And the five-year-old girl didn’t pay attention to me either. Her attention was focused on Magnus. She smiled at him shyly, and hugged the woman’s leg as they went by us. I wanted to tell her it was okay, he didn’t bite, she could pet him if she wanted, but my voice was gone. Next time. Maybe I could tell her next time.
I drank up her face, her clothes, her smile. Her face became freshly etched in my mind, to remain as it was now, until the next time I saw her.
And then they were gone.
I resisted the desire to glance backward. I couldn’t afford to draw the woman’s attention, or she might notice some strange details.
Like how they met us every morning on their way to the girl’s school. Every single morning.
Like how whenever the girl called her “mommy” as they walked by, I would wince and look away, almost as if I’d been slapped.
Like how her adopted daughter’s eyes looked just like mine—large, round, and chocolatey.
By the time Anthony “Breadknife” Cisternino entered my shop, I was on my third cup of coffee, nursing a raging headache, and feeling as if sleeping with the fishes would be a nice relief.
He instantly dominated the room, as he always did, wherever he was. Breadknife had a sort of charm going for him—intense dark eyes, an expression of some deeper understanding of the universe, and a face that had aged incredibly well. His hair was silvery-white and long, reaching almost to his shoulders. Of course, once you knew him well enough, you realized this charm hid a ruthless, violent, and cold individual. You could put all his compassion and conscience in an envelope, and still have room left for a letter.
I’d heard a joke about him once: “How many Breadknives does it take to change a light bulb? Two. One to change the light bulb, and one to kill you for asking dumb questions.”
If gangsters had a good sense of humor, they’d be comedians instead.
Following in his wake were two of his scariest goons. Matteo “Ear” Ricci was about thirty-five, sleek, with an emotionless face. He was called “Ear” not because he listened well, but because he was known to bite the ears off people when enraged. Rumor claimed he either ate them later or pickled them and kept them as souvenirs, but I was not one to believe bullshit. When I was a young girl, living with the rest of Breadknife’s gang, Matteo had a knack for tormenting all the weak kids, stealing our money and cigarettes, occasionally groping or pinching a girl who walked past him. Whenever I saw him, a flame of hatred instantly kindled in my heart.
The other, Steve O’Sullivan, was my age, and we had originally joined Breadknife’s gang two days apart. He was a bit short, his head square; someone had once joked that he was the perfect shape to be a coffee table. Ha ha ha, he was dead minutes later. Steve was the perfect soldier. He had no original thoughts in his flat head, followed orders without asking questions, and was good at hurting and killing. Despite our acquaintance, he showed no sign of recognition when he glanced at me. Not because he didn’t know who I was, but because for him, it didn’t matter.
“Lou,” Breadknife greeted me with a warm smile. “You’re looking well! Being a shop owner really agrees with you.”
“Thanks, Mr. Cisternino.” I smiled demurely, my heart thumping hard.
“Lou, please, how long have we known each other? Call me Anthony. And how are Sinead and Isabel these days? I haven’t seen them in so long.”
I shrugged, not wanting to drag my friends into the mud with me. “Would you like something to drink… Anthony?”
His eyes locked with mine for a long second, and the charm seemed to seep away from his fixed smile. “Usually when I come here, there’s an envelope on the counter. The first thing you tell me is ‘Here’s your money.’ As if you can’t wait for me to leave—”
“It’s always a pleasure to have you here.”
“Of course it is. But today, there is no envelope. And you are very polite and hospitable.” He looked around him at the store’s shelves, as if wondering if his money was hiding somewhere in the room. “Where is my money, Lou?”
I swallowed. “I’m short.”
“Are you.” It was not positioned as a question. It was more of a statement, with a veiled threat underlying the two syllables.
“I got robbed yesterday. I had it all, but four assholes jumped me… I have a bruise to show for it. They took my bag with all the money I’d made. I have some money in the safe. It was supposed to be for the rent, but maybe I can work something out with the landlord. So it can be an advance, and then next week—”
“An advance.” He frowned, as if I had spoken in Klingon. “It really is a terrible world, when a woman can’t even go to her home without being jumped by criminals. You know, that shouldn’t be a problem for someone as clever as you. I could prevent any further attacks on you. All people need to know is that Lou Vitalis is back with Cisternino, and no one would dare touch you again. I guarantee it. I would even forgive this unfortunate debt you’ve accrued.”
I clenched my fist and gave my head a slight shake. Never again.
He sighed, as if saddened by the folly of youth. “Well… there is the issue of your monthly payment.”
“If you just give me a week… I’ll give you all I have right now, and some really expensive products as collateral.”
“Products?” He quirked his brow. “So I get a small part of my payment, and a jar full of newt eyes as assurance?”
“I have some crystals that—”
Matteo “Ear” Ricci stepped forward, and with a casual swipe, knocked all the jars from one of the shelves to the floor. Three shattered, a putrid smell rising. I glanced at the spilled liquids, praying none of them contained anything poisonous. Luckily, they didn’t. Gripping the counter, I tried to avoid letting my fear show. The blood drained from my face. My hands began to tingle with warmth.
“You know me better than that, Lou,” Breadknife said in a low voice.
Magnus yipped from the bedroom where I had locked him, and I prayed Breadknife wouldn’t notice. God only knew what this monster would do to my puppy.
“As it happens, I have an alternative,” Breadknife continued. “I have a job that needs a professional. It needs the best. It needs you, Lou.”
“I don’t do jobs anymore, Mr. Cisternino,” I said weakly.
“I offer you to come back to my family, and you spit in my face. I suggest an alternative form of payment, and you refuse it,” Breadknife said. His eyes were cold and angry flints. “Very well. Steve, get the gas.”
Steve turned around and left the shop, slamming the door behind him.
“What gas?” I asked.
“This store is insured, yes? I assume that considering your… flammable occupation, it’s insured against fires?”
I remained silent.
“After it burns down, you’ll have the money.”
We stood in silence. Every few seconds, Magnus barked beyond the door. Steve returned with a large red fuel container. He uncorked it and tipped it to the floor. Gasoline began spilling on the wooden boards.
“Wait,” I said.
Steve splashed some gasoline on one of the shelves. Matteo took out a golden lighter, flipping its lid open.
“You should get out of here before it all catches on fire,” Breadknife said.