12. Sly
Stalking had never been a part of my plan, yet I find myself speeding down Columbus Avenue in the direction of Vincenza’s Central Park Tower apartment.
The summer sun beats down against my black leather riding jacket and gloves as sweat drips from my forehead beneath my helmet. Weaving through the cars, I pay close attention to the road, forcing Vinnie out of my mind as I focus on making it to her building safely, but as quickly as possible.
She wasn’t at work. The woman at the reception desk was less than informative when I asked questions, attempting to gauge Vinnie’s whereabouts.
The clock is ticking—in just over twenty-four hours she’ll be walking down the aisle toward a man who doesn’t deserve her. Toward a man I heavily suspect mistreats her.
The light ahead turns red, and I look left and right as I approach, not bothering to slow my speed as I run the light. Horns honk at me but I pay them no mind and continue onward.
Finding a place to park my motorcycle, I rip the helmet from my head and deposit it onto the seat before I trudge toward the massive building. The doorman gives me a sideways glance, yet opens the door for me, regardless.
The ride in the elevator takes an eternity as I work to steady my breathing, my heart hammering behind my rib cage with every escalating floor. When the elevator dings and I step into the small foyer that allows me to knock on Vincenza’s door, I hesitate.
My mind spirals in the many ways this could go. But I raise my fist and knock before I let my thoughts get too carried away.
Though the apartment seems quiet and empty, I suddenly hear a small bump of furniture.
“I know you’re in there,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I just want to speak to you for a moment, piccola ladra. Please.”
Moments pass before soft footsteps draw closer. My heart feels as though it may explode at any moment from how quickly it beats. Biting my tongue, I wait with bated breath for her to open the door.
From inside, the locks begin to disengage. When the doorknob twists and finally opens, I am surprised to see Cecilia standing in front of me. Her hair and makeup are done, but she’s wearing a plush bathrobe, which she pulls tighter around her.
“Hi,” she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“Hi, Cecilia. I apologize for disturbing you. I am here to see Vincenza, is she in?”
Sadly, she shakes her head. “She’s not. She’s getting ready at August’s.”
“Getting ready?”
“For the rehearsal.”
“Oh.” How could I have not realized there would be a rehearsal tonight?
A sinking feeling begins in my sternum and quickly falls to my stomach. This is truly happening.
Tomorrow is the wedding.
For some reason, knowing there is a rehearsal makes it much more real.
Looking down at the floor, I consider asking Cecilia for August”s address, or the location of the church. What good would it do, though? If I have any hope of swaying Vincenza before it’s too late, I must do it when she’s not overwhelmed with tonight’s event.
“Thank you for your time,” I tell Cecilia, with the most pathetic excuse for a smile I can muster.
Turning back toward the elevator, I press the call button.
“Sly,” she says, and I look back at her over my shoulder. “She loves you. You have no idea the lengths she’s going to because of her love for you. Maybe you can still sway her at The Manhattan Grand.”
My brows furrow in confusion, and she shakes her head like she wants to say more, but doesn’t.
Instead, she closes the door, putting a very clear barrier between her and my impending questions.
The brief conversation has done nothing to ease the concern that builds within me. The lengths she’s going to because of her love for me? What does she mean by that? Her mention of The Manhattan Grand is also oddly worded, and leaves me wondering if Cecilia has just given me Vincenza’s location.
Seeking clarification, I stalk back toward the door, raising my fist to knock again, but instead stay frozen in my stance, trying to piece the puzzle together.
Everything I’ve been told in the last few days swirls through my mind, but the only clear sentiment—the one flashing through my mind like a neon sign—is screaming, ‘you have to stop this wedding’.
Dropping my fist, I turn and head back to the elevator and push the call button again. The doors open immediately and I step inside. As they begin to close, I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone to make a call to the one person I know will be able to help me by whatever means necessary.
It rings continuously, and just as I think it will turn to voicemail, a gruff, slightly muffled voice greets me. “Miss me already, pookie?”
“Perhaps. Do you have anything keeping you in Ridgewood, amico? I know we spoke about you coming to visit, but I would appreciate the trip happening sooner than later.”
“How soon?” His voice is clearer now. He must have taken his helmet off.
“How quickly can you get on a flight?”
The elevator doors open and I walk out, nodding at the doorman as I pass by. New York’s background noise envelopes me as I walk to my Ducati.
“You footing the bill, Lucchetti?” Gravel crunching floats up to intermix with the sound of his laughter.
“Yes, Nixon, I am footing the bill.”
If there is one man I know can help cause a distraction and assist me with stopping the wedding, it’s Nixon.
“Fantastic. I can be on a flight out tonight—give me two hours to pack my shit and get to the airport. Make the flight out of SFO.”
Nixon was the man who “found” me when I first arrived in Ridgewood. He recognized something in me and knew I would find a home within the motorcycle club he was involved in. Though skeptical, I accompanied him to meet the president and was welcomed in.
Well, perhaps not welcomed, but the club’s president, Cain, didn’t turn me away.
I owe a lot to Nixon. His friendship is not something I take for granted.
“Grazie, amico mio.”
Nixon grunts. “See you soon, asshole.”
I arrive at my motorcycle right as we end the call and pick up my helmet that rests on the seat where I left it. Before I slip it on, I toggle to the group message with Sully and Enzo, sending them a message.
My apartment. 30 minutes.
Their responses come in immediately, so I read them before putting my helmet on.
Sully
Someone’s demanding today.
Enzo
It’s three p.m. on a Friday. Some of us have jobs, cousin.
Shaking my head, I type out, ‘It’s important’ as I kick my leg over my bike and straddle the seat. The engine roars to life, vibration igniting through the entire motorcycle.
Enzo
It better be life or death by the way you’re summoning us.
Can you guys meet me or not?
Sully
I still can’t believe you kept paying for your apartment even though you were gone for almost a year. Should have known you’d always come back.
Enzo
Because that’s what’s important right now.
Sully
Oh, c’mon, Zo. Don’t act like you didn’t sneak in there and cry yourself to sleep on his couch a time or two.
Enzo
How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t call me Zo.
Sully
Alright, Zo-Zo.