“I told you,” I whisper. “I told you not to trust him.”
Dad never listened to me. He believed in seeing the best in people and always giving them a chance. I wasn’t that naïve.
Maximo Luciani walked into my father’s restaurant in person for the first time six years ago. He was so charming in his fancy suit, offering my father a deal to make a little extra money on the side and promising protection by the Luciani family if there was ever any trouble.
My dad didn’t want to use his deliveries to smuggle street drugs. But he also didn’t want to get on the gangster’s shit list. Everyone on our block knows that when the mob asks for something, it’s not really a request. It’s a demand, one that you can’t refuse.
So, my father agreed. He signed a deal in writing, and then even after paying a cut of his profits every month, he began earning his own little slice. The proceeds from his shady side business paid for our kitchen upgrades and put me through school.
He did everything Luciani asked, and what did he get for his final reward? Someone chaining up the exits and setting fire to him, his life’s work, and to my entire world.
My father is gone, but Maximo is still alive and well, sitting in his SUV because he refuses to let a drop of water ruin his designer suit, before returning to his mansion where he’ll indulge in caviar and smoke rare cigars. Or whatever rich pricks do while destroying the lives of those beneath them.
Well, he’s about to have a disruption to his perfect gangster world.
I turn from the grave and head for my car, annoyed theSUV has already left before I could have a word with the bastard inside. When I get behind the wheel, my hair is plastered to my forehead and cheeks, and my black pantsuit is dripping onto the floorboard.
A towel or hot shower would be nice right now, but I can’t exactly go home. My father and I shared an apartment above the restaurant. It was the only home I had ever known, and now it’s nothing but ashes in the wind.
I’ve spent the last few nights in a nearby hotel while making arrangements for the funeral. I checked out this morning after I found a letter slipped under my door.
“My sincere condolences,” it read. “I wish to speak to you personally. Make an appointment to come see me at your earliest convenience. — M. Luciani”He included his card, jet black inlaid with gold lettering, with only his name and a phone number printed on the front. It felt less like an invitation and more like a summons.
“Oh, you’re going to hear from me, you son of a bitch,”I promise as I put the car into gear.
I drive north until the houses get larger and farther apart as the income gap increases. A sign indicates where the suburb of Scarsdale begins. I follow the directions on my phone until I arrive at what looks like a well-kept garden. A set of iron gates blocks the floral path, and as I drive closer, my GPS chimes to let me know I’ve reached my destination.
I can feel my blood boiling and my cheeks flush as I pull up to the gate and the small guard station by the driver side of my car. I found this address so easily online that I had half expected it to lead me to an empty lot or an abandoned warehouse. What kind of cocky motherfucker would run the mob and have their home address listed as public information?
A guard steps out of the small booth, eyes sharp and focused directly on me, his gun clearly visible on his hip like awarning. He doesn’t have an umbrella, and water drips from his hat as he leans down to look inside at me just as another guard comes out behind him and walks around my car with a wand.
I roll down my window, and the first guard says, “Can I help you, miss?”
“My name is Constance Monroe. I want to see Maximo.”
The guard looks me over, taking in the wet clothes that cling to me like a second skin. He hesitates, as if he can’t decide if I’m potentially dangerous or just a drenched crazy woman.
“Wait here,” he finally says with a shake of his head, unable to make a decision.
I roll my window up and watch him walk back to the booth where he picks up a telephone and begins speaking with someone. When I glance up, I notice at least two security cameras swivel toward my car.
After a few minutes have passed, the delay pissing me off, the guard finally nods his head. The gates groan open before me, and he waves me through without another word.
As I drive through the archway, I’m struck by the immense size of the estate. The grounds are immaculate; the lawn is so perfect it appears as if someone trims every individual blade.
Despite the elegance, it doesn’t feel like someone’s home.
It feels like a kingdom, one that I’m trespassing on.
To my impoverished eye, it’s an impressive symbol. A mighty castle for the strongman who sits inside on a throne built on the sweat and blood of better men. Men like my father.
The armed guards standing out front on the covered porch barely spare me a glance. I climb out of my car and walk right up the steps and through the front door, dripping rainwater in a puddle on the marble floors like an abandoned mutt someone took pity on and brought inside to get warm.
A man steps into the hallway, freezing when he sees me,glowering at my drenched clothes before disappearing just as quickly as he appeared.
“I’m here just like you wanted! I got your bullshit note and saw you hiding in your car at the cemetery!” I shout, my voice cracking through the cavernous foyer. “So where are you, you son of a bitch?”
A voice answers from above, smooth and deadly.
