24. DISTANCE
GIOELE
“Okay, I’m losing my fucking mind.” I rub my face, leaning against a trash can in a dank back alley. “I can’t take this any longer.”
“He can’t,” Bully says, sticking his neck out so Isaias can hear him over the phone. I land a blow to his stomach. At the far end of the alley, Fritz waits, arms crossed and keeping an eye on the street. Cars whiz by, grey exhaust as moist as the day. I hate this city—it’s inhabitable. Look what it’s done to us.
“Yesterday was a complete bust,” I growl to Isaias.
“I know.”
“I sat with Keegan in his goddamn office like a fool, dialing the animal’s number while he ignored the shit out of me. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He’s got to have something on Keegan too. I don’t know, man. He’s not happy. We need to use that for something.”
This is the second day the same way. It’s noon. I haven’t eaten since yesterday—not sure what the fuck I ate then either. It really doesn’t matter, until you start to feel weak and can’t keep working every angle you see.
“Have you eaten lately?” Isaias asks like he’s Ma or something and reads my mind.
“Right, you think Silvina’s eating? Or you think she’s being—” I let out a shaky breath. “Anyway. Today, we’re ringing doorbells.”
“What the fuck?” Bully rumbles.
“We’re starting at the north end of the Bay Area, and we’re ringing every damn doorbell. I’ll get photos of her developed so we all have a couple to show when we go door to door.” Even as I say it, every Mafioso cell in me objects, telling me how incredibly stupid that would be. I don’t care, though. I can’t be idle anymore. I need a confrontation, and I’d rather have war and blood than fluttering around in some breeze like I’m made of paper.
Isaias will try to stop me, and Tatiana will speak to me in sweet, silky tones. But they need to realize who they’re dealing with, and that’s just going to be a waste of time.
I blow my cheeks up, puffing air while I wait for them to start. Two seconds. Three. I steel myself, so fucking ready to curse him out. I don’t even care that Tatiana’s on the other end with him.
“Ready for a few updates?” Isaias asks calmly.
I purse my lips, huffing adrenaline at the unexpected question. The alley stench is rotten fish and oil. It feels like it’s sticking to my skin. “Dude, if you have fucking updates, why don’t you fucking tell me?”
“Because you fucking don’t let us get a word in edgewise?” Tatiana slinks out. Somehow, she manages to sound summer-day sweet and sexy at the same time. It makes my brother snort.
“What is it?” I bark.
“There’s only one private planetarium in San Francisco. I’ll text you the address once it ticks in.”
“Oh, God. Seriously? Who owns it?”
“Nighthead Security. They do armored transportation, mainly for banks. They’re both literally and figuratively moving a lot of money.”
“Laundering?”
“Looks like it. The owner is listed as Damiana Himmel. Her legal name is Damiana Santa Colombini.”
“John Himmel’s mother.”
“Right. Over the last half a decade, she’s been in and out of Venice, probably to be close with the family. But we’ve poured over immigration records, and unless Damiana Himmel or Damiana Santa Colombini has left the U.S. under the radar, she’s in the country as we speak.”
“Which brings us to how John’s a mama’s boy,” Isaias says. “She’s already done the unthinkable for him. She’s Mamma Santa Colombini to the max, having kept him out of jail, and for the most part out of mental hospitals. I think he needs her to remain inconspicuous.”
A seagull flaps by with squeals of warning against the narrow strip of sky above me. The scent of oil suddenly overpowers the reek of decay in the alley. It energizes me. “Get me the address. I’m going in.”
“They’ve done some map-scamming with the location of their pad, so we’re working on it,” he says.
“Map-scamming? Does that mean what I think it does?” Frustration sieves in again, just when I was starting to feel better.
“Probably. We’ll get the address, though. Don’t worry, baby.” Tatiana breathes her empathy against the receiver, and I don’t know if I want to roar or punch something.
“How long? More days, another week while he hits her, uses her? Who knows what else he’s doing!” I shout.
“Don’t say that,” Bully mumbles. In my peripheral, he’s staring at me with that genuine, straightforward stare he has. I turn fully and glare back, willing him to shut the hell up. He’s not the boss of anyone.
