Chapter 3
He’d killed a man in front of me. The gunshot was quiet, but I heard it, the sound of Peter’s last breath. I stared ahead at the plastic sheets covering the wall and the doorway into this room. I stared so hard my eyes dried out and ached to blink.
Santo patted me on the back. “Let’s head off,” he said, his hand moving lower, almost to my ass. “We’ve got a busy day of admin left to do. Next step is the family restaurant. Palazzo.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumbled softly.
And he hit me with an even quieter, “Good boy.” I didn’t know if I could even move from the space, but I did, I had to.
They were already wheeling in the large wheelbarrows of mixed cement, and I could hear the slosh of it, like vomit down a toilet, as it hit the ground—and if he was still alive after that gunshot, he was drowning in cement now.
I hated that he’d had me turn around, because the images my imagination was conjuring were probably far worse than if I’d seen it.
* * *
I had nobody but my teddies to talk to about this stuff.
Once work was done at around six in the evening and I was finally able to decompress, I sat in my apartment, surrounded by all my comfy teddies, as each one listened to everything I had to say.
I dressed up in my fur-lined feetie onesie and ordered takeout—sweet and sour battered chicken balls, mixed vegetable rice, prawn crackers, and of course french fries.
The Bianchi family had a reputation, I knew that going into this.
I knew what they were capable of. I knew they had a criminal reputation.
Nobody called them the mafia or the mob, though, because saying shit like that would end you up in Peter’s position—haunting a fucking apartment building because you were there in the cement.
Or worse, maybe better, you’d end up in the harbor wearing cement shoes.
I was now part of the problem, the issue, the criminal enterprise, and nobody could know.
My teddies could, though, and they allowed me space and time to regress, to tell them all about my nasty, naughty boss—the same man who took pictures of his dick, knowing I might look at them.
And I had. It was a big dick, or the angle was taken to make it look big.
I didn’t look at them long, I just took mental pictures and then giggled nervously about it all evening.
“I wonder if he’s flirting with me,” I said to the mass of teddies in the cuddle puddle on the floor.
They were, of course, surrounding my beanbag chair, which meant I could really sink into them.
“He’s probably not, though. And I couldn’t go there anyway.
He’d end up firing me, and I need the money.
We need the money.” I pulled some of the teddies into my arms. “I think I’m selling my soul to the devil.
” I groaned heavily. “And the devil calls me a good boy.”
* * *
Santo had given me a couple of shirts. I think he liked me dressing in his old clothes, or at least liked telling me what to wear.
It was nice, but I was washing them in the basement laundry of my apartment building, and I didn’t have an iron or steamer to get the wrinkles out.
I knew he was going to mention it. My heart dropped into my stomach the moment I left my apartment building—luckily with a nice warm jacket zipped to the collar.
Santo and his driver were waiting for me in a Mercedes. I didn’t know much about cars, but it was nicer than anything I’d ever been in before. Tugging on the strap of my cross-body messenger bag, I walked headstrong toward the car, ready with a smile on my face.
The door opened. Santo was in the back passenger seat. “You’re late,” he said, giving me a once-over. “Get in. We’re going somewhere.”
It was always the case when he showed up outside.
We were going to a construction site, or a family business, and I smiled.
I took every note and every instruction.
I stayed quiet, and let him tell me what to do, because he was paying me, and I was going to be able to save money.
Eventually, I’d be able to buy new teddies, onesies, and play toys, but until then, I had to do whatever Santo Bianchi told me.
“Are you seeing anyone?” he asked, and at first I didn’t realize he was talking to me. He snapped his fingers and placed a palm on his knees. “Are you?” His voice was harsh now, making my nape tingle and itch at the collar.
“No,” I let out, my hand inside my suit jacket squeezing Pud’s fluff, matted from all the years of playing. “I’m single.”
“Good,” he said. “Less complicated that way.” His hand on my knee was so nice, but I couldn’t feel this way about him, though. He was a killer, a stone-cold murderer. He smiled at me and squeezed me lightly on the knee. “You know I do background research on all my employees.”
A moan came out where an agreement was supposed to. “Yes,” I let out.
“Okay, just wanted you to know I did that,” he said.
“No skeletons in your closet, Isaiah.” He laughed, slapping my knee as he removed his hand.
“So, we’re going for breakfast. One of the fucking perks I get since I’m no longer allowed to be out on the fucking streets.
” It was a mutter beneath his breath, but I knew it was cutting.
“Why?” I asked, and my voice came out weakly. I regretted it the second I spoke.
“Because I’m the head of the family,” he said, his eyes narrowing in on me, burning against my face. “The business. You know, it’s competitive, cutthroat, and when it comes to business, recent graduates given this scale of insight should be seen and not heard.”
I nodded, clenching my stomach. I wasn’t exactly scared of Santo, because I didn’t think he would ever physically hurt me.
It might have been something I saw, or heard, or maybe it was just my gut, but I knew he only hurt people if they hurt him, and I considered myself a pacifist. I wasn’t going to hurt anyone.
He leaned in close, and the smell of his cologne was intoxicating in my personal space. “I know you’re special, though,” he said. “And special boys get special treatment, if you catch my drift.”
I nodded, it was all my body was physically capable of doing at this point.
Just a nod, just a smile, just to get through this without getting an erection or him testing me like I could feel his warm body trying to do.
He was seeing if I was going to touch him—and I wasn’t.
I was a professional. I was here for work, and I wasn’t going to lose it because he wanted a toy to chew up and throw away.
After about ten minutes, we ended up at the family restaurant by the harbor.
