𝗔𝗰𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀

Sixteen.

Rebecca Caruso

Bartenders disappearing impulsively was a common occurrence. All the waitresses within the surrounding area immediately ushered those sitting at the bar to other parts of the facility—comping them with a choice of a free drink or appetizer for the evening.

"I heard about you, Rebecca," Angelo slurred, trying to distract me from his staff's disappearing act. "The people here, they gossip like these annoying małe ptaszki, chirping away day and night—drives a person crazy, you know?"

I anxiously bobbed my head, my eyes darting around, desperately seeking an exit strategy or any possible way to escape from this mess. Should I even try running?   Logical introspection clashed with my initial fight-or-flight response.

"I gotta admit," he continued, his words now tinged with a drunken mix of a foreign accent, "I was absolutely stunned when I heard a woman, a fucking woman, beat the shit out of Frank. I couldn't believe it, you know? Frank, The Perv—I can't say he didn't deserve it, but fuck me, that was quite a surprise."

"I, um..." I stammered, my nerves tying themselves into knots as everyone cleared out. "Th-thank you?"

People may have embellished his lore, but whatever the case, Angelo was a man of immense power—run, and he'll find the means to chase someone to the end of the earth; fight—and you'll die within seconds. This was a lose-lose situation. Even though he was more than buzzed, I didn't want to risk it.

"I sense your nervousness," he nonchalantly noted.

My body shuddered as the women who once sat beside me were the last ones to get up and leave. The ceiling lamps around the vicinity gradually dimmed off; merely the golden hue from the liquor collection embraced our silhouettes.  

"People have every right to be worried," Angelo slowly enunciated with a conniving, yet embossed, smile. "but not you; I'm not going to hurt you my piękny urok."

I needed out and fast.

Attempting to free myself from his grasp, Angelo's grip became tense with my reaction. "You're not going anywhere."

"Tatuś!" Both of us turned sharply towards the commanding voice. In the dimly lit setting, Marco stood at the far end of the bar table, barely recognizable, his eyes filled with hostility towards his father.

"Oh Marco, there you are," Angelo remarked as Marco gradually made his way closer to us.  The elder Montanari manipulated my arm to wave at his son. "Say hello, Rebecca. Remember your friend, Marco? Isn't he something?"

I refused to give Angelo the satisfaction. Determined, I tried to yank my arm away once more, but he forcefully held on, asserting his authority. Marco exchanged a fleeting empathetic glance, acknowledging my fear.

"Proszę..." he pleaded, stepping closer within arm's reach. "I think you've had enough for tonight, yeah?"

Marco had changed his attire since the last time we met, donning a vintage Wu-Tang Clan shirt and black Nike sweats. His worn-out demeanor was evident, with his stubble growing out, adding to his overall exhausted appearance.

"Pospolity..." Angelo harshly spat back, "Znam swoje granite."

I could see the weariness etched on Marco's face as he struggled to maintain his composure. It was as if the weight of his father's behavior had been placed squarely on his shoulders.

"Please, not now, tatuś. Not here." Marco responded, his voice laced with a mix of frustration and genuine concern.

Angelo hummed thoughtfully, his son's words punctuated by the weight of experiences.  The elder Montanari shifted his glance to me, a mischievous glint dancing in his gaze.

"Trzymaj ją mocno, to twój piękny urok." With that, the devil himself let go of my arm while cracking up at the drunken remark. "Ogień, tak samo jak twoja matka."

Confusion engulfed my mind as our opposing eyes met; Angelo gave me a quick wink before placing the focus back on his son.

What the fuck is happening?! My gut-trembling nerves shifted gears from trepidation to utter bafflement.

Angelo chuckled, his laughter accompanied by a slow head shake regarding his son's seriousness. The devil kissed my cheek before standing up, leaving behind a lingering warmth.

"Tatuś!" Marco reverberated.

"Alright. Alright..." As Angelo rose from his seat, the weight of his drunkenness seemed to momentarily lift, revealing a glimmer of clarity. He nodded to both Marco and me, his gaze holding a mix of gratitude and weariness.

"Like it or not potomek, I'm always right about these things, just ask your mother," the drunken elder murmured softly, his voice tinged with vulnerability.

With a steadying hand on the wall, we watched Angelo walk toward the back staircase, his steps unsteady but determined. As he reached the kitchen area, he turned back, his sight meeting mine one last time. There was a flicker of recognition before he disappeared into the darkness of the upper floor.

My mind swirled with a whirlwind of thoughts, leaving me drenched in confusion. Did he truly recognize me? Was this all just a demented game? Am I marked for death?

"You shouldn't be here, Rebecca Caruso?" Marco's voice sliced through the air, a sharp blade of curiosity and worry.

He knew my name. My full name. The words hung in the atmosphere, intertwining with the swirling doubts that plagued my mind. I couldn't help but feel a shiver crawl up my spine.

"You know?" I whispered, caught off guard.

"I know enough," his gaze filled with awareness and pity, confirming that my carefully guarded identity was no longer hidden from him.

"Does An—your dad?" I asked, a flicker of fear dancing in my eyes as I sought reassurance.

"No," Marco's expression softened, a blend of empathy and determination etching itself onto his features.

Relief washed over me, mingling with the lingering traces of anxiety. The knowledge that his father remained blissfully unaware of my family and connections offered a glimmer of solace amid the chaos surrounding us.

"He kept saying 'piękny urok,' what does that mean?" I inquired, my voice laced with curiosity and confusion.

"It means 'lucky charm.' My father, despite his earlier actions, seemed to show an unusual affection toward you. Normally, he's a cranky drunk."

"Like father like son," a nervous chuckle escaped my lips as a mixture of surprise and gratitude welled up within me, intermingled with a hint of relief.

Evidently, Marco didn't find the joke amusing.

"Sorry, nerves. I, um...I thought he was going to legit kill me," I confessed, my voice laced with both humor and disbelief. The gravity of the situation hadn't escaped me, and the contrasting emotions washed over me like a turbulent wave.

Marco remained silent, his expression a mosaic of thoughts, neither confirming nor denying my statement. His stillness acknowledged the uncertainty and danger that still loomed around his father.

A silent 'oh' slipped from my lips, barely audible.

"I thought I told you to forget this place?" He calmly noted.

"You did, but then... I dunno, what do you expect me to say? My day wasn't the best, people pissed me off, I was lonely—and, well...I needed a drink. I wasn't planning on coming here, it just happened. I wasn't looking for trouble." I replied, my voice still tinged with a hint of self-deprecation.

He sighed, his tone carrying a blend of comprehension and exasperation. "A drink does sound good right about now, doesn't it?" he conceded.

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