“If you say bad stuff out loud, it happens,” the idiot still says.
I lunge at him. Punch him in the stomach. Get his head with my phone. I tackle him and try to wrestle him to the ground. He’s being a fucking jerk, just standing there like a mountain, just catching my hardest blows with his hands. I’m large. I’m strong. But Bully is a giant.
Breathing heavily, I rise my palms toward him as I step backward. I hit a puddle that shines with oil. “Never mind, man. Just— That can’t happen to her.”
“Don’t say it, then.”
“Gioele!” My phone is screaming from the puddle. I’m out of oxygen. “Gioele. Are you there?” My lungs rattle as I pull in air, expanding them to capacity.
Fritz is here. He fishes my cell out of the puddle. Shakes it, dries it off on his pants before giving it back to me.
“I’m here.” Hoarse, I clear my throat.
“This whole thing has to go down like a well-oiled machine, okay?” my brother says. “We’re going to have all the pieces in place. It won’t take long, now, because if he orbits around his mamma, we’ll nail him damn soon. We’ve got Felix’ guys up there, and I’m coming up next.”
“Unfortunately, you’ll be going nowhere, baby.” For my benefit, Tatiana adds, “I wish he could, but Isaias wouldn’t be of any use.”
I have the wherewithal to realize how hilarious this would’ve been under different circumstances. My macho brother being put in his place by his girlfriend. What has the world come to?
Isaias scoffs. “Ice Queen: you and I’ll take that convo after. Gioele: we’re going to set a trap Himmel can’t get out of.”
I inhale, wanting to object against the timeline that isn’t a timeline, but he continues, “Get something to eat, all right, and I’ll give you a word as soon as I’ve got the address.”
My brain whirls with better uses of my time while I wait. Unfortunately, he sees right through me again. “Fucking go eat! You can do nothing without the address, and you need all the energy you can when it goes down.”
My brother pulls away from the receiver, muttering to Tatiana, “Can you believe him? Stubborn little shit.”
“Huh. You’d have thought it ran in the family,” she wise-cracks.
“You’d have thought he was related to you,” Isaias murmurs, “except how you’re killing me. Look at you, gorgeous.” And that’s when I’ve had it and hang up.
SILVINA
My hands are trembling. I’m an emotional wreck this morning, after having had a rough wakeup with John in the bed. Another baby doll, no underwear and the sharp sting of pine cologne in my nostrils.
We’re on Damiana’s patio, at a pristinely set breakfast table and no mention of a call to Gioele. It’s jarringly beautiful here. I’m jarringly beautiful too. I look like a broken medieval queen, dressed in brocade layered with silk and embroidery. I’m tightly laced at the front with a low neckline that pushes bruised skin upward.
He wasn’t happy with me this morning. I woke up to John rubbing himself against my backside, sounding like a lover ready to treat his girl. But he wasn’t growing. He wasn’t getting hard against me. At first, my relief seeped in combating the shards of his unnatural smell. But soon, he called me names through his teeth, bumping his pelvis against my behind with increasing violence. Anxiety sent pin pricks up my skull, causing a brain freeze of pure fear.
I got my first full-body beating then, complete with the golden heel of his mother’s shoe against my chest. Vicious, he straddled me, hacking at me with it. “It’s your fault! You’re just not good enough. Slut. Man eater. Nascimbeni whore.”
“Let me touch you. Let me try,” I’d cried. “I can make you feel good. Just stop.”
My hands tremble. Damiana puts down a second cup of cappuccino for me. She’s
offering me the sugar bowl. It looks like she wants me to drop the lumps in myself, but my hand is clumsy. It tips the spoon sideways. Makes it sing against the bowl. She saves it for me with a giggle.
“Oh, goodness. Let me do it for you, darling girl.” Fake, perfectly applied lashes blink slowly at me. “We need to have breakfast earlier in the morning, John. I think your pretty Silvina is having a sugar crash.”
The steel in John’s eyes retreat a little while he examines my face. I try to raise my mask again, the one of the polite guest, of the girlfriend visiting her boyfriend’s house, making nice with the family. I read somewhere that the human face has forty-three muscles. Today, I am raw, and my emotions tick over my features without control.
