Thirty-Seven
The doorbell rang at 6:00 p.m. Martha and I were in the kitchen, window shades drawn, laughing over a story she was telling about Brad’s teenage years, when we heard the chimes. We both froze, the grape I was about to eat dropping to the floor. A look came over her face, hard and determined, and she grabbed my arm. “You wait here.”
“What?” I hissed. “Don’t answer it!”
She waved me off, grabbing a hand towel and wiping her hands on it as she walked to the door. “Who is it?” she drawled, Southern and unintimidating.
“It’s Stevie.” The voice was muffled by the heavy door, but understandable.
“Stevie? Joe’s boy Stevie?” Martha demanded, standing by the door with her hands on her hips.
Every gangster movie I had ever seen flooded through my mind, and I wished she would move away from the door before they shot through it. I tried to wave at her, but she ignored me completely, focused on the door.
“Yes. Let me in, Martha.”
She walked away, and pulled out her cell. Going through the phone, she pressed a button and waited, the phone to her ear.
“It’s me. Stevie is here. You want me to let him in?”
There was a pause, and then she spoke. “Okay.” She hung up the phone and opened the door, peering through the crack created by the safety chain. An alarm somewhere in the house started, a slow chirp, gradually increasing in speed. She seemed pleased with what she saw and she closed the door, removed the chain and then opened it again, ushering in a tall man with a muscular build, dressed in a black polo and dress pants, a large gray gun strapped to his belt. Martha shut the door behind him, relatching the chain and locking the dead bolt, and pressed a button on the alarm pad.
She turned to the stranger, smiled widely and held open her arms. “Stevie, I haven’t seen you in ages! Come here for a hug.” It was the most enthusiastic welcome I had ever seen her give, and I moved closer for a better look.
The man’s ugly face, scarred in places with a crooked nose, broke into a wry smile. He bent over, hugging the short woman tightly. I stood awkwardly behind them, waiting for an introduction. They separated, Martha holding him at arm’s length for a moment, looking him over critically. “You look thin, Stevie. We need to start having you over for supper, or at least get you a woman who’ll feed you.”
He laughed, and turned to me, extending his hand. I stepped forward, shaking it, his grip firm and strong.
Safe
.
“I’m Julia.”
“Stevie. I’m Brad’s cousin.”
“Here to protect us?” I asked.
Stevie glanced quickly at Martha, who hustled between us with a laugh. “Come, let’s move to the kitchen! I’ve got food in the skillet that will burn.” Stevie gestured for me to go ahead, and we walked into the kitchen, which smelled of grilled sausage and chicken. I sat at the counter, but Stevie glanced around, uneasy. “I’m going to check the house out,” he announced, and left, his hand resting on his gun.
I watched his exit, then turned to Martha, my brows raised. “What’s his story?”
“Oh, Stevie and Brad have been close as brothers ever since Brad was born. They’re only four months apart in age. Brad said he sent Stevie over to keep an eye on us, just in case someone decides to stop back by. I doubt anyone will, but it’s nice to have an extra person in the house, especially one with Stevie’s skills.”
She seemed ridiculously relaxed, given the situation. She added spices, chopped veggies and hummed under her breath. I told her my thoughts and she laughed.
“Girl, I’ve seen a lot of things working in this house, and it always ends up all right. Besides, if it’s my time to go, it’s my time. But listen, I changed the diapers on most of these boys. They ain’t gonna touch me with a ten-foot pole.” She set down the wooden spoon and turned to me. “Now, you? You I worry about. There’s nothing stopping them from blowing your pretty little brains out.”
My eyes widened, and I stared at her. “Is that your way of making me feel better?”
“Honey, it’s me being honest. I believe women need to know what they’re up against. If you want sunshine blown up your ass, you picked the wrong black woman.” She turned back to the stove and turned up the heat, adding some more oil to the hot pan.
Thirty-Eight
Brad drove his car through the city streets, weighing the few options he had. He was dressed in a gray pin-striped suit, his shoes polished. His father would expect nothing less for a dinner at home.
The car took the curves easily as he left the city and moved into the streets of old money, condos and skyscrapers stepping aside for brick pavers, Rolls-Royces and heavily staffed mansions.
The estate had been in his family for over three generations. It was a fortress, surrounded by a fourteen-foot stone wall, stylishly covered by boxwood hedges, with security cameras positioned at regular intervals along the wall. The estate, for its pretentious address and luxury appointments, was small, only two acres, for ease in monitoring. Brad pulled up to a small guard shack and nodded to the uniformed man, a longtime employee, who manned it. Two other uniforms came from the shack and circled the car. Brad pressed the button, releasing the trunk, and waited as they shone their lights in the car and glanced through the trunk. Finally, the large, electrified gate in front of his car swung open, and he pressed on the gas.
