Aedan
A couple of weeks later, I go into the bar and my blood turns to ice in my veins. Almost as soon as I see them, my killer’s instincts kick in. I have to remind myself that acting on my instincts now will get me killed and ruin the truce, but it’s damned hard. My hands clench into fists and spikes of rage and resentment surge through my body, sliding under my skin, making my whole damn killer’s engine buzz and crank and groan into life. I see myself, in my head, acting on the impulses, see myself take his head in my hands and fucking smash it against the fucking table!
Calm, I tell myself, as I stand in the backroom watching Livia’s date offer her his hand.
The man is a little shorter than me, thinner, and Italian. His hair is slicked back and jet-black, and his face is clean-shaved. He has an eagle-like nose, an eagle-like chin, and I’ll be damned if the bastard doesn’t look like an eagle all over, angular and jutting and like an overgrown teenager. But you’re not bitter, are you? I know they’re getting ready for a date because the pretentious ass has a rose slotted into his suit jacket pocket. And Livia looks bombshell hot in a smoking red dress which would get my cock stirring if this piece of piss wasn’t right now taking her hand.
“Oh,” Livia says, when she sees me.
“Oh,” I reply, not at all liking the way the Italian looks at me, as though I’m just some guy, nothing to worry about.
“Hello,” he says, taking his hand from Livia and offering it to me. I look down at it for a long time, covered in gold, sparkling rings, and think about snapping it at the wrist. Snapping it clean off and jamming his fingers down his throat. “My name is Dominic Colombo.”
“Aedan,” I mutter, shaking his hand briefly. The truce, remember the truce, think of poor old Patty.
“Aedan O’Rourke?” the man says, eyebrows raised.
“Last time I checked.”
“You’re the Irishman.”
I gesture at my thick ginger beard, my messy ginger hair, my face in general. “What gave it away?” Then I gesture at him. “And you’re the Italian.”
He smiles and that infuriates me even more, because it isn’t a friendly smile. There’s a hint of pity behind it. Maybe he’s heard that I like Livia, I think. Maybe the bastard’s gloating. I swear to God, if this truce wasn’t so important to so many people, and if Carlos Rio wasn’t every day sending Mexicans to hassle our corners and run protection rackets on our stores, I would punch this man’s teeth into the back of his head.
“It was nice to meet you,” the man says. “Livia, shall we go?”
Livia won’t look me in the eyes. She stares firmly down at the table, the wall, the floor, but not at me. When her gaze is forced to glance in my direction, her eyes skillfully hop over me. “Okay,” she says.
I step aside and wave my arm at the door. “Have a good time,” I say. I’m shocked by how loud my voice sounds, far too loud. Dominic flinches at it.
I watch them leave, stare at Livia’s ass compressed into that fine red dress, wiggling her hips. Dammit.
“Aedan,” Bruno says, sticking his head out the door. He reads my face, glances down the hallway, and then winces. “Unfortunate timing, I suppose.”
“What?” I say, and now I’m almost shouting. I take a deep breath. “What?” I repeat, calming myself. “I’m fine. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come in, son,” Bruno says.
We sit in his office, Bruno tucking his beringed hands into his waistband. All I can think about when I look at the man’s hands, the gold rings, are the golds rings on that prick Dominic’s hands, the way those gold rings must’ve touched Livia’s hand. Fuck, I want to kill that man, I think, wondering if I’m being unreasonable. Maybe I am, but, damn, damn, damn…
“Aedan.”
“What.” The way I say it, it sounds like fuck.
“You’re going to break my chair.”
I realize I’m squeezing the arms so tight the wood’s creaking.
“Alright,” I mutter, and slowly uncurl my fists.
“You’re angry,” he comments.
“I have no reason to be angry.”
“You’re angry because my daughter left with that man. And I said you could court her. I misled you, or so it seems to you.”
“I hadn’t even thought about it like that,” I say honestly.
“Let me explain.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“It is never a good idea,” Bruno says, “to tell a don what he does and does not owe you. It is for him to decide that.”
I sigh, and he goes on: “My wife is a fierce woman, Aedan. A fierce, fierce woman, a proud Italian, and a woman who has lost one child already. It is only natural for her to want the best for her remaining child. Now, I have no opinion about Livia dating whoever she wants, but my wife does, and I love her. You see, I have to defer to her on matters of the heart. In that area, I am afraid, I am woefully underequipped. My wife called me and told me that Livia is to go on a date with Dominic Colombo, a ‘nice Italian boy,’ and when I asked Livia, she agreed. Though, I suspect, to make her mother happy…she agreed all the same. So what am I to do? I like you, Aedan, a lot, perhaps more than an Italian don should like an Irishman, but…well, you see my conundrum. If her mother pushes it, and she does not disagree, who am I to stand in the way?”