“Are you anemic, maybe? Girls can get that easily, right, Mother?” he sends a loving look to Damiana, who bobs her head sagely.
“That’s right. When we have our monthly, we can lose a lot of blood, you know.”
My breasts feel so bare, fluffed in front of the two of them in this dress. Why did he want me in a Halloween costume? The thick, girdled skirt keeps the cold out. It’s a stark contrast to my chest, where pockmarked bruises ranging from red to black flare angrily amongst small wounds. It’s as if he’s flaunting his actions, daring his mother to inquire about them.
In this alternate reality, this cold-hot hell of too much and too little, Damiana doesn’t take his bait. Not once does she lose the façade of a loving, cheery mom. Not once does she acknowledge her son’s marks on me. I inhale deeply, in need of oxygen. My breath becomes an erratic hiccough, and John smiles at me when it isn’t as discreet as I could have hoped.
Croissants, warm and fresh. John fills mine with scrambled eggs as fluffy as the butter dough. He molds it under cautious fingers and pleats it back together.
“Here, my sweet pet.” He holds up his offering, silently demanding I bite around it. His eyes shine with satisfaction as I accept, filling my mouth with a goodness that’s out of place for this moment.
In a flash, my inner eye gives me Gioele instead. Amused, he slides his gaze from the happy uuums on my lips to my eyes. He shakes his head slowly, pupils widening, trumping the silver streaks of his irises. Love and desire propagate in them without inhibition. “Sarai la mia morte.”
“What? You can’t die from someone eating in front of you,” I tease back.
“That so? You don’t want me to die happy? I’d die happy watching you.”
We’re in Damiana’s garden longer than yesterday. We’re here so long that John leaves us in favor of the restroom. He walks off without me like it’s not a big deal, leaving me free from pine needles and ever-alert eyes. He leaves me behind with his mother.
He’ll be quick, he says, while she swats him off. Carefree, she says she’ll entertain me while he’s gone. Does she see? Does she know? Such a kind person she seems to be. How does a mother like her have a son like him?
This is my chance.
My hands brace against the wicker of my armrests, lifting me into alertness. I stay in my seat. There’s still strength in pushing like this.
“Signora Damiana,” I begin, but my voice chokes. Open-gazed, I hurl them at her, my captivity, my pain, my fear, my anxiety. I’m merciless as I fan myself out for her.
“Would you mind if I told you something? It’s about your son. You’re amazing. John is lucky to have you.” I inhale. My breath is too short for the oxygen I need for this. A whisper of a memory hits me, of how Gioele panicked when we were little. He’d lose his breath the way I do now.
I suck in air, again and over again. There’s air to be had, but not enough oxygen. I keep inhaling, puffing, forming words. She comes to me, around the table, and suddenly I’m not sure when she started moving. The espresso of her gaze turns liquid. It’s full of happiness.
“Oh, my sweet, sweet girl. Of course, you can talk to me.” She sinks her Venus-of-Milo form into John’s seat, bending forward and clasping my hand between her smooth ones. Expensive fabric grits against the top of my hands, but her warmth sieves through it, meeting my skin.
“I’m so glad we have a moment to ourselves, you and I. My boy, he’s an intense one. He loves with all his heart. He’s here so fully when he is. Isn’t he?”
She implores me with that dark gaze of hers. Could I change her mind with a shake of my head? She’s right though; he is intense. John is fully present with the person he’s focused on. I don’t know about his love. Maybe she does because he has always loved her.
My chin dips in agreement, the space between the knobs of my neck extending at the shift. For one moment, the sensation causes a weightlessness that’s almost carefree.
“He’s a difficult one. You might think a mother’s eye is blind with love, but that’s a myth, because if you keep your eyes open, you’ll always see how the world reacts to your child. You know?”
I bend my head further, my nostrils flaring with oncoming tears.
“When John was little, we lived at the Palazzo Rosa in Venice with the famiglia while his father traveled back and forth for work. John loved it. He’d play with all his cousins, but it was Agata he spent day and night with. The two of them were like peas in a pod, finishing each other’s sentences. They’d stand up for each other too. If one was in trouble, the other would invent an alibi to get them off the hook.” She swallows, leaving a second of silence around us. “She was such a kind girl, an angel, really, our Agata. John and Agata… they would do anything for each other.”
