Chapter Five – Marcella

As I close my book, a historical romance I snagged from Savers, I notice a stretch limousine approaching my house from my tiny window. The school year's over, the summer heat is oppressive for those of us without air, and the only reason a car like that would be in a place like this is because a herd of students compiled their money to go to prom in style.

Prom was over months ago.

With interest, I watch it pull up right in front of my shitty trailer. I climb off my twin bed and walk over to get a better look. The driver exits and walks around to the back to open the door. Is it a celebrity? For some silly reason, my heartbeat picks up. Maybe it's Publisher's Clearing House, and I'm about to be saved from the poorhouse. I can see it in my mind's eye. Balloons. Streamers. And a giant cardboard check with an amount that's bigger than a lifetime of my annual salary.

It's neither.

A man in a tailored suit gets out and stands in the street. He's none too happy with what he sees. I can tell by the grimace on his chiseled face as he glances around, taking in the tattered appearance of the trailers, junk cars, and stale garbage. He wrinkles his nose at the stench of poverty. A tapered hand reaches up to brush something off his suit coat, almost as if he can wipe away the stink of despair.

I wonder which one of my neighbors is into this rich bastard for money because there's no other reason for the likes of him to slum it. That very thought causes my heart to start pounding in earnest, threatening to explode from my chest. That son of a bitch! Manny's gotten himself in too deep. So fucking deep I'll never be able to fish him out of the quicksand of gambling debt he's swimming in.

I watch the man and will him to move away from my cracked and broken cement sidewalk. But he doesn't. No. He turns and looks at my window as if he can see me staring at him.

As if he knows.

I hear the knock on the door and contemplate hiding. But since my crappy car's outside, he knows someone is probably inside.

"Marcella?"

Shit. Shit. Shit.

How in the hell does this rich stranger know my name? He couldn't unless my yellow-bellied sibling sold me down the river in a leaky canoe with neither of us holding a paddle. Inhaling a deep breath, I realize I can't back down now. I have to pay the smooth-looking piper that's waiting for me at my own front door.

Glancing down at my second-hand outfit of jean shorts and a tank top, I notice neither are really clean or really fashionable. In the face of designer suit man, I'll look even worse than my dirty, smelly neighbors. I'm probably worse than the piece of shit trailer I'm standing inside, but my bare feet still carry me to the door. With a courageous breath to fortify me, I pull it open, and only the ripped screen door lays between me and a possibly dangerous debt collector.

I just stand there waiting, because I don't want to make the first move. Hell, I watch the late-night movies on TNT. He who speaks first relinquishes their power.

He clears his throat as his eyes scan my body from head to toe. It's not lascivious, but it's not innocent either. It's more like an appraisal. As if he were deciding if I'm worthy of speaking to.

"Hi, Marcella," he says, leaning back. His gaze is hypnotic. Before I know it, before I want to, I'm leaning forward in order to hear him better. "You probably don't remember me, but my name is Dante Giovanetti. Your parents worked for me at the time they passed away. I own the Mona Lisa."

Jesus fucking Christ. The richest and most powerful man in Las Vegas is standing outside my door. And he knows my name.

This can't be happening.

"Yeah?"

I know I should say something more articulate, but I'm so confused by his presence here that thoughts of what he might want have taken over my brain. As a result, I'm struck slightly mute, and I don't say anything other than that one syllable. I continued to stare, waiting for him to give more explanation so I can participate in the conversation without sounding like a brainless ninny.

His simple introduction flashes me back to the horrible night my life changed forever. The evening of the accident is permanently etched on my brain. The police officer coming to the door. Manny answering it. His scream. My wails. The feel of the cold, tile floor against my cheek as I collapse on my way to the kitchen. The pounding of my heart that I can't understand because it had just shattered. I willed it to stop beating so I could die, too.

But I lived.

"I heard through the grapevine that you've hit some hard times," he says. I'm so shocked by his presence at my front door that only part of my mind wonders how he knows that. The strangeness of the comment niggles at my brain, but I sweep it away before it moves to the front of my consciousness and out my mouth. But then again, he owns a casino and Manny's been known to get around.

Tears prick the back of my eyes as the emotion overwhelms me. First, the thought of my dead parents and then the thought of my brother who might as well be dead, because if he continues down the path he's on, he's a walking corpse. I blink a few times and wipe them away as I take a shaky breath. What the fuck kind of response does he want to that statement?

"And?"

"And I wondered if you have any hospitality industry experience? I can't help but hold myself responsible for some of…" He stops only long enough to gesture toward the trailer park and my neighbor's pink flamingo lawn ornament with its head blown off. "Your troubles. I own one of the local hotels, and I'd be happy to give you a job. At substantially more than minimum wage. Plus tips."

I must have such a look of sloppy confusion on my face that I've stunned him into silence because after he offers me a pity job, he just stands there and stares. Although anything would probably be better than cleaning rooms at the Heartbreak Hotel, there's something off about this guy. Why now, so many years after the fact? Manny and I have been up shit creek in a boat filled with rocks since my folks died. My job at the Heartbreak may not be prestigious, but it's honest work for honest pay and doesn't even come close to resembling a handout. Just like my daddy always taught me.

"Thanks, Mr. Giovanetti, but I'm not interested. I'm already gainfully employed."

His eyes flash fire but he only lets his annoyance show for a split second before his face again becomes a cool mask of indifference. Danger spills out from every pore even though he tries to hide it. A shiver travels down my spine in spite of the heat. I don't like him, and I want him gone.

He reaches inside his tailored to perfection suit coat and produces a card. As he hands it to me, his fingers stay linked with mine a moment longer than would be considered appropriate. I lean back, wanting more space between the two of us. A gorge the size of the Grand Canyon wouldn't be far enough to set my mind at ease. It seems right to glance down at the card I'm holding. The expensive vellum paper is embossed with gold foil lettering.

