Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Fabien
The present
A different memory tries to claw its way from the depths of hell, and I jump from my top bunk, hammering out pushups on the concrete floor.
One. Two. Three. Four.
I mentally count, refusing to go there.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
“Could you not this early?” My cellie, Kirksey, bitches. He’s my closest ally, being that I’ve been cut off from the family. And all thanks to my little chicken shit of a brother. The “boss” of New Orleans fears me. As he fucking should.
“I’m trying to jack off before lights on, and your grunting isn’t helping,” he says in a thick Mississippi accent. He’s not Italian, but I won’t hold that against him.
“How many times do I have to say it? I don’t need to know when you’re jacking off.” Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.
“None of us need to know!” Someone calls from our cellblock.
Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.
“Etiquette, my man,” Kirksey calls back. “Just like when I turn around and face the wall when you’re taking a shit,” he tells me.
“If you attempted to watch me shit, Kirksey, you’d lose your eyes,” I inform him.
“If only I could lose my sense of smell. And great, now I’ve lost my boner.”
Blocking everything out, I mentally count out my reps until my arms and shoulders are screaming at me.
Three hundred.
The day passes with the same mind-numbing monotony as the day before.
Inmate count.
Chow.
Inmate count.
Yard.
Inmate count.
Rec.
Inmate count.
My routine’s interrupted when a CO calls, “Calvani. You have a visitor.”
Speak of the devil. It has to be Angelo, as my brother’s been my only visitor, save for Mama when she was alive. Our first sibling visit was a blatant power play on Angelo’s part: making sure I knew he was in charge while I was being iced out.
But he’ll fucking learn soon enough why they call me “Ice Pick.”
After a pat down, I’m escorted to the visitation room, and I take a seat at my assigned table. Someone’s buzzed in; a teenage girl, and I do a double-take.
My baby sister, no longer a baby, tentatively crosses the room.
Thankfully, my legs support me as I rise.
“It’s been a while, little black belt.” Opening my arms wide, I wrap Alessandra in a big hug.
“You got the message from my lawyer?” I’ve been trying to make contact with Al for years, but Angelo’s had our sister on lockdown nearly as tight as mine.
Kissing her on the top of her head, I let go and take a seat, motioning for her to sit beside me.
“Yes, I got the message. But I’m not a black belt. I’m too fickle to stick with anything,” Al muses, plopping down.
“Says who? Angelo?”
Mr. I’ll return to the family when it benefits me Calvani.
Al nods. “Angelo doesn’t know I’m here.” She twists a strand of her long brown hair around her finger. “He thinks I’m at swim practice.”
“Who cares what he thinks. I’m just glad to see you. Tell me something. Anything. I’ve missed you so much…” I trail off, getting a little choked up.
“You need a drink?” Al misinterprets. Reaching into her clear, prison-approved backpack, she pulls out a bag of quarters. “I came prepared.”
“Look at you.” I give her hair a playful ruffle. “Get us the good stuff.”
She crosses the room to check out the vending machine—a fucking racket if I’ve ever seen one at five dollars per pop—returning with cherry colas and chips. “What’s wrong?” Al asks.
“This reminds me of someone, that’s all.” I pop the top and take a sip, my throat constricting so hard I can barely get the sweet liquid down.
“Sienna,” Al says quietly.
“How do you know that?” I sputter, nearly choking on my drink.
“Wild guess. She’s about as happy as you look, by the way.”
“What do you mean?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Her husband’s a real asshole,” Al whispers.
“I was at Michele’s birthday party last weekend.
He got mad at Sienna and shoved her in the pool.
Acted like it was her fault; trying to embarrass her in front of the family by pretending she was drunk.
She wasn’t. He’s always a jerk to her when he thinks no one is watching. ”
My hand grips the can so hard it crunches in half, cherry cola sloshing out.
Al rises and walks briskly to the vending area, returning with a napkin. She wipes up the spill, continuing, “I’m nosy, and so I followed Sienna inside their house after that all went down. I was eavesdropping through the door; she was crying.”
“I was told she’s happy.” Fury seeps into my bloodstream. “That Michele treats her like a queen. That they’re madly in love.” The last part has my stomach rioting.
“You were told wrong,” my sister says bluntly. “That man loves to torment her, but that’s about it.”
“What about her design studio?” At least Sienna’s living her dream, despite having to put up with the likes of Michele.
Al raises an eyebrow. “What design studio?”
“Sienna’s design studio in the Quarter, where she sells her custom-made gowns…” I trail off because Al’s shaking her head. “She doesn’t have a design studio.”
The ground is no longer beneath my feet.
“She doesn’t have a design studio,” Al repeats solemnly.
So many people are about to die.