Chapter Seventeen

Gabriel

 

“Fuck!” I roar, as her old man drags her inside, as the door slams behind them, and as I’m left up here like an asshole with my dick in my hand. I throw the rifle across the roof, where it smashes against a miniature chimney, the scope coming loose. “Fuck!” I snarl, only my Family instincts quieting me. I’m a fucking idiot; that’s the first thing that comes into my head when I’m calm enough to think anything at all.

 

I run to the fire escape and leap down the steps, taking them several at a time. I scoop up the gun on the way but leave the scope. The plan was stupid, stupid, stupid. It seemed to make sense when we were lying in bed together, discussing it, because all we were really thinking about was what we’d do afterward. Running off to California … it seems like the rantings of a madman now.

 

I go around the back of the Italians’ place and search for an opening, even though I know that there won’t be one; the place is guarded, as it always is. There isn’t a chance in hell I’ll get in there without hurting myself or, worse, Collen. Maybe I could shoot my way in, if all I wanted to do was kill as many bastards as possible, but that’s not an option.

 

Fuck … I drop down onto the concrete in the alleyway, leaning my back against the trash can we were just standing beside, together. What sort of a fool am I? I had her right here. She was safe. We were together. And then I willingly just let her walk across the street … dammit, the Italians and the Irish have clearly made some sort of deal without me. The whole time we discussed this plan, neither of us guessed that one of her goddamn parents might come walking out.

 

“Fuck!” I slam my head against the trash can, gritting my teeth so hard my whole face trembles.

 

I don’t know how long I sit here, only that the sun begins to set and a homeless man wanders into the alleyway and glares at me like I’m in his spot. I climb to my feet and walk to the mouth of the alley, gun—emptied of all ammo—hidden in the trashcan. I need to leave this area; I can’t linger around here, unless I want to be caught. What are they doing to her in there? I can’t shake the thought that they’re pouring bullshit in her ears, telling her I twisted her, telling her I …

 

What the hell is the matter with me? I ought to just leave. What have I been telling myself this whole time? She’s nothing, just some Irish girl I hardly know. I shouldn’t be crippled at the idea that she’ll turn against me. It doesn’t matter; the journey is over. Fine. I can go to California on my own and find another woman. It’s not like there aren’t more sexy pieces out there. But those thoughts ring hollow, like I’m playing a role and playing it poorly. I can tell myself that she means nothing to me all I want. It doesn’t make it true.

 

I return to the alleyway and sit down opposite the homeless man. He’s got a massive gray beard that reaches right down to his midriff. Or maybe it was gray once; now it’s gray-brown, gray-yellow, gray-green, stained all over. He rubs his hands together in his fingerless, hole-marked gloves.

 

“Rough day?” he wheezes and spits.

 

“Yeah,” I mutter. “You could say that.”

 

“Well …” he shrugs and points to the sky, as though to say it’s all in God’s hands, and then takes out a small pouch from his pocket and rolls a cigarette.

 

I return to the mouth of the alleyway, the street pitch-dark now except for the streetlamp at the end. Every time the city installs new streetlamps here, the skip orders the boys to smash them up. The Family prefers darkness. How long has it been now? I check my phone; goddamn, three hours. I’ve been pacing around and feeling sorry for myself for six goddamn hours.

 

Screw this … let what’ll happen, happen.

 

I walk across the street, knowing it’s a damn fool move but not really caring much right now. I’ll start with the doorman, gets my hands on him and drag him out here, take his gun and hope to hell that he’s somebody important, somebody’s cousin or uncle or nephew. That’s the way the Family works, or is supposed to work; blood matters. I take out my pistol and knock on the door with it, and then step to the side so that I’ll have the jump on him.

 

But when the door opens, it’s not an Italian who walks out. It’s Colleen’s mother. She’s changed her clothes since I spied her through the scope. Now she wears a long black coat that buttons up right to her neck and black gloves to match. She reminds me of that lady from the Dalmatians movie, the evil one.

 

She raises her hands in mock concern when she sees the gun. “Are you going to shoot me, young man?”

 

“Maybe I will,” I mutter, but I’m already lowering it. I can’t kill her mom. No damn way.

 

She nods in satisfaction. “That was the right move. Maybe you are not as stupid as your reputation would lead me to believe. Now, will you follow me like a gentleman, or shall I have my associates bring you in? Or you could go back to pacing up and down that alleyway like a lunatic. The choice is yours.”

 

“You’ll kill me,” I mutter.

 

“No, no,” she says, wagging her finger like I’m her goddamn kid. “We will not. You have my word. Now, come with me.”

