Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Giovanni
After an hour, the meeting ends. Hands are shaken, and the room breaks into smaller groups for drinks and the soft work of after-talk.
I lean toward Yana.
“I’ll be going to the bathroom. Want to join?”
She looks away with a fixed smile. I chuckle and walk across the hall through the side corridor to the gentlemen’s room. I run the tap, wash my hands, and look at myself in the mirror.
The door opens behind me, and Ricci walks in with three men.
I exhale slowly, turn off the tap, and reach for the towel. I knew this was coming. From the moment Valentina ran to me across the room, I knew Ricci would find a way to have this conversation tonight.
“Ricci,” I say, drying my hands, “I know I am not in your good books, but must we do this here?”
He nods at his men, and they attack me all at once.
The first one jumps to the right. I step away from his reach and drive my elbow into the side of his head.
He drops against the sink. The second one swings, I catch his wrist and twist it.
He goes down on one knee with an embarrassing sound.
The third one is smarter; he waits for me to commit to the second man, and then he comes in with a hook that hits the side of my jaw.
It is the only punch any of them lands. I straighten up immediately, drive my knee into his stomach, and bring my fist down across the back of his neck. He falls.
I turn toward Ricci when the door opens, and a fourth man comes in.
He jumps on me, we both fall, and he drives a needle into the side of my arm before I can get my hand on it.
The first two men are back on their feet, and they grab my shoulders and hold me down to the floor as the fourth man depresses the plunger.
I shove them off, pull the syringe out of my arm, and reach inside my jacket for my gun. But I realize I can’t move my hand no matter how much I try. I am on my side on the cold tile, my hand is open beside me, and the gun is still in the holster.
Ricci steps over me.
“You are going to regret the day you humiliated me, Mondi.”
I try to move. My heart is beating too fast, and I can feel each beat hitting the inside of my chest. My mouth will not open.
The feeling of helplessness is oddly familiar.
It’s like I am seven years old on the floor of the apartment in Via Carmelo.
My father is standing over me, and my body is not working because he has hit me too many times, and I cannot get up.
Lucia is over me. Her small body is over me, her arms spread wide, her face turned up to look at the man who is hurting us. She is trying to be a shield.
One of the men hands Ricci a knife.
Ricci takes it. “You pushed me,” he says, “far more than was wise.”
I know he will not kill me. Killing the Don in a bathroom at a Marchetti gathering would bring the entire weight of every family in the country down on his head, and Ricci is not a stupid man.
But he wants to leave a mark on my face that will sit there for the rest of my life and remind every man who looks at me that he put it there.
I brace myself for the pain, and the door kicks open.
Yana comes through it with a gun out.
How did she get one? I didn’t see it on her.
She shoots the first two men in the chest. She shoots the third in the neck and shoots the fourth in the head.
“Down,” she shouts at Ricci.
Ricci lowers himself to his knees with his hands above his head. The knife is on the floor beside him. There are footsteps in the corridor. The gunshots have brought people. I can hear voices rising at the door.
Yana comes to me. Her face is red, her chest is heaving, and her dress is torn at the side from how fast she must have moved. She kneels beside me and looks at my face, and I can see the fury in her eyes, but I cannot tell who it is for.
She slides her arms under mine and pulls me up.
I am heavy, but she is strong. She gets me up to a sitting position and then to my feet, she pulls my arm across her shoulders, and she holds my waist with her free hand.
Her gun is back in her grip on the other side.
The crowd at the door parts, and Valentina pushes through.
“What’s happening?” she is saying. “What was that, what —”
Then she sees her father on his knees on the bathroom floor with four dead men around him.
“Papa!”
She runs to him, drops to her knees, and grabs his face. Yana is turning us toward the door, my weight on her shoulder. I can’t move my legs; she is fully dragging my body.
“Watch out!” a voice calls behind us.
From the mirror, I see Ricci. He has the knife, and he is on his feet, rushing toward Yana’s back.
I try to speak, but my mouth will not work.
“Papa, stop!” Valentina is screaming.
Yana turns without letting go of me, and she shoots him.
Ricci’s leg gives out beneath him, and he drops to the floor, and the knife clatters across the tile. He screams, and Valentina screams louder.
Yana adjusts her grip on my waist and pulls me tight against her side. I do not know if my feet are moving. I feel her body taking my weight. I feel her warmth against my ribs, and the crowd parts again. We are out of the bathroom, into the corridor, and the room behind us is full of screaming.
* * *
We are in my bedroom, and the doctor has the needle in my arm. I cannot move, but I can speak now. I sit propped against the pillows.
“It’s a muscle relaxant,” he says. “It’s a heavy dose but nothing permanent.
It will wear off within the next few hours.
The compound is designed for veterinary use, Don Mondi.
It paralyzes the major muscle groups but leaves the heart and lungs functioning.
The pounding sensation in your chest is normal. ”
He pauses and looks at the syringe.
