He leans against me as we both pant to catch our breath. A noise behind us catches my attention and I turn slightly. Rico clears his throat. “Boss,” he says, shuffling nervously. “Sorry to interrupt. Salvatore Tagliarini came back for his coat.” Rico motions to the man inside the penthouse standing by the bar within full view of our fucking. His smile is just as smarmy as before and it disgusts me.
“Make him a drink,” Master says casually. Rico gives an awkward nod and heads back inside. Master has fucked me in front of his friends more times than I can count, those who are amenable to the lifestyle, but he is generally more reserved around fellow mobsters. He pulls out of me completely and zips up. Then he replaces the plug to hold me over until later. “We cannot change the past,schiavo, only prepare for the future.”
He slides one hand along my ass and squeezes, signaling he’s finished with me. I stand at last and stretch my neck and shoulders, which are still tight from playing the piano. Master removes his suit jacket and drapes it around my shoulders. “Wait here while I get rid of this troublesome man.”
I wish I had a cigarette right then and I imagine he does too. Master adjusts his tie, then smooths it down against his shirtfront before heading back inside. Rico and Salvatore are standing behind the bar, facing each other while having a drink. I pick up my flat club soda and take a sip. I imagine Rico trying to make small talk to cover the awkwardness of what they both just witnessed, and a smirk plays across my lips. I’m never asked to explain or justify my behavior. There’s no shame in following Master’s orders or in being his pampered pet. They think I’m only here for sex, and that’s certainly part of it, but what Master and I share is so much more than just physical gratification. Besides, they should all be thanking me for keeping him in such a good mood.
Master enters the room and motions to the two of them from across the bar. Some words are exchanged, and what happens next is so fast that it’s almost a blur. Salvatore raises a kitchen knife he’d been hiding under his suit jacket and stabs Rico in the gut twice, then grabs Rico’s gun out of his holster, aims it at Master, and fires. Master falls to his knees, clutching the bar counter at the same time my crystal goblet shatters on the floor of the balcony. Then Salvatore turns his predatory gaze on me.
I dash across the terrace into Master’s bedroom and lock the door behind me, but it’s a flimsy French door, and I know it won’t keep him out for long. I sprint into the closet and slide down to the carpet on my knees. With shaking hands, I spin the dial on Master’s safe. The code is my birthday, and I pray to God he hasn’t changed it. The latch lifts and I thank the Virgin Mary for her grace as I yank open the heavy door and grab Master’s 9mm, slam in the cartridge, then release the slide. I position myself against the back of the closet, facing the bedroom. I pull a bunch of Master’s suit jackets off their hangers to hide myself and wait for the rat bastard to approach. The glass on the French door shatters followed by the click of the lock as he manipulates it from the outside.
“Matthew,” he calls like the coo of some deranged bird. “Matthew, I know you’re in here, and if you come with me nicely, there won’t be any trouble. I won’t have to hurt you,” he adds as an afterthought.
He reminds me again of my mother’s boyfriend preparing me for my first shot of heroin, telling me it will be so, so good, like quicksilver in my veins, the best I’ll ever feel. What choice did I have as their captive? I didn’t even realize I’d been raped until much later, after I came down. Of course, I wanted more heroin, but by then, I had to earn it.
I breathe deeply to steady my hand and wait for his approach. “Matthew,” he says as though asking me to be rational. “Come on now, kid. I can take care of you better than Valentin. I’ve got plenty of silver spoons for a good boy like you. That’s what you want right? A little bit of smack to make you feel good? Uncle Sal can make it real nice for you. Come on out now so I don’t have to get nasty.”
He approaches the closet with his gun drawn. He thinks I’m scared, and I am—not for my own life but for Master’s. Every second that slips by is critical to his survival.If he’s not dead already,the demons whisper but I shut them out. I’m armed and capable. I know how to handle a gun, and though I’ve never killed someone before, the thought of it doesn’t scare me.
Salvatore swings open the closet door, and I have him in my sights. I pull the trigger before he even glimpses my face. His body drops and I glance at him just long enough to see that I shot him in the face. A closed casket, then. The hours spent with my grandfather and Master at the shooting range were not in vain.
Keeping hold of the gun, I sprint to the kitchen where Master is still on the ground, though propped against the side of the bar now and clutching his abdomen. I place the gun in his right hand, his dominant one. He knows already what happened in the bedroom. “Call Dr. Greyson,” he rasps. “I’m fine. Apply pressure to Rico’s wounds.”
It kills me to leave Master’s side, but I do as he orders, fumbling his phone out of his pants pocket and unlocking it with his bloody fingertip. I put it on speaker while I grab dish towels and rip open Rico’s suit jacket to find his shirt bloodied with more of it pouring out.
