He won’t. When he gets a knife from the block, all he does is cut the tight parts of Massimo’s clothes away.
“They have Dario,” I say as the clacking of locks comes from the front. “My family. The Colonia.”
“I know who you are.”
“They’re going to kill him.”
“I heard how he married you.” Junior gets a stack of tablecloths from the cabinet. “Might be a perfect opportunity to lose him.”
Had it even occurred to me to walk away from Dario? Not just him, but from my family? This city? From all the power games and bloodshed? If I went back to the house, I could take anything valuable and drive away. Sell it. Figure out how to make a life out of what I had. If I turned my back on everything, I could find real freedom alone. Dario wouldn’t blame me. If he lived, he might find me, but he wouldn’t hold it against me.
What a waste of time. I’m not going to do any of that.
“Never,” I say.
“You love him?” Junior snaps open a tablecloth and lays it over my brother’s chest like a blanket.
“I’ll shoot you to save him, and I like you.”
His laugh is a smile and a short intake of breath.
“Then go.” He takes out his phone and shines the light into my brother’s eyes. “Get him. Shoot anyone who gets in your way. Leave this guy here and we’ll get him to the hospital.”
“I can’t go without Massimo. I need him. If I can… I’m going to trade him for Dario.” The plan seems crazier now than when I came up with it, and Junior raises one eyebrow slightly to confirm the lunacy. “I know what you must think of me, and you’re right. I’m terrible. I’m a bad person and the guy I’m trying to save made me this way.”
“Nah. No one gets made into nothing they can’t be. I thought I was a soldier. They tried to make me into one, but…” He taps his medic tattoo. “I ain’t built like that.”
“I am. Dario let me see him, and when he did… I saw what I could be, and it’s this.”
He shakes his head, denying my truth as he tracks the patient’s pulse. “Keep the pressure.”
“I am like this. I’ll shoot you.” I’m not convincing myself, but the man on the table will convince Junior. “Maybe not for money or power, but for him. Dario.” I press down into the blood-soaked cloths until my hands are coated in blood. “He hurt me and hurt me again. He treated me like an animal because he hated me, but then… he didn’t mean to, but… he saved me. He opened me, and I saw the box I was living in, and he broke it. He smashed everything that made me feel safe and wanted and loved because I was none of those things. He put me on my own two feet, then he tried to build his own box around me.” The sight of my bloody hands is fogged with fresh tears. “But he couldn’t. There’s no box big enough to hold me now.”
Massimo wakes in the middle of the night. Junior’s sleeping in a booth in the dining room. I tried to nap. Couldn’t. I’ve only left Massimo long enough to get the shotgun from the car. It’s useless there.
What if I traded my life for Dario’s? That much is easy. But how do I make sure they let him go? And Dario would never allow it. He’ll rush back in.
The entire thing is a disaster.
“You’re meeting him.” Massimo’s whisper makes me gasp. “Sergio. I heard you.”
“Emo. How do you feel?”
“My leg hurts.” He tries to get up, but flops back down.
“Let me get Junior.”
“Not yet.” He grabs my arm with a surprisingly strong grip. “I have to talk to you.”
“Okay.” I sit. He seems relieved to let me go.
“You can’t meet him alone.”
“I can.” I correct him even though he’s right. I can’t let him make assumptions about my abilities anymore. “But I know I can’t trust him. There are too many ways for it to go bad. There’s the issue of making sure Dario gets out—”
“Never happen. He killed Dad.”
Five words shatter all of the worries of the last few hours. Worry is a luxury for times when things can go wrong. When everything’s already gone wrong, there’s nothing left to worry about.
Dario’s release isn’t going to happen. Not for Massimo’s return or whatever Sergio wants most in the world. It’s not up to one man. There’re a few hundred Colonia upset at the loss of their leader.
“And they’ll hollow me for defending him.”
“That’s over once I’m in charge. No hollowing. No more…” He swallows and makes a disgusted face. “Any of it. It’s going to stop. Immediately. First, I go with you. You’ll be safe.”
Safety is subjective. I’ll never be safe as long as Dario isn’t.
“You can’t protect me.”
“No one’s going to hurt you. Everyone misses you. It can be like it always was.”
I scoff and rub my eyes. It was always a prison, and we were all looking between the bars so much we didn’t know they were there.
“Nothing will ever be like it was.”
“I’ll kick Sergio out.” He’s more awake now and more convinced he can make impulsive promises. “We’ll kill him. You can do it if you want. He killed Dad and stole you, so you—”
“No!” I pick up my head when I realize who he’s talking about killing. “No.”
“I’m not letting this go. Dad is dead. Sergio’s angling. He should have gone home to Queens already, but he had his head buried so far up Dad’s ass he could taste yesterday’s lunch.”
“Gross, Emo.”
“The sewing circle. The cooking shit… whatever you all do, it’s not the same without you. They all say it. Look, I need you to hold us together while I take over, okay? And if I let Lucari live, there’ll be chaos.” He looks at me, clear-eyed, considering my determination. “He killed our father, Goody. You don’t have to save his life.”
I don’t have to do any of it. I can send Massimo home or just walk out. I can get in the Buick and drive. Leave behind the Colonia and Dario.
“Yes. I do.”
“I say no, and that’s final.”
“Then you can try and catch me.” I stand.
Massimo tries to get off the table. Stops. Grunts in pain. I cross the room. I’ll be gone before his feet hit the floor.
“Wait,” he says, and I stop. “Fine. I won’t kill him.”
“And you won’t tell anyone else to.”
“Jesus. Fine. But I’m not stepping in front of a bullet or an angry mob for him. I take zero action to keep him alive.”
“Agreed.” I grab the shotgun and hand it to him. “I assume you know how to use this.”
“Who told you you could drive?”
After another near-miss, Massimo’s question is more of an accusation against the idiot who allowed me to get behind the wheel. He’s stretched across the back seat in Junior’s checked kitchen pants and white T-shirt. The shotgun sits on the floor beside him. The right leg that’s too shot up to press the pedals is raised on a sack of flour. A chef’s clog with the toes cut away hangs off it.