3. Leo
3
LEO
Me: Enzo put me on leave for another week!
Sammy: We miss you at work, it’s not the same. I’ll come by again soon and tell you all the gossip about my latest disaster date.
T he restaurant left me off the schedule for a second week to heal, and aside from the occasional text from friends, things have been quiet here. Aside from taking the girls to school and back, all I do is watch brain-rotting daytime television and worry.
I’m going out of my mind stressing over how I’m going to keep this house of cards I constructed from falling in on itself. How will I pay our bills? We barely scrape by as it is, and I can’t afford to miss two weeks of work, even if it’s warranted. My savings account is almost nonexistent.
The television fades to white noise, allowing me to stew in my anxiety until it feels like I’m drowning. My self doubt is shouting at me with a bullhorn and it’s not afraid to tell me how awful I am.
You can’t even pay the bills. What type of man are you?
You can’t feed your sisters if you’re not working. They’re going to starve.
If you fuck up, there’s no one to help you. Mom doesn’t give two fucks about whether you all live or die.
Why would you risk your life for a man who couldn’t give a shit less about you?
I can’t help but wonder why I haven’t heard from Rocco. He knows how to find me—with countless resources at his disposal, it would be easy. I may not know exactly why I took a bullet for him, but I didn’t do it for a thank you or for monetary gain. But if someone saved my life, I would have at least thanked them…
No one would save you, because you don’t mean anything.
I shake the intrusive thought away, and try to focus on the crime drama show on the screen. After watching them all week, they all sort of blur together. There’s only so many ways to pull off a convincing plot twist. Secret societies, long lost siblings, convoluted revenge schemes, and crime syndicates are only so interesting. My doctor stressed how important it was to rest and not strain myself, but parking my ass on the couch all week when I’m used to the hustle and bustle of a restaurant kitchen is pure torture.
The show drags on, yet I’m half invested and too lazy to change the channel. A tall, dark, and handsome man with lab goggles tells his colleagues how a particular spore of mold was found under the victim’s fingernails, a variety that only grows in direct sunlight. This woman, whose name I already forgot, excitedly connects the dots about how that piece of information impacts their investigation, but all I can think about is how the man on the screen reminds me of Rocco…bringing me right back to the thoughts I was trying to avoid in the first place.
I am such a fucking loser—laying on the couch in sweatpants and a tee shirt eating cold, left over lasagna with extra parmesan cheese and hot sauce right out of the container. I’m the man I tell my friends never to be—the type who pines over someone he has no business thinking of, let alone jumping in front of a bullet for.
The day my father died, I promised myself I would never be with a mafia man. My mother is a cunt for leaving her children behind, but I saw the constant neglect she went through. The nights of waiting by the phone for a worst-case phone call because she hadn’t heard from my father in two days. Him coming home covered in blood, on edge from whatever nefarious deed he carried out with zero explanation of what happened. The dead expression on her face when he’d get a call in the middle of dinner or a family outing and suddenly have to leave. Nothing came before la famiglia .
I promised myself I’d never settle for the mafia lifestyle or fall for a man who didn’t give two shits about me, but apparently I’ll hallucinate about one.
When I was high as fuck on pain meds in the emergency room, I swore I saw him standing by my bed and felt his hand caressing my cheek. I heard him speak to me, although I was so out of it, I can’t remember exactly what he said.
You’ll need your strength…
Obviously that was complete fiction, but I can’t shake the image from my mind of his brooding face haloed by harsh fluorescent lighting looking down on me like a god on earth.
Sometimes I dream of him sitting by my bedside, watching me as I sleep. Or of the big, bad mafioso giving a fuck about some random guy he doesn’t even know and whisking me off to his multi-million dollar estate outside the city to recuperate.
Ew, what’s wrong with me? Why am I like this? Because I read too many romance books. That’s why.
Right as I mentally curse myself for being so delusional, there’s a firm knock on the door. A few of my neighbors have stopped by, but I doubt they’d stop by twice. Sammy visited yesterday, so I doubt he’d come again so soon.
There aren’t a lot of people in my life who’d just drop by for a visit…
There’s another knock, this one more insistent, and I slowly rise from the couch to answer the door. Even though the wound is mostly healed, I still feel a twinge when I brace myself on the couch arm.
I peep through the door hole. A man in a bespoke, three piece navy suit with a light pinstripe pattern stands on the other side. He checks his phone as he shifts his weight impatiently, but that’s not my problem. I’m not answering the door for a complete stranger.
“Who are you?” I shout through the door.