Dante Giovanetti, Owner

Mona Lisa Hotel & Casino

"If you change your mind, that number goes straight to my assistant." As he talks, he sweeps his superior and arrogant gaze over the shit box that I call home. My nostrils flare. It may be a hovel, but it's paid for, and it's mine. Even though I don't have enough money most months to pay the lot rent and the utilities, I'm still proud that I take care of myself. My brother, too. I don't need some rich prick's feeble attempt at charity. His stuffy accountant probably ordered him to give something away this month to appease the IRS.

With one final deep stare into my eyes, as if his becoming my boss is a foregone conclusion, he turns on his heel and practically trots to his fancy ride. The driver's been standing there like a good and obedient soldier the entire time. I bring my hand up to my face to shield it from the blazing sun. I wonder if the driver's armed and serves as a quasi-bodyguard in addition to driving rich guy's pampered ass around town in style.

"Marcella Castillo! What on earth did that man want with you?"

I turn my head at the frantic words to see my headless flamingo neighbor, who was also my mom's bestie, Maria Gonzalez run down the sidewalk toward my house. She's waving and fanning herself with the newspaper at the same time. I love Maria. She's a bubbly and friendly woman if a bit too caught up in other people's business for my taste. But my mom trusted her and so do I. Even if she's pushy, she's still got Manny's and my best interests at heart.

"Hey, Maria."

She stops a few feet in front of me, huffing and puffing. I want to ask her if she plans to blow the house down like in the "Three Little Pigs," but she has a horrified look on her face, so I don't. Maria's usually not so serious. I glance down at the card again and then crumple it up so I can stuff it into my pocket.

"What on earth was Dante Giovanetti doing on your doorstep, young lady? That man is nothing but trouble. If he knows you, he owns you."

Her words create another surge of adrenaline to kick start my heart again. I knew I had a bad feeling about the guy. I wonder why Maria hates him so much.

"He offered me a job at his hotel. Said he found out through the grapevine that I'd fallen on some hard times. I'm not sure what the hell was up his ass. Seemed pissed when I turned him down. I mean, why on earth would he decide I needed help today when help's been denied ever since my parents died? It doesn't make a lick of sense."

Maria wobbled and crossed herself. "Praise be to God that you turned him down."

I'm not surprised by the theatrics since it's typical strict Catholic behavior from a Hispanic mother of four. I stand there, waiting for her to whip out the rosary and start saying some Hail Mary's on my behalf. Maybe what we really need is an exorcism.

"What's so bad about him?" I ask, needing to understand if only to calm my unease. If he's really dangerous, I want to make sure I know it up front, so I don't cross paths with him or unwittingly agree to work for one of his properties. "Doesn't seem any worse than your normal rich bastard."

"Órale!" she exclaims, crossing herself again. What the hell? This conversation is headed down a dirt path to nowhere. Maria glances behind her to see Mrs. Worthington, our elderly neighbor, walking down the street with her three-legged Chihuahua, Ortiz. The handicapped dog's collar jingles with about ten sparkly taco shaped bells that Mrs. W. stamped on his leather collar. Maria grabs me by the hand. "Let's go inside, mi Amiga."

I scoff and narrow my eyes. Mrs. W. is so damn deaf she couldn't hear a 747 taking off right over her head. Regardless, Maria puts her finger to her lips and drags me along behind her plump body as if we're in some conspiracy theory episode of "Burn Notice." I step back and allow Maria room to come inside. She shuffles into the kitchenette and takes a seat on one of the torn vinyl chairs with rusted chrome accents. The cushions used to be gold, but they now look more like piss.

"Would you like a soda?" I ask, mostly because I feel like I have to, and it's Manny's pop, so he'll just have to deal.

"Water?" she asks, and I grab a glass and pour her some from the sink. We can't afford bottled.

"Now that we're all alone inside the house, mind telling me exactly what it is that is so classified about Dante Giovanetti? He threaten to make you sleep with the fishes?"

She doesn't laugh at my off-color joke like she usually would, and I slide into the seat next to her. If Maria's lost her sense of humor, I smell a rat. I wait a few seconds for her to gather her thoughts. She's pensive, like she's not sure how she wants to tell me the bad news. Doesn't she know I've become numb to it? There's nothing she could say that would make my already shitty life any worse.

"I used to work for Dante at the Mona Lisa, just like your folks," she says, raking a hand through her thick, black hair. "He helped my family make it across the border. Just like he did for Juan and Leticia."

At her admission, I rack my brains for any mention of this Dante person prior to today. If my mom or dad ever talked about him, I don't remember. But then again, they rarely talked about how they illegally entered the US. They were so happy when they were finally made US citizens, my mom bought sparklers, and we had a Fourth of July party in January complete with hot dogs, potato salad, and apple pie.

"Mom didn't like to talk about the trip over the border," I say, hoping she'll continue on with the story anyway. After all, mom's not here to reprimand either of us. "It made her really sad."

"Dante always wanted payment for the money he shelled out to illegals."

My mind races. "What kind of payment?"

"Hearts, souls…bodies. Mainly slave labor in his hotel for less than minimum wage until the 'debt' is paid off in full. Of course, it took years longer than he ever said it would when he was throwing around empty promises like counterfeit Benjamins. I worked there for five years for peanuts, until one night, I lost it. That's when the unthinkable happened."

"What did he do?" I ask, but I'm not sure I really want to know. "Threaten you or something?"

She stands as if to leave, but she doesn't. Instead, Maria moves in front of the rickety table and slowly lifts her shirt.

My world fades to black.