“Valentin,” the doctor says promptly. As quickly as I can, I relay to him what happened, who’s injured, and how. While I’m still on the phone and following his instructions, four medics arrive with stretchers to transport them both. I fight off the urge to disassociate and remind myself that Master needs me right now. I tell them there’s another body in the bedroom, already dead, “so don’t waste your time.” I grip Master’s hand even as they take him away, running alongside the stretcher down the stairwell on bare feet to keep up, refusing to let go. In the van, which is rigged up like an ambulance, one of the medics offers me a pair of scrubs, pointedly avoiding looking at my cock cage and other adornments. I hurriedly dress and return to Master’s side, gripping his hand as if I might be able to squeeze the life back into him. His other hand still holds the gun.
“Don’t you fucking die on me, Valentin,” I rasp viciously.
His smile is weak but devastating, nonetheless. “I wouldn’t dare.”
4
Master will survive. The bullet missed his major organs and made a clean exit out his back, just under his rib cage. Many, many blessings. I will lightallthe prayer candles next time I attend mass and say my Rosary every night. There must be a reason Master is named after the goddess Fortuna. I’ll make my offerings to her as well.
Master’s surgery to mend the torn tissue is minor, but Dr. Greyson prescribes two weeks of bed rest so that he can fully heal, and I’m in charge of making sure that happens. One disadvantage to being a mob boss is that none of your underlings will tell you to get back in bed, but I sure as hell will.
Rico’s injuries are more serious, but the prognosis looks good for him too. By the time the medics got to him, he’d lost a lot of blood, and his blood pressure dipped dangerously low before he arrived at Dr. Greyson’s clinic. But the doctor and his team were able to stabilize his condition and give him a blood transfusion. His wife Gabriela came as soon as she got the call. We bonded over our shared panic and anxiety. I drank coffee for the first time in three years and ate way too many donuts. She told me about her most recent diet cleanse and showed me pictures of their kids.
And now that Master is past the danger zone, he is very grumpy. I’ve installed him in the guest bedroom of the penthouse on an adjustable bed that I had brought in so that he can convalesce in comfort. A man like him cannot lie flat on his back all day; it would be bad for his mental health. But what it means is that he spends at least ten minutes every hour adjusting the controls while complaining about the doctor’s orders, which aremyorders now. I remain firm. I will not risk Master’s recovery because he’s antsy to be up and out of bed.
The Aponte family’s clean-up crew handled the dead body, and the bedroom carpet was swiftly replaced so there are no bloodstains or lingering evidence. The team worked quickly and efficiently, which isn’t surprising because Master only employs competent people. Perhaps I should feel worse about what I did, but it was self-defense, and I’ve known people to be murdered for far less. I worry sometimes that I have become too good at compartmentalizing, but on my list of mental health issues, it ranks rather low.
There are men placed strategically throughout the apartment and outside of it, including security cameras that monitor the lobby, stairwell, and penthouse elevator. As it turns out, I killed someone relatively important, a nephew to the Tagliarini don. The Commission will meet to discuss the situation when Master is feeling better. For now, what is known is that Salvatore Tagliarini disrespected Master’s hospitality, broke one of the gentlemen’s rules to not inflict violence on a man when invited into his own home, and that Master acted in self-defense. The official story is that Master shot Salvatore after being shot himself. I don’t really care what the mafia propaganda machine is churning out, so long as Master is safe and sound.
But with the added security and Master being in recovery, it means that I must shed my role ofschiavofor the time being and run the household. The wiseguys need to be fed and watered, and for those staying in round-the-clock shifts, accommodations need to be made. I doubt they’d take me seriously if I strutted around the apartment nude, so I must wear clothing, which is cumbersome. Neither Master nor I like our privacy being invaded like this, but his health and safety are the most important things to consider right now. And though I try to stay out of mob politics, I know that a weakened don is an easy target for the other families and even for those rats within our ranks.
The men are civil, some more so than others, and those who were on the clean-up crew know that I can handle a gun. It’s obvious to anyone who saw the scene that I was the one who shot Salvatore in the head. Maybe they speculate to each other. As for me, I say nothing at all about it.
Thankfully, food has been provided by the mob wives and arrives in a steady stream—baked ziti, manicotti, lasagna, and the occasional tuna casserole. I give the meals to the men while keeping Master and me on our strict diets.
And now I must get Master to eat his soup.
“Why do you fight me, Master, when all this slave wants is to take care of you?” It’ll be another day or so before he’s allowed to have solids. Dr. Greyson wants to give his digestive track a break and the morphine increases constipation. Not to worry, the meds are under lock and key, and only the nurses have access to them. Master’s lack of appetite causes me some anxiety. At the point my grandfather started refusing food, his condition deteriorated drastically.
“It’s me who should be feeding you,tesoro,” he says grouchily, “and fucking you too.”
He’s in no condition to fuck me, but he knows how important our routines are to me.
