It’s a big, big win for us.
Maybe I should be grateful. But I can feel Carlo’s presence like the man himself is in the room, smirking at me. There’s just something so entitled about it, like he thinks he can just wave a magic wand and remake the world in his image. Like he’s God. And on the fourth day, Carlo De Maggio made Hazel’s life just that much more tolerable. I know he’s expecting me to gush with gratitude.
As the class winds down, I give Sofiya another hug and then start to pack away my things. The Italians walk out single file, in step with one another like toy soldiers. It’d be hilarious if they weren’t deadly serious about their whole dog-and-pony show.
Lucille strolls over to the desk. “Am I dreaming, girl?” She cackles.
“Tell me about it.”
“They been orchestrated for sure.”
It’s true this time, and Carlo has done the “orchestrating.” Maybe he expects me to sing for him as a thank you. All too easily the memory of his hands on my hips resurfaces. I shiver.
“I’m missing that girl,” Lucille sighs. “She’s a good one.”
“She is,” I agree.
Lucille sighs, shrugging. “Well, I see you next time, cielito.”
I’m left in the classroom alone. I sit behind the desk, close my eyes, and see, on the insides of my eyelids, a Christmas Carol slideshow of past and present and possible future. I see a scared little girl and the woman I am now. Then I see a strong, self-possessed woman in a chef’s hat with a paintbrush in her hand.
Maybe that’s a little much—a hat and a brush at the same time? I mean, c’mon now. Maybe I want too much all at once. But a girl’s gotta dream, right?
I open my eyes, glad I have distracted myself from Carlo at least for a couple of minutes, and head out to the parking lot.
As I’m walking across the parking lot to my car, the sun setting and the sky painted in vivid orange, the man himself comes swaggering over as though I owe him a favor. The lot is deserted. I wonder where his car is. The Italians have already left.
“Hazel,” he says, stopping a few feet short of me. His lips are too tempting, and there’s a glint of a smile in his blue-green eyes. “I’m assuming the class went well?”
So he really came all the way down here just to gloat? If he’s such a big shot, shouldn’t he have like, I dunno, work to be doing?
I think about flinging some scathing barb back at him, but in the end, there’s nothing more final than just ducking my head and pretending he doesn’t exist. I completely blank him as I walk to my car.
As I pass, I catch a glimpse of his face, an annoyed tremor moving across it. I don’t want to feel the keen note of satisfaction that gives me. I don’t want to feel anything at all for him.
He’s stalking me like a lion. I feel his eyes on my ass, undressing me. I hate the tingle that moves up between my legs. Sensations are tap dancing obnoxiously through me and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. In the murky reflection of my car window, I see he has his arms folded, his muscles bulging in tight knots.
“Can I help you?” I say, turning and squinting as though he’s a stranger.
“Ah.” He lets his hands drop. “So we’re playing that game.”
“Game? I’m sorry, but I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you interested in a class? You seem to speak English very well.”
His eyes are sparkling now. He’s enjoying this. Maybe I am, too. Not good.
He sidles closer. I can smell his breath, mint and something else, and his cologne, and something underneath the cologne that I can’t put my finger on. Soon, he almost has me pressed up against the car. I place my hand on his chest to push him away. But I end up feeling the ripples of his chest muscles far too easily through the thin fabric of the shirt. I squeeze a tight fist and feel my fingernails almost break against the stony muscle.
With herculean effort, I give him a shove. “Back off, please,” I say sweetly. “Now, if you’re not interested in a class …”
He just keeps staring. Blue-green eyes sear into me. I wish my squirmy insides would shut up.
“Seriously, does this work on, like, any girls? Just staring like a freak? Because right now that’s what you look like: a real, trench-coat-outside-a-high-school, binoculars-in-a-tree freak.”
He places his hand beside me on my car, still silent. He’s like a ghost. Maybe this is a dream. Or a nightmare? But if it was a nightmare, my knees would not be weak. Jesus, I thought that only happened in old-timey Victorian novels. Weak knees, are you fucking kidding me?
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
His eyes say more than his lips ever could.
“Say something.”
He leans close. His breath washes over my face. I place my hand on his chest again and scratch him. Goddammit, he has no right to be this sculpted.
“What would you like me to say?” he whispers.
“How about: ‘Sorry for accosting you in the parking lot. I’ll be on my way now.’”
A twitch of the lips is all I get for a laugh. I don’t blame him. I don’t feel like laughing, either.
Closer, closer, and then his lips are grazing mine. They are rough and soft at the same time. The tips of our tongues stroke against each other. His hand moves agonizingly slowly through my hair, sending ripples down the back of my neck.
I hear myself moan, snapping me back to reality. I shove him again, harder this time. “No,” I snap. “Back off. I mean it, Carlo.”
“Ah, so you do remember me.” He smiles and takes several steps back. “I’ll be seeing you, Hazel.”
He turns and strides away. From the alleyway between the rec center and the electronics store, a limo pulls out.
“No, you won’t!” I call after him. “Stay the hell away from me!”
He climbs in without so much as a backward glance. I watch the car pull away, picturing a brief, annoying image of me in the back with him, continuing where we left off. I touch my lips to wipe away his kiss. I don’t want to taste him anymore.
Yet my heart is pounding—whether from attraction or anger, I’m not entirely sure—and when I climb into the car, I find myself gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
4
Carlo
I sit behind my desk at Sole Nero, the music pounding from the floor. I like my office to be up here, secluded, where nobody will happen to wander by. Dark deeds are best done in the dark, I’ve learned, and we’re conducting some shadowy business tonight.
The war with the Irish. Fergal Sweeney’s crew. Sweeney, their intrepid leader; the man who killed my father. His name alone fills me with bone-burning rage.
I move my finger around the edge of my whiskey glass as Santo continues his rant.
“We should burn these motherfuckers to the ground!” Santo is a small man with narrow eyes and a habit of moving around nervously as he speaks. Some of the men call him Rabbit because of this. Others call him Pesci because of his resemblance to the actor. I just call him when I need something violent done. “War is war, boss. Let’s take it to ’em.”
Nario tuts from his place against the wall at the back of the room, looking even more tired than usual. He strokes lazily at his scar. “That doesn’t sound like a plan,” he says. “More like a pep talk.”