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“That goes double for me. Not a hair on my husband’s head. Do you fucking idiots understand me?” Then I howl like a wolf and roll my head around like I’m insane. I see Sal trying not to smile.

He looks at me as his blindfold is fitted over his eyes and says, “Comare.”

Yes, I am.

I gasp when I’m hoisted into the van. I know there are three of them. My husband taught me well. I scanned. There are two in the van behind us, and two in the first van. There are five men with Sal. I’m in the middle seat. It’s not ideal with one man at my back.

They put the blindfold on me, but it gets caught in my headband, which they rip off and toss out of the car. And now I’m going to die. No one is coming to save me. They can’t track us. Okay. Comare. Comare. Don’t panic. Act fucked up.

“Hey, remember that puking thing, I have? I need to sit all the way in the back if you’re going to keep this blindfold on.” My hands aren’t bound, their mistake but apparently a crazy girl is working on this crowd. They put me in the back and strap me in, and I start singing TV theme songs. Any that I can remember. I cheat the blindfold just enough to notice they’re not looking at me.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Meow! Poppy wants a cracker!” They go back to their discussion and wait for us to take off.

I catch every other word, but it’s mostly about how Enzo’s waiting.

The driver says, “We take the alternate route and rendezvous later.”. They can’t follow us. If there were a way to tell Brick and Becca to find him first, I would. Save him. I can hold on, but he’s the prize. My hands are shaking again and I dig deep. I have to stall, be strong and calm. Stay calm. I don’t know what to do with all this adrenaline, and I’m afraid if they look at me they’ll now. I turn it inward. I’m rumbling inside. It’s all feeding my beast that’s glowing brighter every second. I let it all redistribute throughout my body. I own it all. I am mumbling and trying to throw them off.

“What the fuck are you doing, you dumb bitch?” The man on my right says harshly, and I decide to play the part Sal told me I could. Comare.

“Like it’s any of your fucking business, monkey boy goon. But I’m fixing my hair. It took someone a long ass time to get this straight and perfect and you’ve gone ahead and…” There’s no warning to the pain that flares across my face. The crack is sickening, his hand to my cheekbone.

My stupid game dies in the sound of being struck. I want to scream out, but my brain is too busy dealing with the pain to do or say anything. I freeze and sink back in my chair. But the pain stokes the fire inside of me. This guy has no idea what he just fucking did. I’m sick of people fucking hitting me.

I hear them muttering in Italian. “What the hell are you doing you stupid fuck? That’s Pietro’s wife. Did you not hear him?”

He answers in English. “So? He’ll be dead within the hour. What’s he going to do, haunt me?”

My body goes stiff and the pain freezes in time as he says the words aloud. He gives voice to my deepest fear, that Sal will actually die. I won’t survive it a second time. There will be nowhere to start over. If I’m left on this earth without my heart, I will learn to hunt and kill. I will let the blackness spread over these men and anyone else that had a hand in taking my soul out of this world.

“Maybe. That fucker is serious as shit.” The man speaks again and answers in broken English.

“Bullshit.” The young guy says.

The Italian says, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already got your family tied up somewhere. He’s always six moves ahead of everything. It’s taken Enzo a fucking year to put this shit together, and Sal faked his death in between.”

A third voice enters the fray and in my haze of pain and rage, it’s familiar. My brain whirls to work it out. It’s still stuck on the fact that I was hit by an asshole. I’m kind of crazed with worry, fear and my damn cheek stings like a grease burn in the kitchen. Kitchen. Oh, how I wish I were in my café kitchen cooking linguine with clams for Sal and being blissfully unaware of all of this. But no time for ‘let’s pretend’ right now.

“And Poppy has done nothing wrong.” I perk up at my name and now I recognize the man from Lou’s crew. I know him. He’s kind, for this business, at least. He used to run sales. Shit. What’s his name? He has a weird white patch of hair in a circle at the back of his head. I’m not supposed to know any inner workings. I’ve blocked out more than any of these men will ever know, but Lou used to talk to me when Sal would sleep. Names of people he trusts. The list was short, but I remember it. This guy is one of two men. I’m going to have to take a guess. If I can humanize this guy, maybe we live until Brick and Becca can get to us. Maybe.

“John!” It comes to me in a rush. I hear him mutter ‘fuck’. It is. It’s Johnny Grocer. He started out distributing from his father’s market in downtown LA. “Best chicken parm sandwich I’ve ever had.” Not as a threat but to signal I know him and his mama’s red sauce. I know his family’s market is East Side Italian Deli. And I’m totally serious about the sandwich. It’s all I say.

“Hello, ma’am,” he says in a less than cheerful way. I don’t know how he ended up with Enzo, but I want him to survive this mess, too. I haven’t marked him yet, in case that plan is still a go, so maybe he has a chance.

My voice is confident as I say loud enough for everyone to hear, “He’s critical but ok.” No further explanation needed as I hear him exhale loudly. He doesn’t respond, but he knows that Lou survived the shooting.

The asshole young guy says, “Tearful reunion over?” He speaks again in Italian but it’s crude, “The cunt’s got the money, so Enzo needs her gone too.”

“She’s done nothing wrong,” Johnny reiterates. “Don’t fuck with his wife.”

This young guy must have an aggression problem trying to earn his stripes bullshit.

“You’re going to bleed so very much.” I hear the other two men laugh and then the whiz of his hand as it lands on the same cheek. It’s fire that crackles through every part of me as I feel the bruise swelling. My eye is uncomfortably close to the strike zone.

“Knock it the fuck off. You’re playing with history and fire, asshole,” Johnny says.

“You’re really afraid of that guy. The one who’s fucking hog-tied by now in the back of a van being delivered to his death?”