“Giuseppe Mariano. I’m looking for Leo Costa.” He talks so fast, like he has a million things to do and not enough time to do them.
“Why?”
Giuseppe sighs, then rolls his eyes. “I work for Rocco Vettore. I’m here to drop off a letter.”
I crack the door enough that he can see my face. He glances at his phone again, then quickly hands me the letter and walks down the hallway toward the elevator.
“Um, thanks?” I call after him before I close and lock the door.
The envelope is a heavy, ominous weight in my hand. It’s made of thick paper and has a faint texture under my fingertips. It’s sealed with red wax, the Nueva Notte symbol pressed into it.
That symbol is law in this part of the city. Even if my father wasn’t a soldier, I’d know what the symbol meant. Every kid in our neighborhood knew what to do when you saw it on a man’s ring or in a tattoo—you stay quiet and mind your own business—you never saw him.
I sit on the couch again, staring at my name in black slanted script. After a week of radio silence, he doesn’t visit, or call, or text. Instead, he sends a random person to my home with a letter.
My obsessive thoughts must have summoned him from the dark. Like the demon from the grimoire in the gay paranormal romance book I read, Summoning by M. Bonnet. The sad part is that the main character from that book and Rocco are extremely similar—two chaotic, menacing forces who leave destruction in their wake.
The last thing I want to do is be anywhere on his radar. I should throw it away and pretend like nothing ever happened between us. Chalk my citizenly deed up to some good karma coming my way, which I desperately need right now, and move on with my life. But curiosity truly killed the cat, and opening this mysterious letter was the only way to bring it back.
I shimmy a paring knife I find in the kitchen under the wax to gently pry it off. My hands slightly shake as I slide the paper out. I hold my breath, unfolding it so quickly I get a papercut. The letter isn’t long and is written in the same slanted script from the envelope.
Leo,
Thank you for saving my life. Meet me at Casa Dei Pompieri tomorrow at noon for lunch.
- Rocco Vettore
Leaning against the counter, I take in his curt invitation, which reads more like a summons. Why does he want to meet me at a restaurant? And a nice one at that. Casa Dei Pompieri is easily almost as expensive as Squisito .
The girls will be at school then, so I don’t have an excuse not to go. Even if I wanted to, how would I cancel? I have no way of contacting him. Someone like Rocco Vettore isn’t used to hearing no, and he knows where I live. So I guess I have no choice but to show up.
Or I’m dumb and desperate enough to fall right into a trap. Nothing good comes from a man like him…
Folding the paper back into the envelope, I hide it in my nightstand so the girls won’t find it. They’re nosy and if they catch wind of me meeting a man at a restaurant for lunch, they’d never let me hear the end of it.
Casa Dei Pompieri is three subway stops and a two block walk. It’s not a long trip, but I’ll still be late because I changed three times before settling on a light blue long sleeve dress shirt and slate gray slacks. They’re the nicest clothes I own, which isn’t saying much because they’ve seen better days.
And I spent some time mentally berating myself for being stupid enough to meet him in the first place. When I finally lock my apartment door, Giuseppe is waiting for me, the same impatient look on his face.
“As nice as it is to see you again, I’m running late,” I quip, trying to side step him so I don’t miss my train. He blocks me, and I stare up at him. He’s a lot taller when we’re standing side by side without a door in between us.
“I’m here to pick you up, courtesy of Mr. Vettore.” His clipped response is no nonsense.
He sent a car for me…
“Um, okay.” I’m not stubborn enough to pass up a comfy ride in a car. The subway can be gross on the best of days.
He leads me to a black town car parked outside my building, then opens the door for me. The cushioned back seat is more comfortable than a metal chair, and it’s cool enough that my armpits aren’t drenched in nervous sweat. A sealed water bottle sits in the cupholder, and I take a long sip.
I still can’t believe I’m meeting Rocco Vettore for lunch. Part of me is curiously excited, and the rest of me is terrified. I google the menu to distract myself from the frantic anticipation brewing in my gut, but that backfires when I see that there is no luncheon service…because it isn’t open until five!
Only I would be stupid enough to meet a known mobster who fucking flays people like a fish at a closed restaurant for lunch! He’s probably going to kill me. Or torture me. Why else would he invite me here?!
As we near the restaurant, I debate how much I’d hurt myself if I opened the door and jumped out. My wound is pretty much healed, and if I tuck and roll, I probably won’t reopen the stitches. It’s not too late. I can run away and pretend I never came here, then figure out the rest later.
