Chapter 11 – POSY #5
Dario still ignores me. He’s totally at ease, arms loose by his sides, back straight but not stiff.
The silence swells until it almost presses against my ear drums.
Finally, Renelli clears his throat. “So, Dario, my son—” He pauses, letting the endearment linger. “You have a choice to make it seems. No man here would deny what you’ve done for our family, but we have come to a crossroads.”
He stops as if he expects Dario to respond. He doesn’t.
Renelli’s lips dart downward for a brief moment, the Italian equivalent of a shrug.
“We are a family, yes?” he goes on. “A band of brothers. Our loyalty is to each other. To this thing of ours, no?”
There’s a general murmuring of assent.
“And this—” He waves a dismissive hand at me. “This Santoro slut. I mean, she’s been passed around more than the collection plate at church, right?” There’s sparse laughter, quickly dissipating in the emptiness of the huge space.
“You’ve lost your head, Dario. I never thought I’d see the day. I didn’t think you were—” He seems to search for words. “ Susceptible . But it ends now. I can no longer allow her disruptive influence in our business.”
He’s made his declaration, and he shifts back on his heels, expectant, dark eyes sunken in his wrinkled brow. Still, Dario says nothing.
Those eyes flash with rage. “So I give you a choice,” he says, projecting his voice so it booms. “Do her like you did Rosario—make it quick, put her out of her misery. Or I let everyone have another turn with her for old times’ sake, and if she lives through that, we bash her beautiful face against this floor until there’s no chance anyone can identify her when they pull her out of the river. ”
I stifle a scream and sag; my shoulder socket burns as my weight falls against Nicky’s unfaltering grip. Panic floods my system, and I fight, throwing my head back and kicking, bucking, but I’m not strong enough. They’re laughing at me, caustic, hateful.
What did I do to deserve this? I gave them whatever they wanted, and I’m nothing to them—I’m entertainment.
I renew my struggles, even though it’s useless, even though I’m trapped.
And then Dario reaches over and seizes my jaw, digging his fingers in, grinding skin into bone. He forces me to look at him.
“Stop,” he says, and then his grasp loosens, but he doesn’t let go.
I can hardly think. The terror is too loud.
He strokes my cheek, exquisitely gentle, almost tender. “D4. D5. C4,” he recites very quietly, almost under his breath. Those are chess moves. Why is he telling me chess moves?
Some animal part of my brain gloms onto his words, repeats them on loop.
D4. D5. C4. D4. D5. C4. D4. D5. C4.
There’s nothing but fear, and then a synapse fires. D4. D5. C4.
That’s the Queen’s Gambit.
Dario smiles. “Don’t fight, Posy. Don’t try to run.”
What is he doing?
I go still. I can’t escape. I can’t even get free of one man, let alone twenty. I shake, and I try to remember my prayers, but it’s been so long, and I’m so scared that I can’t get past “hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.”
Why the Queen’s Gambit? Is it a ploy to calm me down? What did he do to Rosario? Renelli must have meant his stepmother, the woman Jen Amato said he killed. Oh god. Is Dario going to kill me?
D4. D5. C4.
The Queen’s Gambit. Sacrifice a pawn. Secure control of the center of the board. It’s a common move. Predictable. Give up something worth little to gain an advantage. Is that what he’s telling me? One last dig to remind me how expendable I am?
“Well, son?” Renelli prompts. “Did you see enough in that dirty video or would you like the live action version?”
Dario lets his cool fingers fall from my face, and every muscle in my body tenses.
I wait, and in the end, it isn’t Dario who answers him.
“You use my mother’s name,” Lucca Corso speaks from our left, crossing himself, Tomas Sacco at his side as always. It’s jarring, a man as pretty as Lucca, so impeccably dressed and affable, casually hanging out in this shithole, in this hellish moment that won’t end.
Lucca flashes his perfect white teeth.
Renelli offers a wry smile back. “No offense intended, of course. My sister was a good woman; may she rest in peace.”
“Was she?” Lucca arches an eyebrow. “My father called her a whore.”
Renelli lifts his bony shoulders. “Water under the bridge.”
Lucca steps forward, his dress shoes clicking on the concrete, Tomas on his heels. He comes to a stop, his gaze slowly swinging between Dario and I and the cluster of made men surrounding Renelli.
“Is it?” Lucca cocks his head ever so slightly. “Dario, how much did my mother weigh when you snapped her neck?”
Dario glances at the ceiling as if consulting his memory. “Eighty pounds maybe.”
“She was in pain,” Lucca says.
Dario nods.
“Alone,” Lucca adds.
