Spin Ruin: (A Mafia Romance Two-Book Bundle) (31 page)

“You can stop.”

“He put his fingers in me. I came right there. I just about died. And he… he came, too, all over my shirt. I never even touched him, which I didn’t know could happen. And it was such a mess, and I was so surprised that I laughed. I didn’t mean anything by it. It was nerves, and it was funny. But I must have hurt his feelings because he hit me, and his ring caught my lip. There was blood everywhere. And that’s the scar right here. I told my dad I fell, and he didn’t say a word the whole way to the doctor. Got two stitches. When I got back to the cabin, I realized I had cum all over my shirt, in front of my dad and everything.”

She laughed to herself, a soft chuckle that sounded like nerves. I touched the scar. You could barely see it unless you were the type of man who looked for damage.

“What happened to the boy?”

She rolled over until she faced the ceiling. “They found his body at the bottom of the gulch the next morning. The rocks can be really slippery. I slept in until lunch because of the pills the doctor gave me. If I’d gotten up, who knows what would have happened?”

“What do you think would have happened?”

She stared out the window then back to me. “I would have found him. But I was spared that. Same as I’ve been spared everything.”

theresa

’d told Daniel that story, up to the kid at the bottom of the gulch, but I’d never mentioned the silent car ride, or the sticky adolescent semen all over my shirt. I had never felt safe telling him. Daniel had a suspicious mind, same as Antonio, but he was the DA, and ambitious, and there was no statute of limitations on murder.

From my window perch, I watched Antonio walk out of the building and toward the bench where Otto sat. Antonio had entered the camorra to avenge his wife. Then he came to Los Angeles to avenge his sister, and as much as he wanted me safe, and as much as I wanted to live, I didn’t want to be the reason for his vengeance. I could ruin his life while I lived, but in dying, I could destroy his soul, so I stayed. For the time being.

Daniel was on television again, talking, talking, talking. I could count his bullet points off on my fingers, and they’d gotten tighter and meaner, undoubtedly due to Clarice’s influence. There was a distinct lean away from previous talk of generic crime fighting and more emphasis on organized crime. Antonio and I had gotten out of the yellow house,
l’uovo
with whatever the DA had needed before they got there with his warrant. That fact burned Daniel. He’d planned everything to a T, except the traffic caused by the arson of Antonio’s shop and me shutting off my phone.

There would come a day when near misses weren’t going to sit well with Daniel anymore. He wasn’t biting his nails or flipping his hair back, but his ambition was challenged, and there was something a little feral about him. No one liked looking foolish. No one liked failing. But Daniel played a high-stakes game, and the more he tried to win, the more I felt like a cornered chess piece.

antonio

o waited in the driver’s seat of my car, under the building’s sign, which read
The Afidnes Tower
in big gold Grecian letters.

“Hey,” Zo said as he ripped into a sandwich. “You want some?”

“No. Where’s Otto?”

“He went to feel up his wife eighty percent worth.” He laughed at his joke.

“You need a break?” I said.

“Me? Nah. We got a bunch of permits cleared for the shop. Had to do a little song and dance, but fuck, I feel like, you know, useful when I’m building shit. Or you know, when I’m telling a bunch of other guys what to build. And I want the shop up and running so that
stronzo
sees it and sees it good.”

“All right, all right. Easy.” I slapped his back. “Go take care of it.”

“You got it.” Zo gave me a thumbs-up and got out of my car. I took his place and headed for a little empty storefront on the east side.

My cold feelings toward Paulie surprised me. There wasn’t a woman alive who had meant as much to me as Paulie had. Maybe not even a human being. I had no brothers, and my father had been a shade of a man until I walked into his coffee shop at eleven years old to settle a dispute.

But Paulie, though a
camorrista
deeply connected to the Carloni family through a couple of generations of business ties, had earned my trust in the first few minutes at the airport.

I’d been photographed on the Italy side like a criminal, but once I’d arrived in Los Angeles, I was a dot in a newspaper photo. I stood a second too long under the arch of the international terminal, overwhelmed by the size, the multicolored crowd, and the expanse of space and light. The public address system went on and on about loading and unloading, lines, flight times, gates. I smiled through security, had my bag inspected at customs, and got taken aside briefly for questioning. It was easy on the Los Angeles side.

I went outside to noise and smog that wasn’t much worse than Napoli, which was urban to the teeth at the center and more and more pastoral the closer you got to Vesuvio.

Paulie stood by a chrome pillar that was stained with an old spray of blackened soda. He wore skinny jeans, white shoes, and Ray Bans, which he flipped up when he saw me.

“You Racossi?” he asked in shitty Italian.

“Spinelli,” I replied, nervous about my just-passable English. I felt vulnerable without a weapon, and he must have felt like that, too. As far as I knew, it was impossible to get a gun into the airport, even for people with connections.

“Donna Carloni wants to talk to you,” he said.

