1
Adora
Ipush open the door of the twenty-four-hour laundromat with my shoulder, my arms aching from carrying the hamper of heavy wet bed linen. It’s nearly one in the morning, and my eyes are gritty with exhaustion. Greenish neon strip lighting flickers over rows of silent washing machines and driers, and a fly buzzes listlessly overhead. The place is deserted, and the background hum of the city fades away as the door swings closed behind me.
I head to the nearest machine and put my burden down with a groan.
I should be in bed right now, getting some much-needed sleep before my crack-of-dawn shift at the coffee shop, but my roommate, Vicky, came home drunk, staggered into my room instead of hers, and spilled her takeout food on my bed. As Vicky lurched back to her own room, I sat bolt upright, staring in horror at the slippery, fish-reeking mess spreading everywhere. I gathered up my stinking bedding and made my way here onfoot, to a place that smells of stale cigarettes and…something metallic.
I can’t place the smell, but for some reason, it makes my heart race.
I open a washing machine and feel in my pocket for coins to buy laundry powder for a single wash. All I have is my card for the machine. I forgot my change.
“Che palla.”What balls, I mutter, like Nonna would have before being chided by Mom for using coarse language. My throat thickens with grief as I remember better days when Mom and my grandmother were still alive, and my brother Cristiano was at home… But it’s best not to think about Mom and the rest of my family right now, or I’ll be swallowed by homesickness and loneliness.
There’s a change dispenser on the back wall, and I head there with my last five-dollar bill. Once upon a time, a whole six weeks ago, I lived in a mansion, and my fingers had never touched the start button on a washing machine. I studied business at Malus University, and I drove a top-of-the-line convertible. Now, I’ve had to drop out of college, and I can barely afford to wash my own sheets.
I feed the five-dollar bill into the change dispenser, vaguely aware of the L-shaped space to my right. The metallic smell is stronger here. The scent prickles at the back of my throat, and my stomach twists with nausea.
The laundromat’s humming strips of neon are replaced by a golden-lit ballroom. A splash of red stains my pretty lilac dress. Not wine, but blood. Screams of agony pierce the room and shatter it like glass.
I slam my eyes shut and press my palms against the cold metal dispenser as a shiver goes through me. It’s just a laundromat. I focus on the feel of the coin slot under myfingertips and the click of the machine, but the metallic tang in the air remains.
I force my eyes open, and something tickles my peripheral vision. A smear of red on the tiled floor that shouldn’t be there. My heart races again, and I finally recognize the scent in the air.
Blood.
A primeval sensation creeps over my flesh that tells me I’m being watched. That I’m in horrible danger.
I turn my head, and shock slams into me.
Less than ten feet away are four big men with hard eyes and menacing expressions, standing as still as stone and glaring at me. One is brandishing a bloodied baseball bat. The others have tattooed hands clenched around brass knuckles.
Merda, as Nonna would have said, because she knew when the biggest, rudest words are needed.
My eyes travel downward. A fifth man is slumped on the floor, covered in blood and bruises. His face is contorted in pain and fear, and blood is matted in his blond hair and pouring down his cheek. More blood is spattered across his white T-shirt and the tattoos covering his arms and throat. He’s outnumbered, and possibly dazed by a wallop from that baseball bat.
Our eyes meet, and his are a vivid, agonized, terrified blue. His pain pierces me all the way into my soul.
I stand frozen in place. My father is one of the most dangerous men in this broken city, and after escaping from beneath his violent, murderous thumb, I told myself I was safe. My plan is to exist on a coffee-shop salary and a diet of instant noodles, and as soon as I’ve saved enough money for a plane ticket abroad, I’m leaving and never coming back.
But nowhere is safe in Malus. You barely need to scratch the luxurious facade of this city to find the treacherous, violent underbelly.
Coming out alone and unarmed in the middle of the night was a mistake. I should have shoved my soiled bedding to the floor and slept under my bathrobe.
I should have bought the first bus ticket out of town when my engagement party turned into a bloodbath.
The dispenser releases my change, and the cascade of quarters is deafening in the silence. I jump and breathe faster as I continue staring into the blood-soaked man’s eyes. I want to scream, but the ghost of my father’s hand striking me makes my throat seize up. I’ve been slapped across the face for crying. For screaming. For feeling anything at all.
The man with the baseball bat brandishes it menacingly. I imagine the bat crashing into my skull, and my world going dark forever.
A strained voice speaks from the floor. “Let her go.” The man on the floor has his teeth grit, and sweat is beading on his brow. He doesn’t look away from me as he pants, “Go. Run. Don’t get involved. I’m not worth it.”
For a moment, he almost looks like someone I’ve seen before, but then the flash of familiarity is gone.
I moisten my lips. The man with the baseball bat looks ready to swing at me.
A memory flashes through my mind. The golden ballroom light illuminating the carnage and screaming, while I, the reason this is all happening, am frozen in place.