* * *
S
TEVIE
FINISHED
HIS
SEARCH
of the house and entered the kitchen again, checking all of the windows and the locked door. He finally relaxed and sat at the island. Martha glanced over from the pot she was tending. “We could have just told you there was nobody in the house. And I checked all the doors and locks myself.”
“Nothing wrong with a second set of eyes,” he said softly, looking into her caramel-brown ones. She sniffed disapprovingly, and went to the fridge, getting the pitcher of tea out and pouring him a glass.
He smiled, looking like a teenage boy, and sniffed appreciably. “How soon before the food is ready?”
“Aw, I’d say about twenty minutes. Can you wait that long, or do you need a snack?”
“I can wait.” He took a big gulp of tea, then studied me over the rim of the glass. “So. What’s a pretty thing like you doing with the big ogre?”
I turned to him, a smile in my eyes. “The big ogre being Brad?”
“Of course. He doesn’t know how to treat a lady. Now, me, I could give you the finer things in life.”
Martha laughed, her spoon hitting the counter. “Like what? A Milky Way bar and a six-pack of Miller?”
He groaned, his hand to his heart. “Martha, how am I supposed to impress her when you paint me in that light?”
Martha laughed and grabbed three plates from the cabinet. “Stevie and Brad always thought they had some magic quality with the ladies, used to call it ‘the Force.’ Stevie’s never mastered charm like Brad has—but that doesn’t stop him from trying it on every female he sees.”
“Oh, just ’cause you never fell victim to it doesn’t mean it’s not there. I just went easy on you, didn’t want to give an old woman a heart attack.”
“First of all, I wasn’t
old
back then. Second, every time you boys got into trouble, you’d be sitting in my kitchen, trying your best to charm your way into me sneaking you some food—so don’t tell me you haven’t tried to use it on me!”
“Did they get into trouble a lot?” I interrupted them, curious.
“When they were younger it was mostly just kid stuff—BB gun fights, sneaking into movies they had no business seeing, throwing oranges at cars. Remember that guy in the Corvette?” Martha’s eyes twinkled at Stevie, and he laughed, shaking his head. “Brad and Stevie were on a curve by the house, with about twenty oranges they had stolen from the groves around the pool. Every time a car would come around the curve,
blam
—they would peg the side of it with an orange. Now, most of the oranges were ripe and would splatter all over the side, scaring the bejesus out of whoever was driving and making a huge mess in the process.”
Stevie broke in, taking over the story, his eyes lit with excitement. “So around the corner comes this red Corvette
—
beautiful car, so hot that we got distracted, just staring at the thing. Brad finally snaps out of it and grabs an orange and throws it at the car. There were two sounds at once,” he said, holding up two fingers to illustrate the story. “A horn—the driver laid hard on the horn, alerting everyone within two miles. And brakes. That guy slammed full force on his brakes, squealing and leaving burnt rubber
all
over the place.” He laughed, slapping his hand on the table. “The guy driving the car was one of these bald ugly guys, probably right in the middle of a midlife crisis. He threw open the car door before it even fully stopped and started screaming bloody murder and running for us.”
“What did you do?” I leaned forward.
“Took off! Brad was trying to carry the orange bag with us, but it was heavy and bouncing everywhere, so finally he dropped it, and we split up, running in opposite directions. We were on residential streets by then, in Brad’s fancy-ass neighborhood, so we stuck out like sore thumbs. And this guy was
fast
. I had slowed to catch my breath when, out of nowhere, the guy tackled me.”
Martha held up a hand, stopping his story, and looked at me. “I’m gonna stop him right now before he starts blowing smoke into this story. Stevie starts crying like a little girl, screaming that they got the wrong guy, that he doesn’t have anything to do with oranges—basically admitting to involvement every time he opens his mouth. The guy wrestles him onto his back and pulls back his fist, telling him that he better fess up and give him both his and his friend’s name, or else he’s going to beat the hell outta him. That was back when a grown man could beat up a kid and, as long as he deserved it, no one gave two shits. So, what do you think Stevie did?”
She had a hand on her hip, another one on the counter, and was staring at me as though she expected my prediction. “He told them?” I ventured hesitantly.
