28. Hendrix #3
“ Per favore ?” I frown through the Italian version of “please”, in hopes it’ll win him over. Allow me a little breathing room to enjoy myself like my best friend who is shooting the shit with a couple guys, the closest one to him with hair color not far off from his.
Oh, there’s gotta be a joke in there somewhere.
What’s not a joke is how much fun he seems to be having, and how I hope it’s enough to keep Archer’s mind off whatever has him so stressed out.
The next song playing is a bit lower, allowing Carlo’s incessant need to defy me easier on his vocals.
“Maybe you should slow down, signorina ,” he says as I take the final sip of my cranberry and vodka, then place it on the bar.
“Hendrix.” I poke him in his suited chest. “For the millionth time, Carlo, it’s Hendrix .”
“It’s, eh , custom for me.”
“Yes, I know. But we’re not in Sicily anymore, okay? Girls in America like to be referred to by their names, not titles.”
“Okay, signo —” Carlo freezes, then nods. “Hendrix.”
“Great.” I swing around until my back hits the bar and help myself to the beer he’s refusing as I scan the strobe-lit premises.
DJ booth.
Half naked profesh dancers.
Hot people bumpin’ and grindin’.
Don’t even get me started on the dolled up outfits…making me glad I chose the red crop top halter and black shorts instead of jeans.
I’m vibing to Skrillex as some cute guy in a button down approaches me, curious grin fresh on his lips.
My pulse races as I straighten off the bar, but not in the way it would if my head and heart weren’t in Brooklyn somewhere walking around with a traitorous asshole.
The wistfulness is short lived because the second the cute guy approaches, Carlo steps in front of me, hand out and pushing him away by his chest. Then, after a not-so-subtle threat in Italian, he tells him to “keep it moving” in English.
Never thought I’d be relieved by such a save, but here I am, feeling like I can breathe again as cute guy about-faces.
Speaking of breathing, that reminds me—time to add some nicotine to oxygen.
“I’m going out for a cigarette!” I shout when Carlo turns to face me, waving my arm to get Archer’s attention. When I get it, I signal my intentions with two fingers tapping my lips.
Archer acknowledges, then glances at Carlo, where he uses a nod to reassure my best friend he’ll stay up my ass.
Eyes roll in the back of my head as I remind myself how helpful it’d be if Archer wasn’t becoming as paranoid as the rest of the guys in my life.
Especially when he also refuses to get to the bottom of it.
“Can I ask you something, Carlo?” I take a pull from my Newport with a heel against the brick wall.
Keeping a close eye on the bouncer that passes us, he responds with, “ Sí , signorina .”
What-freaking-ever. I give up on correcting him.
Turns out Sicilian men are nothing if not stubborn.
“Why did my mother hire you?”
Carlo’s eyebrows snap together. “ Wha-do-you mean ? To protect you…you know that.”
“Yeah…” I inhale the cigarette again, holding in the smoke. “But why you and not one of Vic’s men?”
A few long seconds pass after I exhale before he responds with, “I guess she wants-eh you to feel more happy with someone she pick.”
“But I’m not happy being followed around by you either…no offense.”
“None taken, signorina . Ho capito .”
The apologetic look on Carlo’s face proves he understands, but the unwavering tone of his voice proves he has no intentions of stopping.
“Will you please tell me what’s going on?”
“No.”
That’s it. That’s the ice cold tea.
And it’s burning my patience worse than a piping hot one.
After an agitated grunt, I ask, “ Perché, Carlo?”
The question as to why may come out frustrated enough but would feel a lot more satisfying if I added the Italian version of “fucking” before it.
Or maybe “Fuck you…and my mom…and her husband…and the guy I’m furious at but miss so much.”
“ It’s - eh for your own good, okay? This world…not for you to worry about.”
“Which world? Yours or Vic’s?”
That catches Carlo off guard, and I have to fight back the urge to “Uno Reverse” him.
Because here’s what my sweet, smothering Carlo fails to realize…the more time he spends keeping tabs on me, the more time I get to keep tabs on him too.
The heightened tension whenever a car rolls up on us. Phone calls of his I’ve eavesdropped on. The meetings I catch him joining in the parking lot through my classroom windows.
It took me less than a day after spotting him with Vic, Riggs’ political daddy, and Tony Porchelli, an apparent advisor to the Salvini Family, to realize Saint was right.
Carlo is , albeit secretly to Google, affiliated with them somehow.
Which means it’s any man’s dangerous game.
“I… eh …not understand what you’re talkin’ about.”
I take a harsh drag of my Newport to gather my wits.
Here goes nothing…or possibly everything.
“I know you’re with the Salvinis.”
“ Chi? ”
“Don’t play stupid, Carlo. You know exactly who I’m talking about.”
Silence. It’s spoken the same in Italian too.
“Figured as much.” Dropping the cigarette on the ground, I stomp it beneath the platform of my heels, then glare at him. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re either gonna tell me what shit the Lavells got us into, or I’m gonna make your life a living hell trying to keep me safe.”
No more kid gloves.
No more lies.
No more catering to anyone’s paranoia.
Carlo takes a beat to decipher the code as best as he can.
“ Per favore, signorina , don’t talk-eh like this.”
“Why? Why the hell shouldn’t I?”
“Because…I will be happy to die to keep -eh you safe.”
Holy crap. Talk about dedication to the job.
How the fuck do I respond to words like that? Can’t be with sass, not when they’re powerful enough to break hearts.
Placing a hand on his shoulder, I reassure him, “Nobody’s gonna die, Carlo, okay?”
At least that’s what I tell myself to help me sleep at night.
He laughs off my much calmer response. “Of course, signorina , I know. I- eh …just get- eh little pazzo .”
My smile is half, but whole at the same time.
“I know all about crazy, trust me, and it doesn’t look like you.”
With a polite nod, Carlo returns to scanning the street.
“Can you at least tell me if your family is on our side?”
“Don’t you worry, signorina .” He winks. “I will always be on your side.”
We re-enter the club, and the crowd has increased astronomically, with people barely able to pass each other without bumping shoulders.
Carlo insists we leave, but I insist on one more drink and a dance with either him or my best friend.
It doesn’t take long for the three of us to end up in the middle of the dance floor, Archer and me busting out our dance hall moves, while Carlo sticks out like a sore, overly dressed, thumb.
“Get it. Get it!” a drunk Archer hollers behind me as I dip low and rise with a slow arch of my back, then grinding with him.
A position we’ve been in many times when partying, since this bestie’s dance moves far surpasses my other bestie’s two left feet. The gyration of our hips is provocative enough to garner discomfort from Carlo, but playful enough to be deemed nothing more than a best friend hype up sesh.
One thing about do-gooder Archer, he’s got moves nobody would expect, and fuck do I love him for it.
I’m bent over with an arm up in the air, craning my neck to face him as he leans back, still rolling his hips.
He cracks up when I bite my finger suggestively.
With that, we break apart, swaying, jumping, spinning to the music like two typical drunken messes. And, for a fleeting second, all the pain, anger, even sadness fades away.