My father worked so much, I barely saw him growing up, but I do remember something he said to me once when we went to the grocery store when I was little. Before either of my sisters were born.
“Dad, we’ve been walking for forever!” I whine. “We coulda just stopped at the corner store for milk and eggs!”
“Pipe down. It’s only an extra eight blocks,” he grouses. “God gave you legs so you’d walk, kiddo.”
“Ugh!” I trudged on until we walked through the sliding door of the grocery store.
On our way back, we passed the corner store I wanted to go to. Police vehicles swarm the building, and the block is shut down. A body lay on the ground, covered by a white sheet. People crowd around it, even though a police officer pushes them away. A young girl cries into an older woman’s arms. Dad looks down at me, and tilts his chin toward the chaos across the street.
“Leo, if something feels off, it is off. Listen to your gut.”
I always wondered if he felt something was off the night he was shot. Did he listen to his gut? Was he caught off guard?
The car pulls up before I can make up my mind. Giuseppe opens the door, and a woman about my age with chestnut colored hair beams at me from the sidewalk. Her teeth are white and straight, framed by mauve lips. “Mr. Vettore is waiting for you inside, sir.”
The idea of anyone calling me sir is laughable, but I smile at her. “Thank you.”
I follow her through the gold-framed front door, passing immaculately set tables. Each has its own floral centerpiece and gleaming silver cutlery atop pristine white table cloths. The booth chairs are upholstered in a buttery leather, and the chairs match with a cream brocade patterned fabric with a gold threading. Even without dinner lighting, the ambiance is hard to miss. It feels wrong for me to be on the customer side of the house, especially when it’s this bougie.
She leads me into another similarly decorated room, through a curtain to a private dining space. Although it shares design elements with the previous two spaces, it has a crystal chandelier. Each piece of shimmering, shining glass catches the light in a totally unique way, with no two looking exactly the same. It’s breathtaking.
Rocco sits at the only table in the center of the room. He wears a dark gray three-piece suit, with a white dress shirt and white gold cufflinks. His handsome face is hard and cold, as if it was carved from stone. I sit in the already pulled out chair across from him and try my hardest not to stare. I’ve never looked at him directly before, nor had his full attention on me. It’s unnerving to make eye contact with him, but I hold my own and even manage a small smile while I wait for him to speak.
“Thank you for coming to meet me today, Leo,” he says in a cursory manner as he flicks his napkin open and lays it across his lap.
“I didn’t feel as if I had a choice, given how you had the invitation hand delivered to my exact address. It was really more of a summons. You even sent a car for me.”
He narrows his eyes at me before giving me a wide grin. “I’m not used to asking. Or wasting time.” His eyes roam over me in an appraising manner and a shiver races down my spine.
The woman from before comes back to our table with a decanter of ruby-red wine and two glasses. She pours us each a glass before another woman brings us two personal antipasto platters on miniature charcuterie boards with various olives, cheeses, cured meats, and marinated peppers and artichokes. Rocco takes a piece of Soppressata from his board and pairs it with a piece of aged provolone before popping them into his mouth.
I pick at mine, too nervous to eat and unsure of why I’m even here. He takes a few more bites, then sips his wine.
“Thank you for saving my life.” His words sound stiff, hollow in their delivery. “That was brave.”
At first I wanted him to thank me, but now that he did it seems like too little, too late. A wave of confidence swells inside me, and before I can stop myself, I say, “I certainly didn’t feel brave. It was a careless knee-jerk reaction, one that got me a bullet graze.”
He glances at my left arm, right where the wound is. “I remember seeing it in the hospital. The blood was bleeding through the bandage a bit, but now it seems almost completely healed.”
Holy fuck, I didn’t imagine it! He did come to visit me in the hospital.
“I’m going to cut to the chase, Leo,” he continues on, glazing over my stunned silence. “I want you to come and work for me, as a member of my crew.”
I open my mouth to say something—anything–but nothing comes out. This is not what I expected. At best, I thought this was going to be a thank you lunch. At worst, I thought he was going to murder me for some random, crazy reason. An offer to work for him seems like a crazy, out of left field option.
The sip of wine I take doesn’t seem to buy me much time, and I’m no closer to processing what he just asked me, let alone making a decision.
“What exactly would I do, if I worked for you?” I manage to mumble, trying to look anywhere but at the handsome man before me. His eyes are like some kind of magical hypnotism, the way they suck me in and hold me in his orbit.
I can’t break how our gazes lock together, or the sizzling heat I see deep in his eyes. It’s such a one-eighty from the coldness I found there earlier.
“Whatever I say…”