Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Katherine
T hings would be so much simpler if I was above legal drinking age. At least then I could walk into the bar that looms ahead. But, no, I’m stuck at nineteen. I spend several nights a week walking past this bar, just wishing I could waltz in and down a few amaretto sours to drown out the constant static that lives in my head. Between the static and the reverbating pusles that I’ve categorized as some level of trauma from watching Rhett be shot over and over.
I don’t have a deep desire to drink, but god damn, do I wish I could drown out those sounds. The vivid memories of his blood coating my skin. The visceral reaction his torso had to my hands pressing so firmly against it as it fought to keep his breath steady.
Sometimes I feel like I’ll never move on, never love someone the same way as I did Rhett. I have to continuously remind myself that I deserve some type of love. I’ve accepted that I’ll probably never encounter a love like Rhett’s, something that started as a brisk friendship that evolved over years of close encounters and just plain old interaction.
It’s fine with me.
I’ve had the great love of my life.
I was so lucky it held me in its warm embrace so young. But it does make it that much more difficult because now I have to spend the rest of my shitty existence remembering it and feeling the emotions from the catastrophic fallout.
A fallout that should have never fucking happened in the first place.
Hearing the gunman shout at Rhett, spewing hatred from the Sandman, has fueled my anger just as much as Rhett’s physical death. Who was the man hanging halfway out that window? The man who pulled the trigger and riddled Rhett’s beautiful body with bullet holes.
Whoever that man was, he’s going to fucking pay if I have anything to do with it.
Leaving the sidewalk where I last saw Rhett alive and breathing is laborious, but I manage to scrape myself off the concrete and stand to my full height. I’m on the shorter side, so it isn’t much. Nonetheless, I stand tall and begin walking downtown.
I know he’s right where I want him.
Alone.
In the basement of the building. The garage section where fancy ass mafia dudes roam freely with guns strapped to their waistbands inconspicuously.
I’m doing the same.
The small handgun I saved up for has been burning a hole in the back of my pants ever since I left my shitty apartment this morning. I bought it under the table and have practiced shooting and following targets. I’ve taken it completely apart, cleaned it, and loaded it. I’ve rebuilt it several times over.I’m more comfortable handling it than making a fresh dinner at home. I could take it apart with my eyes closed at this point, but I won’t since there’s the possibility I could shoot myself in the foot. Metaphorically and physically. I’m not going to take that chance today.
The shadows along the edges of the buildings surrounding me grow longer and richer the further I walk. Before long, the streetlights flare and I know it’s getting down to the wire. I need to find that son of a bitch.
I keep walking.
After an hour of walking and looping through and around buildings, I sigh a breath of relief when I see the establishment around the corner. Taking a deep breath and double-checking my positioning, I pick up my pace and quickly arrive at the entry door to the run-down, hole-in-the-wall, pizzeria.
A mafia-owned pizzeria.
I swallow glass as I enter, noting the way a dozen or more heads flit in my direction on instinct alone. They can’t hear me over their own raucous laughter.
I ignore them all as their beady eyes follow me to the front counter. An older woman, probably in her sixties, glances up from her sudoku game book and does a double take on my face. “Good evening, miss. How can I help you?” Her voice is motherly, holding the same rasp as every grandmother before her, like some kind of ancestral chant.
Noting the lack of menus, I tell her the only thing that comes to mind. “Just a medium pepperoni pizza, please.” Don’t be rude to the grandmother of the fucking mafia , I remind myself. Mafia women aren’t to be fucked with. She’s probably killed more people than all the jackasses in here combined.
She doesn’t write down my order. She stays still as a rock, staring me down to my socks. I feel the seam running across the tops of my toes and scrunch them subconsciously, trying to realign the seam so it doesn’t piss me off.
“Will that be for dine-in or to-go?” Her sweet voice is riddled with hoarseness. She definitely smokes. The rasp of her voice is like a gentle caress to my ears. She’s lived.
“Dine-in, please.”