“You may have some residual stiffness for a day or two. Massage will help. Warm compresses on the shoulders and the back of the neck. Do not push yourself to walk before you are ready.”
He packs his bag, and Fabiano is standing by the door with his leg in a brace. He came as soon as he was called. He is balanced on one crutch.
Yana is standing on the other side of the bed. She has not moved since we got here. Her dress is still torn at the side. There is blood on the back of her hand. I do not know if it is mine or someone else’s.
The doctor leaves, and the door closes behind him. Fabiano steps forward and lowers himself onto his good knee with some difficulty, his broken leg stretched awkwardly to the side. His head bows.
“Don Mondi. I apologize. This is my fault.”
“Oh, no,” I say. The words come out a little slurred. The drug is still moving through me. “No, no. Thank you, Fabiano. You picked the perfect night to break your leg. You had me almost killed in a bathroom. I should be thanking you.”
Fabiano’s face tightens.
“Punish me, Don. Whatever you decide.”
“I could break the second leg.”
He does not look up.
“I will pass,” I say. “You have two weeks to heal. After that, I want you back. Leave.”
He gets up slowly, and the crutch scrapes against the floor. He turns toward the door, and on his way out, his eyes meet Yana’s. She holds his gaze for a moment. He looks away first and walks out.
Yana turns to leave.
“Stop.”
She stops.
“You have to take care of me.”
She looks at me, but I cannot read her face. She does not argue. She walks back to the chair beside the bed and sits down. Her hands fold in her lap.
I close my eyes. The drug is fighting me on the inside, even though the doctor said it was nothing permanent. I let myself sink into the pillow, and I think about what just happened. I think about the bathroom; I think about Yana coming through the door with her gun out.
I did not expect that.
I did not expect any of it. She has shown me nothing but hate and disdain for a full week. She has not spoken to me in seven days. She avoided me as if my presence in a room could burn her. I open my eyes, and I look at her.
She is leaning against the wall beside the chair with her head tipped back. Her eyes are closed. The light from the lamp hits the line of her jaw and the curve of her cheek and the soft place where her throat meets her collarbone. The dress has slipped a little at the shoulder.
I mumble it without meaning to.
“Beautiful.”
She does not stir. I do not know if she heard me. I close my eyes again, and I let the drug take me down.
Hours pass.
I know they pass because when I wake, the light at the window is different. The lamp is still on, and the pain in my chest from the pounding heart is gone. My fingers move when I tell them to.
I sit up slowly.
Yana is asleep in the chair. Her head is tipped to one side against the wall. Her hand has fallen open in her lap. One of her shoes has come off and is lying on its side on the floor.
I look at her for a moment.
Then I push the blanket back and swing my legs off the bed. My knees hold when I stand. The room sways, but it settles. I can walk.
I go to Lucia’s room. The corridor is quiet, and the house has been quiet since we got back. I open her door, step in, and close it softly behind me.
She is sleeping. She is on her side this time, which is good because she usually sleeps on her back, and that is harder on her leg. Her hair is across her face. I sit on the edge of the bed and brush it back behind her ear.
“I got into some trouble today, Angel.”
She does not stir.
“I can’t spend today with you. I am sorry. I know I promised. I will spend tomorrow with you — the whole day. I will sit in this room, and you can talk to me about anything you want. Or we can watch your shows. You can pick.”
I adjust the blanket and pull it higher over her shoulder.
“Someone saved me today,” I say quietly. “Just like you used to.”
I sit with that for a moment.
Lucia and Yana. Those are the two people in my life who have put themselves between me and harm. My sister was six years old, her arms spread over me on the floor of an apartment in Via Carmelo, and my collateral was walking through a door with a gun.
Neither of them stood to gain anything by doing it.
I have been alive for thirty-five years, and the list is two names long. I lean down and kiss Lucia’s forehead. Her skin is warm. I stand and walk to the door, and I look back at her before I close it.
When I return to my room, the door is open, and Yana is standing in the doorway, her hand on the frame. She is awake. She has put her shoe back on. She was on her way out.
She sees me and stops.
“You’re better.”
I do not answer. I walk toward her, and I look at her. The dress is still torn, the curve of her breasts is still pressing against the fabric, and the spot on her mouth where I bit her in the car is fading to a soft pink.
I take her by the arm and pull her back into the room.
“What is wrong with you?”
I push the door closed behind her, and I press her back against the wall. My hand stays at the side of her ribs. Her hands come up against my chest, not pushing yet. She lets out a breath through her teeth.
“I see you’re better,” she repeats.
“Not entirely. The doctor said I need a massage. My joints are sore.”
“Find someone else.”
“I want you.”
She turns her face away. I let my eyes drop to her chest.
“You saved me tonight.”
She does not answer.
“Don’t you want a reward?”
She still does not look at me. I take her chin between my thumb and finger, and I turn her face back. Her eyes meet mine. They are tired and angry.
“Don’t you?”
She opens her mouth to speak, and I cover it with mine.