The man I came to see, Giraldo, is around my age, with a shock of black hair and wire-framed spectacles propped on his nose. He has long, thin hands, which are on display because he’s playing five-finger fillet.
“You must be Angelo,” he says, thud-thud-thudding his blade on the table between his long fingers. We’re in the middle of the restaurant and older mafiosi sit all around, smoking cigars from the shadows.
“And you must be Giraldo,” I say.
And I must be pissed, because even how slow he’s playing with the knife is annoying me. He’s doing it methodically, with no risk, no danger. He’s scared of hurting himself. I warn myself to be calm. My temples throb. What a flashy young man. I clench my fist.
“Ah!” Giraldo curses as he nicks himself. He lays the blade—a blunt bread knife—aside and looks up at me. Then he stands and offers me his hand, which he should’ve done straight away. We shake, and he nods around the room, introducing the men, telling me the names of their fathers and nephews and uncles and brothers.
“Not often we get a De Maggot up here, boy,” a man named Romolo mutters. He has a flat face and a comb-over, and looks like he hates me, standing here in my flashy suit, with my glinting cufflinks. De Maggot? Boy? The man must have a death wish, disrespecting me like that. If I didn’t have business to handle, I’d snatch his life away in an instant. “Your father was busy, then?”
Here is what I want to do: grab the front of his flat face and slam his head through the window, over and over, crushing his nose with my palm. And then, when his friends pull out their guns I’ll take Giraldo hostage and drag him outside, tie him to the back of my Ferrari, and skin him all the way to New York.
But here is what I do instead: I incline my head, and smile.
Diplomacy, I think. For your sake if nothing else, Father.
“Father is always busy, signore. It’s the curse—and the blessing—of the job. But do not worry. I speak for the De Maggio name.”
“Hmm,” Romolo grunts.
Giraldo looks between us. Maybe he can see what I want to do to Romolo’s face, because he touches my arm lightly. “Come, Angelo,” he says. “We have much to discuss.”
I nod shortly. “Gentlemen. It was a pleasure.”
We walk outside as Giraldo fiddles with his glasses. When he sees my car, his eyebrows go up. He bites his lip for a moment and then, sighing, says. “Would you mind parking that out back, Angelo? We’ll take my Honda. The polizia in this town are dogs. If they catch two Italians in a car like that …” He shakes his head, clearly meaning we’d be arrested, or at least questioned. “You understand?”
I look lovingly at my Ferrari. I want to tell him to go to hell. But this is his town and I have to defer to him, so I nod and walk toward my car. Resisting the urge to barrel right through the front of the restaurant and slice Romolo’s sneer off his skull, I bring it around the back and park.
12
Dani
After the phone sex with Angelo, I just sort of wander around the apartment. That was really risky. Since it’s Wyatt’s Christmas break, he’s sleeping on the blow-up bed in my room. So I went into the main bathroom after my EMT shift and called Angelo. Don’t ask me why I did it, because I really can’t explain. It just kind of happened. Or maybe I was horny. Or maybe I just wanted to hear his voice—again.
That afternoon one and a half weeks ago keeps returning to me—the chemistry, the lust, the blistering heat of it.
I wander quietly so I don’t wake Wyatt or Zora or Quinny, trying to get Angelo out of my head. On the upside, since Wyatt has been back for Christmas break, we’ve been closer. He spends way too much time in the living room on his Xbox, swearing into his headset as he shoots people on Call of Duty. But I’d rather have him doing that than, you know, the alternative.
Every now and then, I’ll drag him away from the game by putting on Countdown, which I ordered from eBay the day after the hospital: a whole two seasons of it, recorded in England in the nineties. It’s nostalgic and Wyatt loves it.
So I should be able to lie in bed and close my eyes and sleep peacefully. But instead I’m creeping through the apartment like a burglar, only what I’m stealing is stuff that belongs to me: my workout gear, my running sneakers.
I need to run until my lungs feel icy and my breath is ragged and hot. Maybe then I’ll be able to stop thinking about that rich, presumptuous, arrogant prick.
I pair my Bluetooth headphones to my phone and play some Amon Armarth, which was Dad’s favorite band before the end. He used to play it when we were on the freeway, going just close enough to the speed limit to not get pulled over.
I try not to think about that unsaid thing between me and Wyatt: that Dad’s driving might’ve played a part in getting him and Mom killed. Because he was always careful on the ice, right? But then, is careful relative? Maybe ‘careful’ for Dad is reckless for another, truly cautious man.
I need to run. I don’t let myself think about that, ever.
Soon, I’m out of the door, jogging down the street in the middle of the night, head ducked low and music roaring in my ears. I run until I can’t think anymore.
But here’s the thing: it doesn’t work. I do think. And I see. And I feel.
My mind is thrown back to a week and a half ago and I can hardly stand it. I can feel Angelo’s hands on me, hear his voice from the phone sex earlier. Touch your clit now. I want to touch it again. I want him to touch it again. I just …
I want.
A week and a half ago
Walking out of the hospital after my shift, I saw it: a sleek black car, a man with sunglasses sitting at the wheel. It was the sunglasses that made me think something was wrong. It’s December, for fuck’s sake, and there he was with traffic-cop shades on. So maybe I’m paranoid, but as I pulled away in my beloved Beetle, I watched him.
Sure enough, Mr. Sunglasses was still behind me. I played a little trick on him: turning left into a convenience store parking lot. He stopped across the street. I pulled out of the lot without even stepping out of my car, and there he was, doing a piss-poor job at hiding himself.
Maybe most people would call the police or, you know, do something clever. But I was still pissed from seeing yet another OD, plus I was pissed at having to work alongside Ricky who froze up on Wyatt, so what I did was pull up at the side of the road and walk over to the car.
I slammed my fist against the tinted window until it rolled down an inch.
“Can I help you?” the man said calmly. He had a black ponytail and wore a leather jacket, giving him a sort of sleazy look.
“The way I see it, there are two possibilities here,” I told him. “Either you’re a rapist or a murderer. Both are bad, so yeah, you can help me. Back the hell off. Okay?”
He smiled.
“Why are you smiling?” I snapped.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I had a bet with my employer. I did not think you would approach the car. He did.” He shrugged. “I guess he won.”
“And who’s your employer? Wait—it’s Angelo, isn’t it?”
He nodded. I felt this cord of anger move through me, but also something else. Weirdly, I felt almost flattered by this, like he cared enough to send this man after me.