REBECCA #2
I'm looking at the man who taught Alessio to become a criminal. The man who sat by while a little boy waited for a mother who never came home. The man who somehow raised a child surrounded by violence, neglect, and disappointment, and then acts surprised that the grown version trusts nobody.
That's not the worst part, though. The worst part is that he doesn't even seem to realize what he has. What he had.
Alessio would drive through hell for the people he cares about. I've seen it. He'd burn down cities. Start wars. Bleed himself dry. Yet somehow this bitter old bastard talks about him like he's discussing the weather. Like Alessio is just another thing that happened to him.
Not the best thing. Not his son. Just another story. A strange urge rises inside me.
The urge to tell Lenny exactly what kind of man his son became despite everything life threw at him.
To tell him about the panic button. The five soldiers parked around the corner.
The way he checks on me every ten minutes.
The way he pretends not to care while caring entirely too much.
To tell him that somewhere along the way, that angry little boy became a man worth loving.
The thought hits me so hard I almost physically flinch.
Worth loving. Dangerous words. Very dangerous words.
I bury them immediately. Smile wider. Play the part. Because if there's one thing Alessio and I have in common, it's that neither of us is ready for that conversation.
Play the role. "Right. He mentioned that."
Lenny drains half the bottle. "Smart kid."
The statement almost sounds proud. Almost. Then it disappears beneath another layer of bitterness.
I tilt my head. "So she really just left?"
"Yup."
The answer comes instantly. Too instantly. "Never saw her again?"
Lenny shrugs. A lazy motion. Like we're discussing a misplaced wallet. "One day she's there." He waves his hand. "The next?" Another wave. "Gone."
My stomach tightens. No matter how deep I look into his eyes, there is no sadness, no regret, no confusion.
None of the emotions I've gone through after Rachel vanished.
Maybe it's because it's been eighteen years?
I doubt it, but it doesn't matter. Either he's buried it so deep he can't feel it anymore, or he never cared.
I force my eyes to go wide. Like I'm shocked.
Like I can't imagine such a thing. Honestly, that part isn't difficult. "You mean she just left you and him?"
Lenny snorts. "Apparently."
I frown. "That doesn't make any sense."
Something dark flickers across his face. Gone before I can identify it. "Lot of things don't make sense."
He's right about that.
He finishes his beer with a loud belch, then holds the empty bottle out toward me like I'm his personal servant.
"Make yourself useful, sweetheart," he slurs with a leering grin. "Either bring me another beer… or ride my cock. Your choice."
Revulsion crawls up my spine like spiders.
The thought of this disgusting pig touching me makes my stomach turn.
I can feel the bile rising in my throat, but I swallow it down.
I need information. I need to play this right.
I give him a slow, sweet smile instead, the kind that hides the knife behind it.
"I'll get you another."
"Atta girl."
I grab the empty bottle and walk away slowly, making sure to swing my hips as I walk back toward the bar.
I put extra sway into it, letting the tight jeans hug my ass.
Not because I enjoy it. Because men like Lenny notice things like that.
And men who notice usually talk. Also, because I know exactly what it's doing to him.
Let him get hard. Let it hurt all afternoon and into tomorrow.
Let him suffer for even thinking he could talk to me like that.
By the time I reach the bar, I need a shower. Possibly industrial-strength bleach.
Greg catches my expression and immediately starts laughing. "That bad?"
"Worse." I grab another beer.
"What'd he say?"
"Nothing useful."
Yet. I glance back toward the booth. Lenny is watching me.
Waiting. The old drunk doesn't realize it.
But after four years of chasing Rachel, I've become very good at patience.
And sooner or later? Everybody talks. Especially lonely men.
Especially bitter men. Especially men with a bottle in front of them.
I pick up the fresh beer. Round two.
I walk back to the table with the fresh beer, hips swaying just enough to keep his eyes glued to me. I set the bottle down in front of him with a sweet smile.
"My treat," I say lightly.
He doesn't even acknowledge the words. Just twists the cap off and takes a long, greedy swig, foam catching in his mustache. Then his bloodshot eyes drop straight to my breasts and stay there. I feel like lice are crawling all over my skin. My stomach turns.