“That’s so nice,” I whisper.
Damiana floats her gaze to me, and there’s sadness there. “She fell off the pier.”
“Was she okay?”
“John saw it happen and ran to get us from the house, but by the time we reached the water, the surface had stilled. Agata was Randolfo’s daughter. She was my brother’s eldest child.”
“I’m so sorry. How old was she?”
“John and Agata’s birthdays were on the same day. We had a big party set up on the pier for the day after she died. Agata would have turned twelve. John turned thirteen. He”—she lifts a dimpled hand to her eyes and wipes them discreetly—“he didn’t like turning thirteen on his own.”
As she leans back into John’s chair, my body relaxes with the knowledge that I won’t be pressing my case today. She leaves her hand on top of my arm, pulling herself together before she lifts her face.
The perfume she wears is as soft as Damiana, an extension of her roses. Pink and sweet, it’s nothing like her son’s shards of pine. “You know, he’s never been with anyone the way he is with you.”
“With me?” I send her a confused look. I’m the first one he beats up?
“Oh, yes. He’s so patient with you. He looks at you with such love. After all these years, I—” She covers her mouth with the side of her fist. “Scusi. It’s just that he’s so happy with you, and I haven’t seen him happy in a long time.”
My fingers tremble again as I touch my ravaged chest, and this time she acknowledges it.
“I know. I’m so sorry that happened to you, but it could have been so much worse. He’s patient with you. Be patient back, and you’ll have a long, wonderful relationship ahead of you. He’ll carry you on his hands, protect you against everything. It’s what we do in our family.”
My jaw slackens with silent incredulity. Then, I manage, “I think he’s sick,” and I see how I hit her in the heart.
“He’s getting better with you. My John has talked about you for a long time—You’ve been important to him for so long, Silvina, that my brother has set aside all bad blood between the Nascimbeni and the Santa Colombini to allow you into our family.”
Her irises brighten with sincerity. I don’t know if I shake my head on the outside, the way I do inwardly. Doesn’t she know what he did to Gabriela? Did no one tell her about the bunker? About Mom, the twins, Zia Carola, little Ariadna—
What happened to them!
It’s the presence of compassion. The candor of the minute. Tears rush to my eyes, the thought of my family too big in this moment. I blink. Blink. Blink. I can’t let myself cry. If John saw me cry in front of his mother, there’s no telling what he’d do.
The greenery rustles on the other side of the patio, where John descends the stairs from the house. He does it slowly, leisurely, with his eyes frozen on us. He looks content, with a small smile curling his lips. That cannot change.
“Just give him some time. Trust me: everything will be all right. A mother knows these things,” she whispers, leaning back so she can watch him too.
I pull in air, gathering courage. One last question and one last hope. “Does he take any meds? Anything I should make sure he doesn’t forget?”
Her smile stills, but Damiana’s gaze doesn’t stray from her son. She drops my arm and accommodates her hands in her lap. As if steadying herself, she tugs on her own hold. “John doesn’t believe in medicine.”
GIOELE
I’m at a diner against my wish. It’s of the old-fashioned type, with a steel counter and steel-barred chairs with red vinyl seats. Grease hangs in mouthwatering clouds over the burly Mexican swinging bacon behind the counter. That range is sizzling.
As much as I want that bacon, I can’t stomach counter seating right now. I scan the narrow locale. There aren’t all that many people in here. An old man with a dog—yes, a dog—under his table. A mother with a baby. Maybe that’s the grandmother on the other side. Four more tables, one of which is in the window.
“Where you wanna sit?” Bully asks, eyes moving between the tables.
“I don’t care. Wherever you want.” All I want is for Isaias to text me Damiana Santa Colombini’s address. “Map-scamming” my ass. I bet my brother made that up for his little master plan of keeping me hogtied.
Although a window seat would work in the off chance that John strolled by with Silvina. That chance’s so off, I snort to myself.
“Let’s do the window,” I say anyway.