“Well,” Stevie said, jumping back into the story. “As scared as I was of this middle-aged freak of nature, I was ten times more scared of Brad. But I wasn’t quick-witted enough to come up with anything on the fly.”
“So this idiot,” Martha said, “just flip-flopped their first and last names.”
“Hey—” Stevie broke in. “I was under pressure! I blurt out that I’m Steve Magiano, and that it was Brad Magiano who threw the orange, and that I had nothin’ to do with it.”
Thirty-Nine
The names hit me like the middle-age Corvette owner’s fist, and my face must have shown it, for Martha flinched, then busied herself pulling out silverware.
“Magiano? You mean De Luca. Brad’s last name is De Luca. Right?” I stood, breathing hard, and stared at Martha and Stevie, who had both found other items in the kitchen fascinating.
“I fucking need honesty right now.” My voice was rigid and I saw Martha glance quickly over at me, and then look away. “What about women needing to know what they’re up against, Martha?”
“It’s not my place,” she said quietly, as subservient as I had ever seen her, pain in the eyes she quickly averted from me.
“And you?” I turned my wrath on Stevie, who was desperately trying to get a little more tea out of his empty glass.
He set down his glass and turned to me, his face unreadable. I could tell from his eyes that I wasn’t going to get any information from him, and he felt no shame at that. This was a man who had no issue with confrontation, or with withholding information.
Just minutes before, the kitchen had relaxed into a comfortable atmosphere, filled with the smells and noises of good cooking. Laughter, sizzles, pots banging. Now it seemed cold and foreign. I glared at both of them, then whirled and stormed up the stairs, hearing Martha’s sigh behind me. I flew onto the landing and turned, looking into Brad’s bedroom with the damn naked woman above his bed. She, in her black-and-white hotness, caught my fury. I strode in, climbing onto the bed and grabbed the large, canvas-wrapped frame and yanked it off the wall.
* * *
D
OWNSTAIRS
, M
ARTHA
AND
Stevie heard the sounds as Julia tore the portrait to shreds, slamming it against the door to break the wooden frame. He raised his eyebrows at Martha and she shook her head, turning off the burners and covering the rice. Dinner was finally ready, for all the good it did now.
“I always told that man his secrets would undo him.” Martha set three plates on the counter, and spooned rice onto each one.
“You act like he ever had a choice,” Stevie said, walking to the fridge and refilling his tea. He lowered his voice. “He was born, he grew up, he walked away from it as soon as he was old enough to make the decision. Why does it matter what she knows? You and I both know she won’t be around long, either by execution or him tiring of her. And she won’t tell anyone. Not now that she knows who he is.”
“I don’t know,” Martha said, heaping jambalaya onto their plates. “This one might be different. I fought it, didn’t want to see it, but something is different in his eyes when he looks at her. And from the evidence—don’t eat at that table, I got to clean it—she can keep up with him sexually, which is a feat unto itself.”
“So, what are you saying, he’s in
love
?” He spat out the words, incredulity coating the question.
“Maybe not yet, but it could get there.”
“Brad doesn’t fall in love. Even with Hillary.”
“Well, I told that boy marrying Hillary was a colossal mistake. It’s not my fault he didn’t listen then. But he hasn’t asked me now. Probably won’t, given as hardheaded as he is. But I will tell you, if that girl gets herself killed, I’ll be upset. And Brad? He’ll start a war the likes of which the Magianos haven’t seen in a long time.”
* * *
I
LAY
ON
the soft sheets of the guest bed, and fumed. I was mentally exhausted, and the stress of the day weighed on me like concrete bricks, pinning me to the mattress. To make matters worse I was hungry. But I’d be damned if I sat down there with those two and ate. I could smell the jambalaya, the scent somehow making its way up the staircase, down the hall and through the thick wooden door. I pulled the covers over my head and tried to push away the thoughts that were drilling through my head.
So Brad is a member of the Magiano family. Those are the “connections” he mentioned. Hell of a connection.
The Magianos, who killed Broward and tried to kill me. I’m sleeping with the fucking enemy. Even worse, I’m in love with the enemy.
I rolled over, curling into a ball, snapshots of the last few weeks shuttering through my mind. He had opened me up so much, pushed me so far past my sexual boundaries, stolen his way into and consumed my heart. At a time when everything had gone to hell and I didn’t know where to turn, he had been my constant, my strength. The man I had trusted my safety to. And now this. Brad Magiano, not De Luca. A first name I loved combined with a last name I despised. The man I had turned to was the one I should have run from. I didn’t know what bothered me more, the new danger facing my body or the risk I had brought to my heart.