The grandmother only nods, still never letting her eyes leave me. She doesn’t glance around or fidget. She smooths her hands down her blouse and over her thinning apron. “That will be up in about fifteen minutes. Sit wherever you feel comfortable.” She doesn’t offer any other pleasantries. She just pivots and darts through the doorless archway to what I assume is the kitchen.
Am I actually going to be getting a pizza? I wasn’t necessarily planning on that. But pizza sounds damn good right now, too. I definitely won’t be passing it up.
I turn from the counter, looking back at the dining room. Red leather booths line the walls with various sized circle tables filling the middle. Their red and white checkerboard tablecloths look to be vinyl, the shininess of them gleaming in the harsh, yet dim light. I conduct a mental survey, trying to calculate what the best option for seating will be.
The booths aren’t all occupied, however, there’s not much room between filled tables. In the far-right corner sits a corner booth, about half the size of the others. It’s missing the harsh glare of the lighting and shadows cast over it mysteriously. It has good vantage points of both the entry and the counter that the grandmother abandoned.
A perfect option for me, then.
I slink my way over to the booth, refusing to look anyone in the eye. I don’t need to start drama where there isn’t any. I’m here for one reason, and one reason only.
One man only.
Sitting in the booth is a visceral experience. The red leather is real leather and sticks to any exposed skin. Luckily, I’m wearing jeans, or my thighs would be sticking and peeling off it. Small miracles and all. The tablecloth isn’t sticky, and I don’t see any visible residue from previous patrons.
Have there ever been other patrons? Or is this only an establishment for members of the mafia? I shrug to myself, not really giving a shit either way. Regardless of if there’s been other patrons outside of the mafia rings, I’m here now, and I’m outside of those rings.
But apparently Rhett wasn’t.
That’s the thing I haven’t been able to decipher in the last year. What was he doing? Who was he working for? Was what the gunman said even true? He called Rhett out by name, so there must have been some kernel of validity to his statements. Resting my chin on my fist, I lean on the table. The window to my right is covered with thick blinds and sheer red curtains. Not much light peeks through, but what does manage to seep in is bathed in red. The haunting glow of the light makes my stomach churn.
Not in apprehension, anxiety, or grief.
But in excitement.
My plan has been brewing for so long, it’s time for the action to come into play. It’s time for me to get what’s mine: revenge.
While I’m lost in thought of murder and rage, the grandmother slides from the kitchen carrying a large circle tray propped on one arm. She chatters lightly to the men seated organically in the dining room, smiling and carrying on like there’s no tomorrow.
Once she reaches me, she gently places the tray onto my table. The pizza is perfectly cooked, with a light brown crust that’s covered in butter, and cheese so melted it could cause a heart attack from looks alone. I waft in the delectable smells of the gooey cheese and crisp pepperoni, smelling the thyme, parsley, and oregano that must fill out the robust scent of the sauce, which I assume is homemade by the grandmother still standing over my table.
I halt my wafting and stare up at her. Her face isn’t pursed like I thought it would be, but instead her lips are clipped with only the corners being lifted ever so slightly. “I’ll bring your check out in a moment,” she tells me matter-of-factly.
“Thank you,” I reply earnestly. Don’t piss off the grandmother of the mafia. My mantra does little to settle my soul. The grandmother gives me one more long look, her eyebrows pulling tight in their centers. She gives me one more look before returning to the other individuals in the room. She continues her talking and walking until she makes it safely back into the kitchen.
I dive into the pizza, savoring the flavors as they explode across my tongue. I devour several slices in an inhuman amount of time all while keeping my eyes locked on the entry door. Waiting, watching.
I’m blotting my lips of grease when the tiny bell on the door chimes, welcoming a medium-built man with no hair and bad posture. My eyes lock on him, following his every movement as he saunters up to the grandmother’s counter. She’s nowhere to be found. He waits for several moments, tapping his sneakered foot against the tiled floor.
I shovel another slice of the best pizza I’ve ever eaten into my mouth as I nondescriptly stare at the man. He’s the man , the one I’ve been looking for. He’s the man who gunned down the love of my fucking life.