 

I’m too tired and I’m too pissed off to do anything other than follow her. If I was thinking clearly—if I was thinking like Gabriel the enforcer—then maybe I’d grab her and use her as a hostage instead, bargaining Colleen out that way. But whatever Colleen feels about this woman, the fact remains that she’s her mother. I don’t think I’ll be winning any points with Colleen if I take her. So I follow her into the hallway, through the mostly-empty bar, and into the backroom. I expect Lorenzo to be there, or Samuel, but the only people in the room are Colleen, her father, and her mother, who closes the door behind me. The naked bulb lights up the old bloodstains on the wall; this is a storage room that the boys have used for a torture room more’n a couple times.

 

“Please,” Shane says, gesturing at the chair opposite his. “Take a seat.”

 

Colleen sits right next to him, dressed in an elaborate gown that looks completely out of place here … it’s the gown her mother was wearing. Her mom changed out of it and put her into it, why? Because she wanted her to look pretty, I guess. Which she does, except for the way she stares stubbornly down at the table, unwilling to look at me. And except for the big purple bruise on her neck. It’s new, already turning yellow.

 

“You’ll have to drop that gun,” Shane says, holding a gun of his own, aimed casually at me. “Unless you want to start shooting with my daughter in the room?”

 

I drop the gun and take the seat. Colleen’s mother walks around to the Irish side of the table and stands behind her daughter, her hands on her shoulders, her head held high with dignity.

 

“Who did that to you?” I ask, staring at Colleen. She won’t even fucking glance at me. Her lips tremble. She looks broken, the same way some men do after a gunfight. She looks even more broken than she did after she killed that fella down near the warehouses.

 

“Don’t talk to her!” Alma snaps.

 

“Why bring her in here if I can’t talk to her?” I growl.

 

“Careful,” Shane warns. “The only reason you’re not dead is because my daughter has some confused feelings about you. Oh, and your cousin has had second thoughts about putting you down. It makes no sense to me, truth be told, but there it is. Apparently there’s some loyalty among Italians after all.” Both he and Alma laugh darkly.

 

“Colleen,” I say, unable to hide the desperation from my voice. “What is it? What happened? Who did this? Was it your mom, eh? Or was it the old man?”

 

She opens her mouth as if to answer, but then closes it a moment later. A single tear rolls down her cheek and she goes on just staring.

 

Shane smiles widely. “She’s got no interest in you, so you better stop talking to her before I put a bullet in your fucking skull.”

 

I stare at Alma. “You brought her in here to make a point, didn’t you? You want me to see that bruise, want me to see what you’ve done to her. Fucking hell …”

 

Shane smacks his gun on the table, causing the women to flinch. I turn calmly to him, wishing that he wasn’t Colleen’s father. “What did I say?” he snaps. “You don’t talk to her. It’s a simple enough order.”

 

“Who said I take orders from the Irish?” I growl.

 

“You certainly don’t take orders from the Italians,” Alma says. “So what are you now, boy? A nothing. You are lucky we found a way to make peace alone; that’s all I will say.”

 

“You should be dead,” Shane goes on, spit clinging to his lips. He stares at me with the kind of hate a father aims at the man who took his daughter’s virginity, never mind that it was her choice. “You’re lucky this is business. Business. Where feelings don’t matter a fucking bit. Lorenzo was all for killing you before we made this deal, but … letting the Irish kill an Italian—even a dog like you—apparently that’s a bad look. I just want you to know that if I had my way I’d string you up and peel your, skin layer by layer.”

 

“You’d try.” I sit up straighter. “Why don’t you get to the fucking point?”

 

Shane reaches under the table with a grimace and then comes back up with a briefcase. He places it on the table. “One hundred thousand,” he says. “Wasn’t that the figure, you sick bastard? Well, here you go, your fee.”

 

“My fee for what?”

 

“For getting out of state within the day, for never returning, and for forgetting that my daughter or any of this ever existed.” Alma walks around the table and leans down to me. “Or I’ll be right there with him, knife in hand, flaying you like the dog you are.”

 

“You people are obsessed with flaying,” I say, forcing out a laugh. Colleen smiles, but it vanishes quickly. “I don’t want this cash. Colleen,” I go on, staring at her now. “I just want you.”

 

“Get him out!” Shane suddenly roars.

 

Before I can even stand up, Samuel and another Italian walks into the room, holding shotguns. Samuel’s got a wide-ass grin on his stupid-ass face. He prods me in the belly. “I don’t think you’re welcome in here anymore, big man.”

 

“By the end of the day,” Alma says. “Or there will be trouble.”

 

I look one last time at Colleen, hoping for something, some sign: just one look that tells me that everything between us isn’t a lie. But then their shotguns force me down the hallway and back into the night.

 

“I hope you don’t leave,” Samuel says, as he shuts the door. “I hope you stay. Then I get to kill you myself.”

 

I take a step back, almost hit the door, and then lower my fist and turn away into the darkness.