is on the front lawn, gun in hand. He tries to take aim even as his face contorts and he folds over his cramping stomach, bending double. He’s pretty determined to shoot me, even as he’s shitting himself.
I hoist my skirts higher and force myself to pick up speed. I run like the house behind me is on fire.
I’m at the top of the road when a giant booming blast makes me stagger. I get to my feet. Royal’s dad is prone on the lawn, still moaning. Still alive.
Flames roar in the space that used to be the house’s kitchen. The fire quickly spreads. Thugs pour from the windows and doors onto the lawn, hacking in the thick smoke. Most are bent in half like their colons are still rioting.
A black SUV screeches up to me. Royal jumps out the back, a gun in his hand. “Leah!” His black hair and eyes are wild, but he tucks the gun away as he strides to me.
Then I’m in his arms.
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “I’m all right. He didn’t hurt me.”
Royal crushes me to him, burying me in his wool coat. He jerks his head towards the house, and Enzo and the rest of his men head towards it.
“No!” I gasp. “Wait!”
“Shhh,principessa mia,” Royal says, trying to bundle me into the car.
“You can’t go in there,” I shout to Enzo and the rest. “Not yet. I messed with the gas lines.”
Enzo and the men stop short.
In the distance, there’s a whine of fire engine sirens.
“Come here.” Royal scoops me up and sets me in the car. I fight through my crinkling skirt to grab his lapels. “Royal, I’m serious. They can’t go near the house.”
“They won’t, baby. Give me a second.” He tears himself away.
I collapse back into the car seat in a pile of white fabric. I did it. I survived.
