Chapter Twenty-Four
Salvatore
Molly heeds my advice. Less than an hour later, I hear her door open. I stare through the peephole, my palms sweating as I press them against the wooden door. Molly emerges with a stuffed duffel bag. Her face is red, and her eyes puffy, like she’s been crying. Not only did I threaten her life, I also broke her heart. I watch her walk down the hallway towards the exit, bidding her to go, to get as far away from me as she possibly can, even though it twists my insides to see her leave. It won’t be the last time I see her. Wherever she’s going, I’ll find her. But I’ll keep my distance. I just need to make sure she gets out of LA safely.
The front door closes with a clang that reverberates through my chest. I can’t stand it, this maddening internal storm that thrashes inside of me. My entire body is on edge. I pry myself from the peephole, and pour myself a tall tumbler of bourbon from my liquor cabinet. I drink it quickly, reveling in the burning sensation as a distraction from the pain. I lick my lips, waiting for the alcohol to take hold. It does nothing more than fuel the fire.
Bury it, I think, remembering my father. Bury it down with everything else.
But there’s no escape from this inner torment. What’s happening to me?
I deserve to die for the pain I’ve caused Molly. My hatred for myself is so intense, I wish I could rip my own body to shreds. My skin crawls with bitter emotion. I grab the bottle of bourbon, bring it to my mouth, and tip the bottom up to the sky, intent on drinking myself to death. I get a quarter through what’s left in the bottle when I begin to wretch. My body rejects the liquor. I rush to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I puke all over the floor. When I finish, I’m stone cold sober, with a lingering taste of bile on my tongue.
I need something visceral, physical, to kill this pain that I can’t see.
*
Madame Cherie rushes over to greet me on her skyscraper heels, possessing the delicate balance of a tightrope walker. She grabs my arm with her perfumed hand, dollar signs in her eyes.
“Mr. Mariano, it’s been so long,” she gushes, petting my arm. “We’ve missed you.”
I retrieve a wad of cash from my jacket and hand it to her. “I want to start another tab.”
Her eyes glitter as she measures the thickness of the cash with her fingertips. “Of course, darling. What will it be tonight? Paris is here. Clementine too, but she’s with a client. She should be finishing up soon. Shall I show you to your room?”
She slips her arm through my elbow, pulling me towards the hallway. I look at her flatly and shake my head. “I don’t want them.”
She smiles, unfazed. “Someone new, then?”
I glance around the darkened basement until my eyes settle on the person I came here for. Madame Cherie follows my gaze to the large bodyguard who’s posted on the opposite wall. She turns back to me, puzzled and delighted at the same time.
“I’m sorry, darling. Joe’s not for sale.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “But if you want a man, I can help you with that.”
I extract myself from Madame Cherie’s grasp, and walk over to the man myself. He perks up when he sees me approach, puffing out his barrel chest. His eyes darken with warning.
“You,” I say, pointing to him. “I want you to beat the shit out of me.”
The veins in his huge neck stop pumping as he looks at me with confusion. Madame Cherie taps my shoulder delicately.
“Sal, dear,” she says in a motherly tone. “That’s not what we do here. Let me call one of the girls. They’ll take care of you, make you feel better.”
“I don’t want to feel better.”
I shake off her touch, and appeal to the muscle man myself with another stack of cash. His eyes widen at the money in his hand, then he looks to his employer. Madame Cherie steps forward, snatching the money from him.
“Five minutes,” she says, stuffing the money into her corset.
Moments later, I’m in a dark room, stripped down to my boxers. I stand in front of a rack, fastening my wrists in the same constraints that I’ve used on so many women, their faces all a blur, and their names not filed in my memory.
“Tighten the slack,” I tell my punisher. He looks confused. “The crank. There.”
Joe’s entire face and bald head is a ruddy shade of red. His anxious shoulders creep up to his ears. “This isn’t a sex thing, right? Because I’m not into that.”
I stare him down coldly until he does what I ask. He cranks the device, tightening the chains that connect to the cuffs around my wrists until my arms are stretched over my head.
“Tighter,” I bark.
He turns the cranks a few more times. When pain radiates through my overstretched muscles, I tell him to stop.
“Begin,” I growl, through tightly clenched teeth.
Joe steps forward, and delivers a solid punch to my side. I know he’s holding back and not giving me his full strength. My flesh throbs dully, but it’s not enough to chase away the ghost that’s haunting me. When I close my eyes, I still see her.
“Joe,” I intone, followed by a low, cackling laugh. “Is that all you’ve got?”
His eyes flit towards the door, then back to me. I see myself reflected in his expression, a demonic presence that thrives on blood and adrenaline.
