Page 10 of Revenge on the Mafia

It was only him and me. The man who’d bled my papá dry. This was what hatred felt like. I wanted to step over the threshold, take a knife, and carve his heart out. But a part of me was also a scared little girl locked inside a slatted cupboard. And that girl had done nothing then and couldn’t now. “I’m just a housemaid.”

His beady eyes touched me from top to toe. It was as appealing as a naked snail sliding down my skin. “You’re pretty enough to bring my drink.”

“She’s not been screened, sir,” the human armor protested next to me. I’d forgotten all about him. The voice of reason.

“She’s being screened by me.” And the voice of dick.

“Sir, I don’t think it’s safe—”

“If she’s out to kill me, she’d be more eager, wouldn’t she?”

The voice of reason said something in rapid Italian.

The dick was having none of it. “Take a sip then,” he ordered. I blinked. Before I could react, a beefy arm picked up the glass and tilted it to his lips. One half of the drink disappeared down his thick throat. He gurgled, then he swallowed. Finally, after the longest second in history, he gave a nod of approval.

“Fuck off then.” His hairy arm grabbed my elbow and pulled me inside. The door slammed shut behind me. The body armor outside and the killer inside.

A quick sweep of the room told me no one else was there. Panic coursed through my veins. The room spun. The past blended with the present. Images of blood sank into my mind.

Fat, greasy fingers caught my chin and tipped it up. My eyes burned. I wasn’t sure if it was from panic, pain, or smoke. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” My words were lost somewhere in my cork-dry throat. He touched my hair and twirled a finger around one of my curls. Hollow screams, cigarette smoke, and wooden floors stained crimson. My memory chose that moment to clear up. Three men. Black suits and shiny shoes. A cigarette on the floor. A gun and a knife. Papá stumbled. Papá crashed. Papá. Dead. A cold realization filled me.

No one will hear you scream when he comes for you.

His eyes on me were shrewd. He unbuttoned his shirt while circling me and whistling. The high-pitched sound set my teeth on edge. His heated breath crawled on my skin when he came close and said, “You’re a lucky girl. I’ve got some time on my hands today.” That didn’t sound good. But I was too shaken, shifting between memory and reality.

Yanking his shirt off, he turned his back and walked toward the bathroom. He hung it neatly on the hanger behind the door, adjusting the collar and buttoning it up entirely. So oddly normal. Like he wasn’t my father’s killer. Like I should be in his room. Like I should just serve his drink instead of tipping pineapple extract into it. He took his pants off and did the same. I focused all my attention on stuffing the empty bottle back into my pocket without letting it slip through my clammy hands.

When he sat down on the bed, a drip of sweat slid down my back. This was far beyond my capacity. He was the fucking Don. There was an armed guard outside the door. There was only one killer in the room. Unfortunately for me, that wasn’t me. What had I even been thinking?

“Well, what are you hanging around for? Get over here.” His words clawed at my insides. I’d gotten into his room. I could do this. Each step on the soft carpet felt like walking barefoot on a bed of nails, but somehow, I stood before him, the tray still in my hands. The only thing between my father’s killer and me.

You’re a fucking thief.

I clenched my hand so sharply around the tray that the thin metal bit into my skin.

I wanted to ask him why? Why did he bleed the heart out of the man who was our universe? What gave him the power to end his life? I wanted to know if he remembered him. Instead, the only thing that fell from my lips was a soft, cowardly, “Please.”

He laughed, his look almost calculating. “So polite.” He jerked me to him with his hands on my ass, the drink splashing onto the tray. “Naughty girl. At this rate, there’s going to be nothing left in the glass for a thirsty man, huh?” His thick fingers wrapped around the glass. “One sip from this and one sip from you.” He tipped the glass, and the liquid disappeared down his throat. The glint in his eyes turned cunning as he dropped the glass back onto the tray. “Nice and tingly.” He reached for my ass. I stumbled back.

“That wasn’t t—” He frowned. Tried again. “Wasn’t t—” His lips were turning thick, and a cough rattled out of him. “What the fu—”

He gripped his throat, shock flashing across his face.

“Y— fucking bit-ch.” He shoved past me to the bathroom.

I’d done it!

Things crashed to the floor in the bathroom as he rushed around like an aggravated bull. Of course! How could I have been so stupid? He’d have an EpiPen. Of course he would. And I had thought I was brave.

Run. Hide. And hope he never found me again.

I stumbled out of the room. I didn’t know what I told the guard or how he even allowed me to pass him. I made it to the service elevator just as the elevator on the other end pinged. More men? Vega? I pressed the button hurriedly. Please, please just move. Voices sounded behind me, but I didn’t hang around for the show. I jumped into the elevator. Paced it in circles. When it reached the basement, I made it to the enormous vase right next to the door and threw up the bile in my stomach. Random thoughts ran through my mind as I sagged against it. It was a Saturday and Mara didn’t have school. Mamá would be taking her siesta. Rush hour traffic would have started already. January fifteenth. Papá’s fourth death anniversary.

I’m so sorry, Papá.

I’d tried, and I’d failed.

I knew I hadn’t killed him.