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Poppy

Noise and anguish are everywhere. He’s pissing his rage all over the house, and we don’t have time for it. I leave the kitchen and follow him out the side door. He just stares at me while he punches a tree.

“SAL! Are there any more alive in the house? Sal? Get your shit together. I’m ill equipped for this. I’m a chef, not a cleaner.” He doesn’t even look at me as he snaps a branch and paces around. Fine.

My head is whirring in a million different directions. But I’m good at multitasking, at the pass, on the line, at the stove, on the floor. I was trained in busy, stressful, demanding kitchens. This is the same, just with body parts and a blood-lusty mafia don in the middle of a psychotic break.

I have to settle my shaking hands to see if I can get blood to circulate through my body again. I walk through the house, hoping to regain my central nervous system. It’s like I’ve had an epidural, blocking all feeling. Or so I’ve been told. Is that really what an epidural does? I should ask Elle because she’s had some, and Natalie had one. Can you have them if you’re not pregnant? This seems like something I could google but Sal’s phone is sitting on the edge of a puddle of blood. Ok. Focus. I’m the only one right now. Sal’s gone bye bye and we will discuss this later. He does not get to leave me alone like this to deal with this kind of shit again. I say aloud over my shoulder to the open back door, “You do not get to check out. Not now.”

I’ve never seen or heard Sal like this before. It would scare me if I didn’t have sweet Lou’s blood on my hands. I don’t have fucking time to worry about my husband. I need him to redirect his apeshit rage away from shooting up the furniture and start going medieval, calculating full on mafia mobster Cosa Nostra Don on this situation. I may own all the shit, but I don’t actually have the title. Or the education and skills. I can make a killer panna cotta but this shit, not trained in it.

I focus on Lou. Ambulance and police are coming. We have to get out of here before they get here. Because we have a dinner to attend and can’t get caught up in the why and how. Lou. Prop Lou up.

I take a picture with my phone of the message and of Lou.

His head is lolling around, and I move around the kitchen to find dish towels. I find lovely woven runners for the rustic farm table in the middle of the room. I take them and wrap them tightly above the wounds on his knees. His head is fine, but he’s clearly been shot. I don’t know what to do except try to stop the blood. I don’t have the bullet wound glue skills of Sal’s former paramours. I hear more groans and screaming in Italian as he stomps back into the house. The walls and windows shake in his wake as he makes his way through the house.

I get a wet rag and wipe Lou’s face and he rouses a little. An ambulance is on the way, and I remember something about water being vital in blood loss. I step over the shards of another glass to find an unbroken one to fill. I bring it to his lips and tip it. Lou groans softly as the water hits his tongue.

“Sip. I’ll help you.” Most of it dribbles down his chest, but he gets a small sip. I keep giving it to him until his eyes flutter open a little.

“Lou. Ludovico. It’s Poppy. Sal’s got this.” Not really, the brainless tree punching monster is loose and I have to get him back online real fucking quick. But I keep my voice low and calm for Lou. “We got you. Help is coming. We have to go. Let me do this, and then people with actual medical experience will be here. You know, people who aren’t me. Just stay alive.” I kiss his cheek and there’s another grunt.

I hear Sal back outside, doors slamming and things crashing. I soap up a cloth and wipe down Enzo’s invitation so no one goes looking for us. I shove the rag into a plastic bag and then into my purse. I heard him drop his gun, so I fetch the one in the doorway, hoping it was his. Safety on and deposit it in with the bloody towels.

We solve this alone. This is a family matter and getting anyone else involved will only raise the body count. I can’t have that. We really don’t have time for it right now. I have to streamline this. Moments matter. I scurry around the kitchen, wiping down the six things I touched. But honestly, I fucking own the house.

You don’t fall in love with the head of a connected family and not learn a thing or two. You keep your shit tight, small, and internal. In moments like these you circle the wagons, go to the mattresses, trust no one, and every other cliche I can think of. Do not fan flames that need to stay down. I’ve learned that this shit, this kind of bloodbath is rare. Mafia is a simmer and the boil-over is only for war. Gather your counsel and hit them back where it will do the most damage. And get out so you can all earn another day. The Family is a business.

I get myself together. I count each of the sixteen bodies I step over, and something shifts in me. These men were mine in a way and died protecting Gia. I’ll relish killing the men who did this. This isn’t right. I don’t care if it’s about money or power. This shit stops. Sal’s plan is clearly not working. I’m a problem solver, and I know a thing or two. Use the skills and ingredients you have, not what you wish for. You harvest the grapes you get and make the best wine possible. You don’t plan that shit. You can try, but Mother Nature and the vines have their own plan. You adapt and pivot. You finesse and thrive, or you die. I need counsel and backup.

My happily ever after is too close for a maniac with a knife, a semi-automatic obsession and a conscious cruel streak to ruin. I run to the car to grab the burner I took from Mark that’s stashed in the trunk.

SKYLARK: 911

No one responds. Time is ticking.

SKYLARK: 911

I do it again even though I’m not supposed to. The first rule of burners is one nonresponse and it’s been compromised. Or it’s inactive either by design or by the human who should be holding it. Mark is ignoring us or he’s dead. I can’t deal with that right now. I shove it down into a neat little box to puke it up later. Alone. Okay. I pace around the car and wipe my hands on my dress. I don’t know how long it takes an ambulance to get here, but I do know we have got to go.

My stomach stays steel as I scramble for my Fiona phone and the pulled sim card I’ve held onto that leads me home. I reassemble it, trying again on the other phone that I never use but know it can be traced by one federal agent, one White-hat hacker, and hopefully one very specific cousin.

FIONA/POPPY: 911 track me. Skylark 911. Not here. Find us. On the move.

I flip on my phone’s Bluetooth and GPS location. I leave the messaging app open. I wait a very long second holding my breath.

UNKNOWN: Got you. Shut it down and toss.

I pray it’s who I need and not Mel. Or if it is, Mel maybe she can me the help I need. As much as I think she’s a genius, I need a trained killer.

I do all the steps in reverse and run inside as I hear sirens. I must get him the hell out of here. This place will be swarming with police, and we have nowhere to hide. I don’t know what’s safe. A random motel might work.

Entering the kitchen, Sal is leaning down, taking something from Lou’s hand. Then he punches the refrigerator with bloody knuckles. He doesn’t even see me as he winds up again. The entire fridge shakes as he dents it further. I scramble onto the counter behind him and jump on his back, wrapping my arms around his neck. He stops his arm and turns his head sideways slowly. His eyes flick to mine.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He grips my hands around his neck.

“Jesus. Stop punching inanimate objects. We have to go. NOW!”