Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
Luna
I glance over to Vince behind the wheel, examining this mystery of a man. I didn’t see him after dinner, his mood having shifted abruptly during dessert.
Why his mood shifted, I’m not sure.
Why I care, I’m also not sure.
We cross the bridge into NYC, only to come to a grinding halt. “This traffic is terrible,” I comment.
“That’s New York for ya,” Vince says.
“If I had an apartment in the city, I could walk to the Chess Hall and avoid the traffic problem,” I suggest.
“Nice try, but the answer is no,” Vince says firmly.
“Why not?”
“You got the cash to live in the most expensive city in the world?”
“No, but you could add it to my debt,” I argue.
“You wanna be forty and still ‘under my thumb?’” He raises an eyebrow .
I shrug. “You’d be in a home by then.”
Vince’s laughter fills the vehicle, but he shakes his head. “The answer’s no, for a hundred different reasons.”
“Name one,” I challenge.
“New York isn’t Parisi family territory. You’re safer in Jersey,” he says.
“I’m safer, or you’re safer?” I counter.
He waves his hand dismissively. “Package deal. You’re my associate.”
It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. “When did I get promoted from extortee to associate?”
“Extoree isn’t a word.”
“The man’s a dictionary,” I mutter.
Vince flashes a smile. “I prefer wordsmith.”
“Uh-huh.” I examine my nails, considering. “If I’m an associate, that means I’m important to the family?—”
“Wherever you’re going with this, the answer is no,” he cuts me off.
“For a wordsmith, you have an extremely limited, two-letter-word vocabulary,” I inform him crossly.
“What do you need to prepare for your upcoming tournament?” Vince changes the subject as we start moving, only to come to another standstill.
I glare at him. “You not making me puke on the drive to the tournament.”
“Then I’d suggest you not tie one on before the tournament,” he counters.
“There’s no alcohol in your house.” I know, having snooped through all the kitchen cabinets. “Why?”
“I don’t need booze to have a good time, or to unwind, or to relate to people, or any of the myriad of reasons why people drink.”
“You having a good time?” I say skeptically. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Someone cuts in front of us, and Vince slams on the brakes, avoiding a crash by inches.
“Asshole!” I shout, throwing up my middle finger.
Vince reaches over and grabs my wrist, yanking my arm down. “Don’t start something I’ll have to finish,” he chastises.
“Maybe that asshole shouldn’t start something he can’t finish,” I counter.
Vince shakes his head. “I’m not going to pop somebody in broad daylight on the streets of New York.”
“So you’d pop someone in broad daylight on the streets of Jersey?” I wonder.
“Just behave.” He contorts the upper half of his body to check the lane before merging.
“How is it you’re such a good driver, and you’ve only got one eye?” I’ve never noticed him using any kind of visual aid.
“A compliment from Luna. This is a first,” Vince says with laughter in his voice.
The man has a way of deflecting questions with humor. It’s a skill. An annoying skill, but a skill. “How?” I press.
“I have 20/20 in my right eye,” Vince answers.
“But don’t you have a huge blind spot on your left side?” I wonder.
“My visual field’s reduced by two-fifths; so yes, I do have a blind spot, but not a huge one. I’m more careful than the average driver with two eyes,” he explains.
I close my left eye, trying to imagine seeing the world with only my right. “I don’t know how you do it.”
He lifts his shoulders. “Necessity has an amazing way of pushing a man past his preconceived limits.”
“You always have a joke or a maxim for every occasion.”
“Where do chess players shop for a bargain?” Vince asks.
“I don’t know?” I say, confused.
“The pawn shop.”
“I didn’t say they were good jokes,” I inform him, and he snorts a laugh. “Why aren’t you wearing a suit?” I eye Vince in his T-shirt, jeans, baseball cap, and sunglasses. He’s being all hawt again, and I don’t appreciate it. “Don’t you have an image to uphold?”
“That’s exactly why I’m not wearing a suit. I’m not gonna broadcast to the New York families I’m in the city. Don’t go looking for trouble, because I guarantee you’ll find it.”
I grab a little notebook and pen from my purse and begin writing.
“What are you doing?”
“Writing down these pearls of wisdom. ‘Don’t go looking for trouble…’”
“ Tu sei la definizione di guai ,” he mutters.
I glance back over to him, his bicep flexed from holding the wheel. “What’s the tattoo on your arm?”
He keeps his right hand on the wheel, reaching over with his left to pull up his sleeve. It’s gruesome ink: a wolf bleeding out, with another dead wolf in its mouth. Underneath is the Italian phrase, Crepi il lupo.
“What does it mean?”
He drops his shirt sleeve, returning both hands to the wheel. “In Italian, to wish someone luck is to say, ‘ In bocca al lupo ,’ which means ‘in the mouth of the wolf.’”