He leans back, licks his lips slowly, and makes a crude gesture with his tongue, flicking it obscenely like he's already tasting me. The revulsion is so strong I almost gag. He laughs, low and dirty.
I wonder if that kind of shit ever really works on anyone. From the pool table behind me, a woman's loud, fake laughter rings out as some guy buries his face in her tits. I glance over, then back at Lenny.
Okay, yeah, I admit to myself with a small shrug. Maybe that kind of shit works, at least in here.
Time to change the game. I sit down across from him, lean back in the chair, and put on my most innocent, wide-eyed face. The one that makes people underestimate me. The one that makes the bomb I'm about to drop hit much harder.
"Here's what I don't understand, Lenny," I keep my voice soft, tilt my head like I'm genuinely puzzled. "Can you help a girl out?"
I lean in a little, keeping my voice soft and confused. I hold his gaze; my heart is pounding, hoping my bluff lands. Because I have nothing solid. Just Audra's word from years ago and a gut feeling. But sometimes a gut feeling is enough to crack a man open.
"See, I saw her. Alessio's mother. A few days ago. In Razor's office."
Lenny freezes mid-swig. The bottle stops halfway to his mouth.
His face goes pale, like he's just seen a ghost. I keep my expression innocent, batting my lashes slowly.
"So if I saw her a few days ago, here… that means she's been coming and going.
And you're here all the time. So I don't understand how you two could have missed each other? "
I tilt my head, looking genuinely puzzled, genuinely hurt. "Have you been lying to me, Lenny?"
The silence stretches. His knuckles go white around the bottle. For the first time since I sat down, the sleazy confidence is gone. Replaced by something sharper. Something almost afraid.
"You keep your lying mouth shut, bitch, you hear me?" Lenny yells, rising to his feet, almost getting stuck between the table and the bench. He leans over the table, face twisted with rage, spittle flying as he snarls down at me.
"You have no idea what a man like me can do to a little fucking cunt like you."
My heart hammers against my ribs, adrenaline floods my system like ice water. I can handle myself—I've been in plenty of bad situations and fights—but I honestly didn't tag Lenny for this kind of obvious, public violence. Not here. Not in the middle of the bar with people watching.
My words must have hit harder than I thought. Whatever Luciana is now—whoever she's become—it's enough to put the fear of God into people like him.
I keep my face calm, even as my pulse thunders in my ears.
I reach across the table, grab his half-full beer bottle by the neck, and slam it hard against the edge of the table.
The glass shatters with a sharp crack. I hold up the jagged, broken end; the sharp edges glint as I point it straight at his throat while he looms over me.
"Or what, Lenny?" I ask, forcing my voice to stay low and steady, even though my hand is shaking with adrenaline. "You gonna hit me right here in front of everyone? Go ahead. Try it."
The entire bar seems to go quiet. Eyes turn toward us. Lenny's face is flushed red, his neck veins bulge. He stares at the broken bottle inches from his throat, breathing hard through his nose like a bull ready to charge.
For a second, I think he might actually do it. Then a shadow falls over the table. Alessio.
He steps up beside me, calm and lethal, one hand resting lightly on the back of my seat like he's simply joining the conversation. But his eyes are pure ice as they lock on Lenny.
"Problem here?" He asks, dangerously soft.
Lenny's gaze flicks to Alessio, then back to me, then to the broken bottle still aimed at his throat. The rage on his face flickers into something more calculating. More afraid. He slowly straightens up, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes are still burning with hatred.
"No problem," he mutters, forcing an ugly smile. "Just having a friendly chat with my son's little whore."
Alessio's hand tightens on the back of the bench by me, but he doesn't move. He just stares at his father with a look that promises slow, painful death if he says one more word. I don't lower the bottle. Not yet.
"Alright," Razor yells out. "Family drama over. We have goods to distribute. You two go home." He looks at Alessio and me.
"Gladly." Alessio puts his arm around my shoulder and guides me out of the booth. When he passes his father, he punches his fist into the other man's gut. Lenny goes down with an oomph like a sack of potatoes. "Enjoy the foreplay, motherfucker. We're far from done."