RUTHLESS KING

2 CAZZO, WE'RE SCREWED

     

Stella
Bo spins at the stranger, fury roiling off his slender, muscled form. “Mind
your own fucking business,” he spits.
I try to catch a glimpse of the man, but Bo’s long legs block my view.
The only thing I can make out are a pair of expensive looking loafers. The
flickering fluorescent light catches on the hardware atop the soft leather and
the interlocking G’s. Growing up a block away from China Town and the
myriad of knock-off purses lining the streets, I’d recognize that Gucci logo
anywhere. And this one looks legit.
“You are my business. Anyone who treats a woman like that deserves
my full attention,” the stranger says, his tone chilling a few more notches
around a distinctive Italian accent.
Bo turns to him and finally releases the iron grip on my hair. Rubbing
my scalp, I crawl toward my backpack.
“Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?” Bo growls as he stalks
toward the man.
I hazard another peek, but the guy’s wearing a black baseball cap and a
dark trench coat, obscuring his features. He’s built like a freakin’ Greek god with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. Even the oversized coat can’t hide
that.
The ground begins to rumble, and the familiar sound of the approaching
subway sends my heart leaping up my throat. I eye my textbook one more
time before resigning myself to the loss. I’ll figure something out.
The subway races into the station, and I hazard another peek at Bo and
Gucci guy. My ex still blocks him, but the man is tall, towering over him by
a few inches. The sudden crunch of bone against bone freezes the blood in
my veins. Bo’s head snaps back, and a curse rings out over the rumbling
subway. Holy cannoli. I’m torn between the fight and my getaway, my eyes
bouncing back and forth between the men and the subway car. The doors
glide open, and I only dawdle for an instant. Bo’s going to be pissed. And I
can’t count on my Italian knight in shining armor to rescue me again. I dart
inside, lingering by the doors as they slide closed.
The subway surges to life as my gaze remains fixed on my subway
savior. He’s nothing but a blur as we speed away.
Once we’ve passed the station, I collapse into a seat and reach for my
inhaler. Taking a quick puff, I lean my head back and close my eyes. Just a
few more weeks, and all of this will be nothing more than a bad dream.
Jiggling the old knob on our apartment door, I mutter a curse when the
overhead deadbolt blocks my entrance. “Dad!” I knock once, then twice,
taking out my frustrations on the old timber. My professor called me out
when I told him I’d accidentally dropped my textbook on the tracks. He was
a total douche. Like it would’ve killed him to let me photocopy a few pages
from his. I’d already studied for most of the Econ final. I only needed a few
more chapters.
Deal with it, he’d said. “Open the door, Dad!” I shout.
“Stop yelling, I’m coming.” My father’s voice seeps through the cracks,
and I wrap my arms across my chest, still stewing. Somehow, I’d managed
to avoid Bo on my way home. He was probably nursing a shiner. That guy
had gotten him good. Wish I would’ve had a front row view of the
smackdown. I couldn’t help a smile from curling my lips as I picture it.
The door finally whips open and Liam McKenzie stares down at me,
eyes bloodshot and wisps of graying hair darting in all directions. “Good,
you’re home. I’m hungry.” A wave of whiskey breath crashes over me as
each word flees his lips.
“Cazzo, Dad, it’s only one o’clock. How much did you drink already?”
He glares at me, the haze of alcohol lifting. “Don’t use that foul
language with me.”
“Italian?” I smirk.
A sharp sting sears my cheek, and my neck snaps back. I mutter another
curse, this one in English so I’m sure he understands it. Hot tears burn my
eyes, but I refuse to let them fall, to give him the satisfaction. He’s been
trying to break me for years. My best friend, Rose, the aspiring therapist
says it’s because he wants me to be as miserable as him. No, I’ll never let it
happen. I’ll cry in the quiet of my room later, over a pint of ice cream like a
respectable girl.
“Sorry,” he grumbles and folds his hands behind his back. He’s not
always a total asshole. He just gets worse with the booze. And he just lost
his job at the bowling alley so that’s been shit. “I’m just on edge ….”
“I know, Dad.” I cup my bruised cheek and attempt a cheerful smile.
“I’m sure you’ll find another job soon.” I cross my fingers and pray to St.
Anthony. He’s the saint of finding all things so how hard could it be to find
my dad a semi-decent job? Mom was a hardcore believer in good old St.
Anthony, one of the few remnants of her deeply Catholic upbringing. I wish I had her faith, but after all the loss, believing in some benevolent higher
power seems like a joke.
I march into our crappy living room and toss my backpack on the