“But you don’t believe in luck,” I point out.
“I don’t,” he agrees. “ Crepi il lupo. ‘May the wolf die.’ The wolf’s dead, along with the fool who believed in luck.”
“That’s really morbid,” I inform him, and he shrugs.
We reach the Chess Hall, and I practically hop out of the vehicle to make a beeline for the parking garage exit.
“We’re checking out the club; I haven’t said yes.” Vince catches up with me.
“Why do you always have to be such a buzzkill?” I grumble.
“It’s called living in the real word,” he tells me.
“Still sounds horrible.”
We catch the crosswalk, and continue two blocks until we reach the Chess Hall. My arms break out in goosebumps as we enter the historic building with black-and-white checkered tile; it’s a surreal moment, something I’ve always dreamed about.
The front desk attendant greets us, and we sign in and receive a visitor sticker. “This month's community schedule with lecture and tournament information.” The man hands me the calendar. “Please feel free to tour the facilities at your leisure. I’m here if you have any questions.”
“Thanks. And if I want to become a member?” I ask.
He slides over an application and pen. “Admission to the club is extremely competitive, just so you know.”
“Good thing I’m extremely competitive,” I inform him, grabbing both.
Vince chuckles as he holds open the door for me, and we begin our tour. The first stop is the library, with a wall of bookcases stacked with chess theory books. “This is heaven,” I whisper, as several students are reading.
“Your version of heaven and mine are two very different things,” Vince whispers back.
I grab a seat at an empty table and begin filling out the application.
“Luna, a decision hasn’t been made yet,” Vince reminds me quietly, taking a seat beside me.
“This is my version of heaven, so be quiet,” I hiss-whisper.
I sign and date the application, turning it over to make sure I’ve filled everything out. “Finished,” I tell him.
We exit the library and round the corner, and I stop dead in my tracks.
“What?” Vince asks.
“Oh my God! That’s Wesley Morrell.” A grandmaster at sixteen, now ranked number one in the world at the age of twenty-three, he’s the rockstar of the chess community.
“Who?”
Not having time to explain, I shove the application at him before I sprint down the hall to catch up with Wesley. “Excuse me?—”
“Yes, I’ll take a bottle of sparkling water, thanks,” he says dismissively in a British accent, setting up his chess board.
“What?”
“Did I stutter?” he says in a bored tone, placing his pawns.
I bristle. “Did I stutter? Because I don’t remember saying I worked here.”
He looks at me for the first time, flashing a flirty grin. “Well, hello lovely.”
“Luna,” I correct him.
“Luna.” The way he says my name gives me the major ick. “You missed my beginners lecture.” He makes a show of cracking his knuckles. “But feel free to watch and learn from a master.”
I sit in the chair opposite his arrogant ass. “No better way to learn than to play. You game?” I extend my hand.
“That’s cute,” he says, ignoring me as he places the knights on their squares. Glancing back up, he notices I’m still here with my hand extended. “Oh, you’re serious. Don’t you know who I am?” he asks incredulously.
“No, but if you work here, I’ll take a bottle of sparkling water. Thanks.”
Wesley chuckles. “If you’re not worried about breaking a nail, sure, let’s play.”
“My manicure’s secure.” Can’t say the same for his fragile masculinity.
“Excellent.” He extends his hand, and we shake on it. “I’ll even give you the white advantage,” he tells me with a wink, setting the clock.
“Excellent,” I parrot back, considering my openings while I mentally go through the games Wesley lost and which openings his opponent used. Time’s ticking, and I have to make my move. An idea pops into my head; it’s either genius or insane .
Looking unsure on purpose, I move my pawn to e4.
He considers, moving his pawn to e5.
Offering up my first sacrifice, I move another of my pawns to d4.
He chuckles, capturing my d4 pawn. “Let me guess: you’re ranked in the five hundreds.”
I move another of my pawns, ignoring the insult.
He captures it and says, “I take that back; the four hundreds.”
Ignoring him, I sacrifice another pawn, moving it to c3.
“Three hundreds?” He captures my pawn.
Moving my bishop to c4, I internally laugh my ass off because the Grandmaster hasn’t caught on to my strategy.
He captures another of my pawns, and announces, “Look, this really isn’t fair. If you’d like to bow out now, no shame.”
I move my bishop to b2, sitting pretty with a pawn in center control, and my two bishops ready to attack. Sure I’ve lost two points in material, but I’ve more than made up for it in development.
He moves his bishop to b4. “Check,” he says in an exasperated tone.
I block with my knight, as understanding flashes over his obnoxious face.
Instead of capturing my knight, he moves a pawn to d6, finally opening things up for his other bishop.
I move my queen to challenge Wesley’s bishop and double up on my long diagonal attack on his king. “If you’d like to bow out now, no shame,” I parrot.