It was a couple of streets away from the construction offices, which had me wondering why he’d decided to pick me up.
Was it so he could watch me walk out of my apartment, alone, or was he worried I was like one of the guys he used like a steel bar to fortify concrete?
Both of his brothers were at Palazzo. It was dark, the curtains closed.
An older woman behind the bar served up soda waters with those fizzy vitamin tablets.
I sat in the corner of the room with my file of papers on the table as they stood by the wrap-around bar.
I kept my eyes fixed on them and not the buzzing of my phone—my mom asking me how I was getting on at my job, and probably for cash.
Santo snapped his fingers at me and I rushed to him, almost falling over my feet. It turned out to be a lesson in ownership for his brothers.
“See how well trained I’ve got him,” Santo said. “He’s a good little boy, aren’t you?”
I looked to his brothers, and they all wore the same sort of handsome smug face, even the one I wasn’t supposed to think of as adopted.
I nodded, forgetting the rules on speaking.
This was a time he wanted my words. “Yes, sir,” I said.
“Anything you need, just let me know. If you need me to take notes . . .”
The brother in the middle, Tomaso, pinched the bridge of his nose then rubbed at the insides of his eyes. “You think I should get an assistant? I could do with someone obedient like that.”
Rocco punched his arm, almost sloshing the luminous orange liquid from his glass. “We all know what you’d have planned with one,” he said. “Last time you had anything like that, you forgot he was tied to your bed.”
Tomaso scoffed. “It was only for a day,” he said. “And very much consensual.”
“Then why did we have to pay him ten grand and have him sign an ironclad NDA?” Santo asked, and he glanced at me briefly. I didn’t know if I should be part of this.
“Should I—” I started.
“No. In fact, take notes,” Santo said. “A reminder, anytime Tomaso talks about a relationship, make sure the other party isn’t some demon twink from the NYC party scene who’d agree to anything for a line of . . . whatever it is you’ve got.”
I pulled out the smaller notepad from my pocket and with it my phone, which crashed to the ground, screen up—it wasn’t broken. I dipped to pick it up, all three pairs of eyes on me, but as I grabbed it, Santo placed his black dress shoe over the back of my hand, applying pressure with his step.
“I don’t like clumsy,” he said, as if reminding me. He shook his head.
“I—I—I’m sorry, sir, it won’t happen again,” I said with a head bow. “It won’t happen again.”
He removed his foot and the phone screen flashed. Messages and calls from my mom. They were all looking, as it registered on my face—she was asking for money. She already owed me thousands, but I never mentioned it to her, and now my boss saw her pleading texts.
Santo snapped his fingers again. “Let’s get to it,” he said. “Tomaso isn’t allowed an assistant, make that note.”
Tomaso gave me a look. It was like the one Santo had been giving me—hungry.
It stirred in my stomach, mixed with all the breakfast I’d crammed down.
I brushed it off, I had to make notes, and that was all I was going to do until told otherwise.
I needed this job. Even if it didn’t give me everything I wanted, at least it was giving me something to add to my resume.
They talked about relationships, who each other was screwing, and I was made to write it all down, discovering that all three of the brothers had or were having relations with other men.
At first I assumed they were fucking with me, and I almost wished one of them would.
I gulped at the dryness in my throat. Tomaso seemed like the most dangerous of the three, but Rocco looked like someone who could squeeze the life right out of you, and then there was Santo, my boss, the boss.
I felt like Goldilocks, eye-fucking each of them until I came upon Santo again.
He looked like he would welcome my little side—my stuffies, my onesies, my playtimes.
“Get a new supplier for the alcohol in here,” Santo said, taking a clear liquid from the counter. “The vodka is . . . cheap.”
The woman behind the bar scoffed. “That was mine,” she let out. “Don’t worry, sir. I never drink or give the good stuff out to just anyone.”
Tomaso gripped Santo by the shoulders, laughing. “Yeah, that was Lorna’s. Brother, we have the good stuff here,” he said. “Now, what else have you got on for the day?” He glanced at me. “Or should I ask your little scribe?”
I had his schedule, but it was in my briefcase. I gulped hard again. Santo took over, telling his brother it didn’t matter where I was going because he wasn’t going to be there. He then turned to me and nodded, signaling to the door. I knew signals well, and that was our nod to leave.
Scrambling to grab my briefcase, I rushed to open the door for him on the way out. And then, as the driver opened his car door, he climbed in and shook his head.
“Deal with whatever is happening on your phone,” he said. “Then come to my apartment. Bring a change of clothes. Something you’re comfortable in, or if not, I’ll have clothes for you.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
He half smiled at me. “I think I know just what you are, Isaiah,” he said. “And I’d be happy to be proven wrong, but I don’t like to be wrong.” His lips turned stern, and he looked away as the driver closed the door for him.
On the sidewalk, I waited for the car to leave, my chest swelling with deep breaths.
I sucked back tears and nodded slowly to myself in thought, the sound of gulls in the air and perching on the roof of the building.
I could’ve walked straight in either direction—three blocks over, each side was sandwiched by parks.
I didn’t know how long Santo was giving me, but I needed to walk, to clear my mind, and to tell my mom I couldn’t keep helping her.
I could barely help myself. It hurt. I never wanted to say no to her.
I’d always imagined one day becoming a millionaire, and buying a house with another house for her beside it—at least, that’s what we daydreamed about together, though I’d known for a while, even then, she was just sinking her teeth into me so I’d give her money.
What made it worse was the debt she’d already gotten me into with fraudulent credit cards in my name.
Fuck. I was crying. I had to keep walking to stop myself, to stop the thoughts.
It didn’t help.