“Except for me and the hospice worker—” Dario nods again.
Around us, men are shifting, a restlessness moving through the ranks.
“Why this walk down memory lane, Lucca?” Renelli sniffs and wipes his nose. “You want to do the honors ‘cause of what he did to your mother?”
Lucca ignores him, training his gaze on Dario. “Did she tell you what I promised her that last time I saw her?”
“That you would kill the bastard.”
Lucca closes his eyes, tilting his head to the sky as if in prayer. “That I would murder the bastard who could have protected her but instead decided to use her as a wedge between the two men he saw as his greatest threat—your father. And mine.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Renelli scoffs.
“You whispered in my father’s ear that my mother was a no-good whore, when she was a child thrown to the fucking wolves .” His voice rises with each word, along with an accompanying tension, twitching fingers, darting gazes.
Lucca’s eyelids fly open.
“Another favor, my brother?” he says to Dario.
“Yes,” Dario agrees and the world explodes in slow motion.
Nicky the driver throws me to the ground and curves his body around mine.
At the same moment, Dario stretches an arm and Nicky slides a gun into his palm.
Dario and Lucca turn, a Flamenco dance, until they’re back-to-back, Tomas on one knee in front of me, pistol propped on his wrist.
Gunfire erupts, echoes against the metal roof, deafening. Vittorio Amato hits the floor, blood so dark its black gushing from the chunk taken out of his skull.
I’m crouching, arms wrapped around my head, Nicky on my back, eye level with the carnage. Tony Graziano and Tommy Vanzetti collapse in a tangled pile of arms and legs. I glance up, and looming over me, Dario calmly aims and fires.
Frankie Bianco jerks back, arms flying wide as the impact yanks off his feet, and then he crumples. There’s one, two, three more shots, and then silence except for Frankie’s moaning. Somehow, he’s still alive, huddled on the floor.
And so is Renelli. He’s cradling a bloody hand, his pistol and his ivory cane at his feet. Lucca strides forward until he’s eye to eye with the old man. He’s swaying on his feet, and his craggy face is blanched white, but there’s no surrender in his eyes.
“So this is how it ends, nephew?” Renelli rasps.
“You could call it an end. Or a new beginning.” A smile plays at Lucca’s lips.
Renelli laughs. “You think you’re strong enough to keep that psychopath in line?
” He’s talking about Dario. “The first time you turn your back, he’s going to do you like you’re doing me.
That monster killed your mother. He knows no loyalty.
He’s a rabid dog, and you don’t have the balls to keep him in line. ”
Lucca glances over his shoulder, and for a second, his eyes meet Dario’s. A current runs between them, an unspoken question and a voiceless answer.
Then Lucca turns back to Renelli. “Dario killed my mother out of mercy. Because I asked him.”
There’s a gasp from behind us, and a moment when even Renelli is struck silent. He recovers quickly. “Dario Volpe has no mercy.”
Lucca lifts his shoulder, the slightest acknowledgement. “No mercy. No loyalty. Almost sounds like the only use you have for the man is his ability to make you money.”
It’s Renelli’s turn to shrug.
Lucca shakes his head. “You think small. You have a man who can spin gold, and you’ve got him working for the Russians and the cartels. It’s like you have a Ferrari, and you’re so proud of how quickly you can pick up your dry cleaning. That’s what’s wrong with the criminal mind. Limited.”
“You think you know fuckin’ everything ‘cause you have the gun.” Renelli spits.
Lucca glances at the pistol in the hand dangling at his side. “No. Not everything. But I know more than you.”
Renelli snorts.
“I know the difference between a rabid dog and a man with something to lose. You don’t. And so you die.” Lucca flashes a brilliant smile and raises his gun.
He meets Dario’s eyes, and without looking down, he squeezes off a single shot. The top of Renelli’s head explodes, spraying Lucca’s face, staining those perfect white teeth. Lucca laughs, and Renelli’s body slumps to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
Behind me, there’s a retching. I turn, and that’s when I see Frankie. He’s dragging himself toward the exit using his elbows, his knee a bloody, pulpy mess. Dario’s black eyes pivot to track him, and it’s his turn to smile.
“Where are you going, Frankie?” Dario stalks over and crouches beside him.
Sweat is dripping down Frankie’s face. Lucca’s returned to his usual place next to Tomas, and he’s watching the tableau with a detached interest.
Dario prods Frankie’s mangled knee with his gun. Frankie’s screams ricochet off the corrugated metal ceiling.
Dario cocks his head. “It must be awful. Here you are—weaker than me. I can do whatever I want, and you have to take it. Are you scared?” Dario grins in delight. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”