The guys take the chairs against the wall, which leaves me with my back to the door. It’s whatever. I’m waiting for the waitress to stop tickling that baby and pay attention to us. My patience is so thin right now, I’m not sure I can do this after all.
The door jangles with another guest. Some guy. I return my focus to the waitress’ ass, willing her to turn. If I hike up the glare factor, she might feel it. That’s a Silvina thing; she comes up with shit like that nonstop. We even tried it out at a concert a few years ago. To this day, she claims it worked. All it was, was a guy seeing a hot chick—my chick. Dudes smell that stuff. No need for women to stare us down for us to find them.
Although at the moment, I’m sort of feeling like someone’s staring at me. I send Fritz a quizzical look. His focus is behind me, on the door. So is Bully’s. And their mouths are ajar. I frown and twist around.
They’re staring at the newcomer, who’s definitely staring at me. I narrow my eyes, having some sort of déjà vu.
“Hey,” I say tentatively.
He’s not a Santa Colombini. Not mafia at all, actually, and he doesn’t look like a student. Guy’s wearing an expensive white t-shirt of that weird distressed type, paired off with matching black designer jeans. “Designer” is what Silvina would’ve called it anyway. Anything with almost-holes in it is designer, I’ve learned.
Dude’s checking out my chair. It makes me a tad apprehensive to be honest, so I test it, rocking on my seat.
“Hey, man,” he replies, voice rockstar-hoarse. Hmm.
I tilt my head to the side. Studiously messy dark hair and scruffy facial hair, also of the studious type. I know him from somewhere.
“Do you mind if I…?” He double-taps the air, pointing at my chair.
“You want my chair?”
He purses his lips at the same time as his eyebrows shoot up. Clearly, I’m not far off, and he knows it’s an odd request.
“I’m sort of using it. How about that chair?” I hike my thumb over my shoulder toward the next empty table.
“Gioele!” Bully hisses at me, and it’s so out of character I whip around to study him. Before I can speak up, he continues, “You want our table, Luke? Because that’s totally fine! Hell yeah, we’d be honored, and—sure thing—whatever you need. I fucking love your music. ‘Greetings from the Inside’ was epic! You’re a fucking god.”
Hot damn.
We’re all standing, now, a blur of handshakes and arm slaps with Luke fucking Craven of Night Shifts Black. What in the world? The door jangles again, and the drummer enters too, with that girl he’s with in a lot of photos. Girlfriend, I think.
“Please,” I say, while Fritz collects signed napkins from them like some fangirl. He even wants the girlfriend’s autograph. Pretty little thing that one. I gesture toward our chairs. “Your table’s waiting.”
Luke smirks and shakes his head. “Nah. Thanks, man, but we’re fine over there. I just wanted to make sure I caught Callie and Casey on the way by. They haven’t been here before.”
We get our food long after the Night Shifts Black guys, which is fine; if it weren’t for them, who knows when the waitress would have snapped out of baby mode?
I’m relieved when Casey drops a few bills on the table and they all stand; Bully’s been sending Luke Craven enamored looks since they sat down. Dude doesn’t have an off-switch.
Our check arrives as Casey greets us with a playful salute. The three of us wave in unison, star-struck-like. Damn, it’s ridiculous. He tugs Callie closer, making sure she leaves with him. I’d do that too if Silvina was here. I’ll never leave her alone again.
“Gioele. Did I say your name right?”
I straighten at Luke’s low voice. He’s at my side, eyes on me and waiting for an answer.
“Yeah, man.” I grin; Luke fucking Craven just pronounced my name right! Maybe he’ll use it in a song or something. Wow, imagine playing that to Silvina.
“You guys live in S.F.?” he asks.
“Sort of, yeah. Why?”
“We’re playing the arena on Sunday. Here.” He drops me a business card. “That’s our tour manager. Shoot him an email and let him know I want you on the guest list. Add your plus ones if you want, all right?” He lifts a finger in warning. “He’ll need your full names and don’t forget to bring your IDs to ticketing. They can get testy.”
Before I can thank him, he gives me a thumbs-up and strides off. I swallow; I’d pay any price to kiss my plus one at their concert.