plastic-covered couch. Which is ridiculous. There is nothing worthwhile
under that plastic left to protect.
“You think you can run down to the corner store to grab some cold cuts
and bread? It’ll help with the um….”
Hangover. He’s probably been drinking since he woke up. I turn on the
sink and fill a chipped glass with cool water. “Here, take this.”
“I’d go out myself but—” He drags his knotted fingers through his
thinning hair.
“But what?”
My dad’s expression sends irrational fear crawling up my spine.
“But what?” I repeat.
“I didn’t want to worry you, but I called Jimmy the other night after I
got canned—”
“No, Dad, you didn’t!”
“It was a sure thing. He swore there was no way I’d lose.”
“And let me guess, you lost?”
He nods, heaving out a frustrated breath, and the stench of stale alcohol
fills my nostrils.
“You didn’t even have any money to bet.” The total sum in our bank
account was a paltry four dollars and twenty-six cents. I knew this because I
tried to buy a venti coffee yesterday morning, and my debit card was
declined. It was a damned good thing I was getting paid tomorrow. “Where
did you get the money from?”
He runs his palm down the back of his neck, his fair skin turning rosy
and accentuating the smattering of freckles he’d inherited from his Irish
blood. “I told you, Jimmy said it was a sure thing, so I took out a small
loan.” “What?” I shriek. “Not only are you gambling again, but you’re using
borrowed money?” F.M.L.
He grabs my hands, his eyes desperate. “The situation is bad, honey. I
didn’t want to worry you, but I owe more ….”
“How much exactly?”
“Twenty k.”
All the air punches out of my lungs, and my mouth gapes. I try to suck
in a breath, but my lungs have stopped functioning. “Are you shitting me,
Dad? How the hell are we supposed to pay that?” Twenty thousand dollars
is more than I make in a year at the bakery.
He drags his hands over his face and huffs out a breath. “That’s why I
did it, honey. Don’t you see? It was our only way out.”
“But you lost, didn’t you? Now, how much more do we owe?”
“Five more.”
“Hundred or thousand?” I squeal.
“Thousand.”
“Damn it, Dad.” Tears sting my eyes, but again, I will them back. How
am I ever going to get out of here? Even with scholarships, it suddenly
seems impossible. A horrifying thought wriggles its way into my mind.
“Who did you borrow it from?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Jimmy brokered the deal.”
“And how much time do you have to pay it back?” That niggling fear
intensifies. The Red Dragons were into all kinds of shit. What if he owed
them? Everyone knew they were brutal enforcers. That would explain the
deadbolt and Dad’s reluctance to make a run to the freakin’ corner store.
“End of the week.”
Cazzo. Shit. Fuck.
I pace a quick circle around our kitchenette, cursing with each turn.
“You have to find out who you owe. If it is the Red Dragons, maybe there’s
something I can do. I can talk to Bo and—” Oh, merda. He’s going to want me back for this. Would I be willing to tie myself to a man I hate to save my
dad’s ass?
I shake my head out, burying the dismal thoughts. There are plenty of
loan sharks in Manhattan. What are the chances it’s his gang, right?
“I’ll talk to Jimmy. I was supposed to send him the money directly, but
I’ll tell him I’m in a bind.” He reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze.
“We’ll figure this out somehow.”
A deep rumble shakes his belly, drawing my attention to his stained t-
shirt. I have to get some food into this man. I search the pantry and come up
empty. Not even pasta—a staple when Mom was around. Shit. I really don’t
want to risk another encounter with Bo, not until I know for sure about the
loan.
Pasta! Grazie a Dio. “Oh, Mrs. DeVito made spaghetti and meatballs.
I’ll just run over and grab it.”
“Thanks, honey.” He gives me a smile, a hint of some unguarded
emotion seeping through the boozy haze. “I’m so sorry, Stella. I swear I
only did it for us. I hate that we live this way. Your mom would’ve been so
disappointed in me.” His voice is thick with emotion, and he lowers his
gaze to the floor.
Sometimes, I barely remember the old version of my dad, but every
once in a while I get tiny glimpses. It only makes it worse.
“Be right back.”
“Hmm,” he mumbles without looking up.
I trudge to the door, doing my best to keep my feet from dragging. No
matter how hard I try, sometimes I’m sure we’re cursed. Just when I start to
see a light at the end of the tunnel, someone slams the door shut in my face.
Once I’m out in the hallway, I stop and lean against the peeling
wallpaper and exhale a slow breath. A tear trickles out despite my best
efforts. I blink quickly to force the deluge back. After I get Dad fed, I can
disappear into my room and let it all out.  The click of the deadbolt behind me sends my heart jolting up my
throat. Geez, chill, Stella.
Cazzo, we are so screwed.