“Give me what I want, and there’s another wad of cash in it for you,” I tell him. “Completely under the table without the madame taking her cut.”
He looks down at his feet, reluctantly, then gives a quick nod. With his beefy hand on my shoulder for leverage, he rears his arm back, then pummels his heavy fist into my solarplex. My body lurches forward, increasing the pressure on the restraints and nearly ripping my shoulder blades apart. My lungs constrict, desperate for the air that was knocked out of me. Yes. Now, we’re getting somewhere.
“You think that’s all I deserve?” I’m going light headed from the lack of air. My head rolls around on my neck as I struggle to lift it. “Do you know what I’ve done?” A montage of brutal, bloody memories collide against my skull. I see images of men, their heads blown off, of eyes draining of light as I tighten my hands around delicate neck bones and tendons, of women degraded for my perverse pleasure. I can feel Molly’s pain. And I can feel theirs too, in all its crushing intensity.
“I don’t know who you are,” Joe says, defensively.
“Really? By saying that, it makes me think you know exactly who I am. One of those blows to the face could make me forget this conversation ever happened.”
I close my eyes, waiting for the moment of impact. It comes. Fireworks explode violently behind my closed eyes. My mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood. My mind clears in the darkness. I need more of this.
“Again,” I bark. “Earn your keep.”
“No, I can’t-“
“How much do you know?” I try to open my eyes. They’re already swelling, so I can only raise my lids halfway. “My family doesn’t like people who nose their way into our business. Do as you’re instructed, and I won’t hunt your family down and kill them. And don’t stop.”
I breathe heavily. Blood trickles hotly down my face. I’m the embodiment of the monster I always knew I was. I close my eyes again. The blows come, and this time, as instructed, they don’t stop. I take several punches to the head and body, demanding more until the floating image of Molly recedes from my mind. Joe’s fist pummel into my stomach. I imagine my insides liquifying. The pain is transcendent, helping me rise above relentless emotions.
There’s a loud banging at the door. I hear Madame Cherie yelling. That’s the last thing I remember before I black out.
*
Molly
I’m stretched out on a twin bed in Greg and Grant’s guest room, feeling like a fretted after child. Greg’s rushing around the room, locating blankets, pillows, and towels. He’s making me nervous. I can’t stand his hectic movements. I’m overstimulated as it is, my mind spinning beyond my control. This is worse than any heartbreak I’ve ever experienced, because along with it is a deep fear that I could die soon. Yes, I’m sad over Sal. He lied to me, tricked me, he tied me up in his fucking dungeon, but I’m heartsick over the man I thought he was. He was arrogant and playful, hinting at something darker underneath. I didn’t understand just how dark.
And it was all a lie. I can’t forget that. Still, it keeps slipping my mind.
“Grant’s making pasta,” Greg says, sitting on the end of the bed. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”
I press my lips together, nodding. “I don’t have any appetite.”
“I understand.” Greg takes my hand in his. “When we get to Kansas, you’re going to feel much better, I promise. It’ll all be over, and you can start a new life. Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”
“Just one more thing. The wifi password.”
When Greg finally leaves me alone, I fire up my laptop. Since Sal isn’t a few doors down from me anymore, I feel safe researching the Mariano family. Several pages of search results pop up instantaneously. I scan them, catching buzzwords like brutal, notorious, and crime family. There are articles about deep government corruptions, missing persons presumed dead at their hands, and mugshots of elegantly dressed mobsters dating back to the 1970’s. The more I read, the sicker I become. Franco and his progeny represent greed and a profound immorality. I’ve partied and dined with agents of pure evil. I took their dirty money and I thanked them for it.
Aside from the heartbreak and fear, shame takes root in my belly. How happy I’d been to spend thousands of dollars on an outreach campaign, to have a fancy espresso machine in my office, to buy everyone new chairs, and take a bump in pay myself. How could I not have known that something was off? Maybe deep down I did, but I chose to ignore it in favor of getting what I want. From the beginning, I knew I was making a deal with the devil.
Maybe I’m not as righteous as I thought I was. Why did I even start the center? To help people, or to fill the hole inside of me left by my brother? The confidence I’d built over the last few weeks topples around me, since it’s foundation was rotten to begin with.
I log into the center’s bank account. There it is, Franco’s pending donation. My eyes dance over the string of zeroes. In the left corner of the screen, there’s a green button that reads Block Transaction.
I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with righteous indignation. Who are you, Molly? An easy mark? A willing pawn in an evil game?
I place my finger on the mousepad, hovering over that button.
And I click.