“I don’t blame you, sir,” I say.
“And yet you call me ‘sir’.”
Why do you care about me, old man? I can’t stand the way he’s looking at me, open and affectionate and all the damn things Dad has never given me. I saved his life, I think, and he’s grateful, that’s all. But I don’t think that’s it. And no matter how much I lie to myself, I can’t deny I’ve taken a shine to him.
“Bruno, then,” I say.
I stand up.
“We haven’t even talked business yet,” Bruno says, with a knowing grin.
“The only business I have today just walked down the hallway wearing the sexiest—sorry, most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. I’m gonna take a walk. See you later, Bruno.”
“Be safe, Aedan,” he says, “and don’t be a stranger. Good work on the Mexicans the other day, by the way.”
I nod; he’s referring to four colds left as a warning, throats slit, in an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.
“It’s what I do,” I say, leaving the office.
I walk into the bar and Tony, the prick who did me with the hilt of his pistol, stands up from his stool, wobbling from side to side, a bottle of beer in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other. “Peter!” he cries, giggling. “Peter!”
Any other day, I’d let that slide. Today, I march right up to him, grab him by the front of his shirt, and bring my face close to his. At once, half a dozen Italians jump to their feet, pulling guns and knives. I ignore them and focus on Tony. He shakes and his lips tremble like a little bitch. “Call me Peter again,” I say, voice cold. “Go on, Tony.”
“You better let him go…”
“Or what?” I say. “Or what?” I roar, spitting in Tony’s face.
He stutters, eyes watery, lips quivering like a little kid who’s about to break into tears. “P-p-p…”
“Fucking pussy.” I toss him back onto the stool, glare down all the Italian fucks, and then pace from the bar.
I’m at the door when Bruno emerges. “What happened?” he asks, glancing around the room. Everybody shrinks from his gaze. It’s strange, ’cause he’s so friendly to me, to see how scared these men are of him. But, after all, he’s the don.
“That Irish son of a bitch grabbed me,” Tony says, voice slurring.
Bruno walks over to Tony. “Don’t you dare fucking cry in my bar.” And then he returns to his office.
I walk into the street, thinking of Livia, unable to stop thinking about her. I wonder if she’s laughing with that guy, if they’re flirting. Maybe they’re kissing. Maybe they skipped dinner and right now they’re in her bedroom and he’s sucking on her breasts like I should be doing and—and—
Stop it, I tell myself, walking blindly through the city, just stop it.
But I can’t. All I can think about is Livia, all the things she might be doing. Sure, maybe I don’t have any claim to her. Sure, maybe she’s free to do anything—and anybody—she wants. Sure, maybe I’m being unreasonable. Sure, sure, sure. But that doesn’t mean my anger is just going to disappear. Fuck, I think. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I wanted her—want her, still. I want those legs, those breasts. But I want that smile, too, and I want to hear her call me a dog and I want to have a joke and a laugh with her. I want to call her Princess and have her call me names back. I want the whole goddamn package but Dominic-fucking-fuckface has got her instead.
It’s almost a relief when my cell rings, just for the distraction.
“Aedan,” Dad says, and his voice is icy as usual.
“Dad—”
“Are you an idiot? What if this phone’s tapped?”
I sigh, leaning against the wall of an electronics store as pedestrians stroll by. “Boss,” I say.
“That’s better. I’m just checking in.”
“Alright.”
“How’s it going?”
“Fine.”
“Any updates?”
“No, business as usual.”
“Good. Just keep going. That work on the Mexicans was clever; now the Italians will trust us even more. Everything’s falling into place, Aedan. Soon, we’ll rule this city and everyone in it, The Italians, the Mexicans, no one will have a chance.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“We’ll talk, after that,” Dad says.
“Talk?”
“Talk about us,” he goes on, and I’m sure there’s a glimmer of something in his voice, something genuine.
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Alright, Boss.”
“You’re a good boy, Aedan,” he says. “Your mother would be proud.”
“Thanks—”
He hangs up, and now my head is spinning like crazy. Livia, Bruno, Bruno, Livia…I kill Bruno, I make Dad proud, but not only do I kill a man I like, I also steal Livia’s dad away from her.
But what do I owe her, anyway? I ask myself, but I know the question is horseshit. I don’t hate her. I could never hate her.
A woman walks past, short skirt, low-cut top, big hooped earrings, high heels, maybe on her way to an early party. Her face is plastered with makeup, eyes caked in eyeliner, but even so I know the look she’s giving me, the I’ll-fuck-if-you’re-down look.
Nothing’s stopping me, I think. Definitely not Livia.
Even so, I find myself pushing off the wall and heading in the opposite direction.
After a few minutes, I realize my feet are taking me to Livia’s apartment.