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“Yes,” the other two men say in unison. Fueled by the twinge of pain, I crack a small smile. I feel like I just clicked batteries into place on the first try. I’m all pluses and a whole lot of minuses now. I’m charged. Hit me again, asshole.

I almost laugh, until I hear him come closer, out of his seat. He’s approaching. I brace for the impact of another slap, but instead I double over losing my breath as he punches my stomach. My old bruises flare a bit. Men need to stop hitting me. I gasp but bite back a moan.

“I’m telling you. Do not raise your fucking hand again.”

The incompetent asshole is still standing over me. I can feel him as I try to sit up.

“Sit down, now. You’re a fucking minor player in all this shit. Don’t fuck up your future because you didn’t listen to your elders. Enzo will slice you from toe to tip if something happens to her, fucker.” Johnny Grocer says.

Johnny spoke in English, so I’d know this asshole is a nobody. This is one that’s expendable. Whether it’s a warning or a signal to me, time will tell. I catch my breath, and the nausea subsides and my breath returns. Shoulders back, I raise my chin and look in the direction of the pawn like the fucking queen I’m supposed to be.

“What are you going to do? Shoot me?” I say and he grips my ponytail. I cry out a little. I can’t work out what he’ll do next.

I catch my breath by thinking of Sal. It’s time to listen to his advice. Don’t react. Don’t do anything. Don’t be a hero. But he had no idea a rogue asshat would beat me. The pain turns inward and into another spark. Into an idea, while my head is trying to wrap around my surroundings.

The Italian warns, “Let go of her, fuckhead.” I’m fumbling in my purse slowly so as not to draw attention to myself. I find the atomizer with the dye in it. If he gets close enough, I can get him in the eyes. Kneeing him in the balls is also an option. I feel his weight shift, and I’m sure he’s winding up to hit me again. I have seconds to decide my plan of action and pop. Splatter. Slump.

“Fuck.” I hear Johnny Grocer utter. The Italian killed the asshole whose dead on my fucking lap. I push the man off me quickly with a screech and undo my seatbelt to shift to the other side. No one says another thing. I can only see the man at my feet through the bottom of the blindfold. Mouth open in shock, and eyes wide toward the roof of the van. I don’t have to touch my face to know it’s covered in sticky splatter. It’s getting dark out.

“That fucking guy was going to get us killed. Too young. Too rash.” There’s a sigh from Johnny in the driver’s seat.

“Agreed.”

The man didn’t even hesitate to kill an associate. It was quick and ruthless. My breathing calms as silence settles over the van. A cruel and stupid man at my feet. A chill builds deep in the core of me and settles over my skin. I sink into the feeling.

This will be the moment I realize I’ve always been more. There’s a place deep inside of me that might have been drawn to Sal and a life of honor, loyalty, and strength. The power it draws and the respect it demands. It was buried but, in this second, it surfaces and surrounds me like a gossamer blanket. And I wrap myself in it, finally. All reservations and doubts are gone.

I’m glad he’s dead.

Chapter

Forty-Two

Sal

There’s no way to get to her. The van is turning and twisting, trying to confuse me, but they can’t fuck with me. If they want us separate, I’m afraid of what Enzo or Cady have figured out. I know they’re taking me to my mother’s house. I hope Brick worked that out too.

He’s always wanted to claim the houses in Italy like that would bring him old world honor. He’s drawn to the proximity to ports and the opulence of Positano. Feels like he deserves it. Other than respect, the moment you think you deserve something is the moment in life you deserve nothing. Entitlement is the cover of fools too dumb to work for shit.

I shake off what’s happened and what’s going to happen, and I shift to what is happening. The zip ties around my fucking ankles are a problem. I’m big enough that I could take these fuckers out without my hands but without legs, I’m stuck.

I need them to make a mistake. I start to find the weak link. “So, you assholes are a whole new crew. He pick you up here or there? Running with the Latin Kings? And feeling like a new suit would clean you right up? Make you respectable?”

“Non abboccare all’esca.” One warns the crew not to rise to my bait. But if they’re Italian, they might be mafia star fuckers. I know a lot made men and old country retirees, let’s call them.

I speak to the driver. “Cosa Nostra, Gambino? Which family do you belong to because you’re not ours? You’re not from Italy, but you sure as shit ain’t from Victor Heights. You’ve been to the old neighborhood, though. Yeah, Enzo would make you visit the ole Forgotten Edge. Maybe as a cautionary tale or maybe so he could piss on the old guard’s street corners. You lack honor and respect since you weren’t raised in it.”

They’re also not skilled. These boneheads put the lock of the zip ties in the middle of my hands. Just biding my time. Zip ties. That’s what you thought would restrain me. I should have taught Poppy how to get out of them. I push down all the things I should have taught her and focus on these chubbs. There’s five. I can handle five.

“Shut the fuck up,” a shaky voice says. And there it is. My gift. I love rattling the cage of a toothless soldier.

I sit back and say, “If I’m about to die, don’t you want my wisdom? It’s gotta count for something since the fucking empire I goddamn built is what you’re willing to spill blood over.”

“Shut up.” I’d put him mid-thirties. Late to the thug game to be untrained. I can hear the rise in his voice. He’s my hot-head target.

I nod in his direction even though I can’t see him. I pretend I can. “You’re not even a made guy. I can hear it. You popped anyone yet that mattered? Felt the fucking rush of power? Is that what you’re after? Listen, all you fuckos. Enzo, isn’t loyal to you or anyone. He’s loyal to the rush. The money and power. And if you don’t serve his purposes, he’s not going to get you reassigned to some other department. There’s no fucking HR to make sure you’re taken care of. No pension in this business. He’s brutal and dumb. A dangerous fucking prospect in a man you’re following into a gang war.”

“There ain’t no fucking gang war, old timer.” A man on the left says. I don’t need him. I need fucking insecure dickwad to reengage.