Page 6 of Revenge on the Mafia

I stared at my hands. They’d put a storm to shame with how they trembled. They were also empty. I’d left the tray behind. I’d have to go back. I groped for my headphones around my neck and came up empty. They must have fallen off. A wave of frustration gathered in my chest.

“I wish he’d find someone else.”

I blinked.

“I wish he’d choke on a pineapple and die.”

I hate shiny black shoes.

I’d much rather… Pineapple?

The room service girl was in the lift. “Pineapple?” I croaked. My elevator companion was beautiful. Straight brown hair twisted into a bun, crimson cheeks, and two buttons she was busy trying to pop back into place while holding the tray with an empty glass.

“The bastard’s apparently allergic to it.”

I took her tray so she could button herself up. “To pineapple?”

“Yes! I told you that already.” She looked at me as if she expected to see air between my ears. “He sends two of his men to the kitchen when they prepare his food. Daniela delivers that. I don’t know how she puts up with him.” She finished buttoning her blouse. “Now he’s taken a liking to Tinto de Verano… or me. Whatever it is, I have to bring it up to him, and every time, he’s fucking touchy. He has his whore. A new one every single day. What does he want with me?” A liquid drop clung to the edge of her eye, which she quickly wiped away with a frown directed at me. “I got away this time because the girl of the day was jealous.”

“You need to report him to management.”

“¿En serio?” She didn’t look impressed.

“Sí. He shouldn’t get away with it, and—”

“How long have you been working here?”

“Six months.”

She shook her head. “And on the top floor?”

“I started last week.”

“You don’t know who he is, do you?”

“Well, he’s not clean if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Not clean?” She laughed. “He runs the underworld, sweetie. He’s the fucking Mafia Don in New York.”

Mafia Don? The unease coiling in my body thickened into doom.

“You don’t report the fucking Don. He’ll kill you for cleaning his toilet wrong, and believe me, no one will hear you scream when he comes for you.”

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

She was right. It took a lifetime for someone to hear my screams. I’d died a thousand times waiting to be found. If the alarm hadn’t gone off, the neighbors might have come sooner, instead of waiting for the police. Or maybe they came faster because of it. When they finally found me, I had twisted my neck into a weird angle because I had thought holding on to Papá’s lifeless eyes might have kept him alive even if he was long dead. When I’d finally realized he was gone, I couldn’t move anymore, having been stuffed in that cramped cupboard, and I couldn’t stop screaming. The doctor they had called had to sedate me, but I still fought him hard before he could get the needle in. By that time, I’d caused permanent damage to my vocal cords. The constant pain and my gravelly voice had kept me company for weeks after.

She was right. When the fucking Don came for you, no one heard your screams.

Mamá was seated outside on the bench. Ten feet away from her, an older gentleman played petanca with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. The smell of citrus hung in the air. A few gardeners were busy pruning the bushes. It almost looked normal. Like Mamá was in her own garden, not in a long-term psychiatric residence.

“Anna.” Sonia, one of Mamá’s nurses, appeared beside me. “You came straight from work?”

“Sì.”

“You work too hard,” she reprimanded me. She always paid special attention to me. In the year that Mamá had been there, she looked after her as well as me.

I gave her a weak smile. “How is she doing?”