“I’m not here to get involved. I’m here to finish some business and go home.”

I dragged my bag and walked away. He caught up, crossing the street to the cabs with me.

“I don’t think you can refuse.” A bus stopped near us, beeping when it kneeled, the driver shouting over an intercom for passengers to exit through the back. The noise was enormous, and the heat was oppressive.

“I don’t take orders from Sicilians.” I didn’t know if that came off right in English. In the end, it was Paulie who helped me understand the nuances of the language. But on that day, I could only use the words I knew.

“You need her say-so to finish this business you got, or she’s going to get in your way. And let’s face it, you don’t know up from down. If she offers you help, you oughta take it.” He stepped in front of me. “She sent me because I’m
camorrista
. Like you.”

“There’s enough off-the-boot in your blood. I can see it.”

“Jesus, man.” He showed me the inside of his left wrist, where a tattoo of a volcano was drawn. The high peak was on the left. I took his wrist and pulled the skin. It wasn’t pen. It was real. I didn’t want to trust it. Anybody can get a tattoo.

“This is Vesuvio from the Pompeii side,” I said, dropping his hand. I pulled up my left sleeve and held out my wrist, where the active side was drawn on the right.

“I know, man. Dude got it from a book. What do you want me to tell you? Nobody’s actually been to fucking Naples.”

“No,” I poked his chest. “Nobody has been to Pompeii.” I walked off, heading for what looked like a taxi stand.

“What are you going to do?” he said, chasing me. “Walk up and down Sunset, showing a mug shot? You’re gonna get pegged for a narc by the gangs and for a dago criminal by the cops before your tourist visa’s even up.”

“I have leads.”

“Not as good as mine. Come on. I know what they did to your sister. And I know why.” He stepped in front of me and dropped his voice. “I’m going to be honest. They got a big chunk of the east side, and I want it. Give me a chance to do business and avenge a lady at the same time.”

Something about the guy’s straightforwardness appealed to me, and the fact that he’d known I’d be there intrigued me.

“I see,” I said. “My father told Donna Maria I was coming.”

“I can’t say whether or not there was a phone conversation last night. I got nothing. ’Cause, you know, on the surface, he don’t even agree with you being here. On the surface, he wants it taken care of on the Naples side, by Neapolitans. By him. Not you. You’re a
consigliere
, dude. You don’t get to do vendettas.”

“But you do.”

He shrugged, confirming it with the gesture.

“And a contract gets you made,” I said.

He gave another gesture with a bobbing head that seemed affirmative.

“If I go with you,” I said, “that doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to anything.”

He smiled. “You ever had an In-’n-Out burger?”

“
Scusa?
” I didn’t know if he was propositioning me, or what.

“A burger. You hungry?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Let’s go then," he said. "You’re gonna love it here.”

I never did. But I paid my debts, and the price of allowing the vendetta to take place was two years of my life in the service of a Sicilian. It was worth it.

theresa

ventually, I did need to leave the apartment. I picked up some things from the loft—cash, valuables, toiletries, even Daniel’s engagement ring—then went shopping on Rodeo, which was a complete waste of time, even after I’d dropped a few grand. I ignored a call from Katrina and my eleventh text from Margie. I wasn’t interested in explaining myself to anyone, since I couldn’t even explain myself to myself.

Otto took me back to the
Afidnes Tower.
I stood there, waiting for an approved activity. Or a signal that I could move back home safely. Would Antonio allow tonight to pass without crawling between the sheets with me?

As Otto and I waited for the elevator, I texted Antonio.

—I’m back from lunch. I’m thinking of jumping out the window—

—Let me jump you first—

—Tonight?—

—I have something to show you first—

I was formulating a snappy retort, something along the lines of a grownup show-and-tell, with nudity, when Otto opened the door to the apartment. I was shoved back so hard the wind went out of me.

I never realized how big Otto was until I tried to see past him and couldn’t. His shoulders turned in, as if his arms were in front of him. The fact that I knew he was pointing a gun said a lot about what I’d been through.

“It’s all right,” said a man’s voice on the other side of Otto’s bulk. “We’re friends.”

“Like hell,” said Otto.

“Ask her,” came a woman’s voice. “Sometime before you crush her against the wall.”

“Margie!” I pushed past Otto to get to my sister.

“You know these people?” Otto asked as I hugged Margie. I didn’t know who the man was. He was mid to late thirties, maybe, or late twenties with a ton of extra experience that aged him ten years. He had dark hair and light-brown eyes, but he wasn’t Italian. And even though he wore a pinkie ring, he didn’t look mob. Not that it meant anything because mob or not, he and Otto had guns leveled at each other as if they meant to shoot first and deal with the handcuffs later.

Margie had her red hair up in a chignon, and she wore a snappy business suit as if she’d cancelled a meeting to break into my fake apartment.

I left Margie’s arms and stood between the two guns. “Guys, really?”

“Who are you?” Otto asked.

“Will Santon.”