All conversation had ceased when I’d walked in, and the room was still unearthly silent, the air so tense, it was enough to choke on.
No one moved.
So far, so good.
“You know who I am?” I asked.
No one responded.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” I said. “Do you know why I’m here?”
There were a few grumbles, and then, finally, a man who stood leaning against the back wall spoke. “There’s been a change in management.”
“Yes, Vincent. There’s been a change in management,” I replied.
His eyes widened and then narrowed at my use of his name. “I didn’t know we’d been introduced,” he said.
“We haven’t been, but I know who you are. All of you,” I said, looking away from Vincent to the other men.
“Is that a threat?” Vincent asked.
I looked back to him. Either he was reckless or he spoke for the others. I hadn’t decided which yet. But I was a little surprised. I’d thought Michael would be the one speaking, but he’d stayed silent, looking almost disinterested in the conversation.
“No. No threats. I hope we’ll all have a long and mutually beneficial relationship,” I said.
“So we’re supposed to buy this Syndicate bullshit?” Vincent said.
“Buy it. Don’t. It makes no difference to me. Just understand that whether you believe it or not, the Syndicate exists, and from now until forever, you work for it and no one else,” I said.
“And if we don’t?” Vincent said.
“What would Santo do?” was my reply.
Vincent shrugged. “If someone disobeyed, he’d punch them until he got tired, and then kick them to death.”
“The Syndicate will do much worse,” I said.
Vincent didn’t respond, but he didn’t ask any more questions either.
“Looks like I’ve gotten my point across. I’m going to talk to all of you separately. Wait around, Vincent,” I said. “I’ll talk to you last.”
* * *
Daniela
I squeezed the porcelain container I held, wrapped my fingers around it tight, needing something to hold on to.
My heart was racing, racing so fast I could barely breathe, let alone move, so I waited, praying for calm to take over me. I could do this. I would do this, and the sooner I did it, the sooner I could leave.
Still, it wasn’t until long minutes later that I managed to move myself out of the car. I walked up the rickety front steps and knocked at the weathered door frame.
Then I waited.
I didn’t bother to look around. I’d seen this house before, the neighborhood before, and I knew what would greet me should I choose to look.
Desperation, despair, most of it wrought by the man I called Father.
Ironic that he was here now, and I no longer was, but this was not the place or moment to consider irony. When dealing with Santo, I needed all the focus I could muster.
I heard heavy, plodding footsteps, and then waited as the door swung open.
“Daniela,” Rita said. She blinked fast, her dull brown hair almost covering her eyes, but I could still see the edge in them, the weariness. And I well knew its cause.
“Hello, Rita,” I said, trying to give my most sympathetic smile. “Is he in?”
Rita nodded and then pulled the door open and moved aside. I stepped in and looked at her. Rita was only three years older than me, but it would be hard to look at her and tell. Rita had once been far more beautiful than I ever could have hoped to be, but the time, the stress had caught up with her. She’d been married off to one of my father’s associates, and what had once been a youthful face was now worn down with stress and disappointment. It weighed on her now, made her shoulders slump, her features droop, made even the simplest movement seem like a great chore.
Her new houseguest wasn’t helping matters, I was sure.
“He’s in the living room,” she said.
The simple sentence held the weight of all that she couldn’t say, but I held her gaze for a moment, let her know that I understood. Then I stepped farther inside the house, trying to ignore the faintly mildewed scent of the carpet. There was no doubt the place had seen better days, but it was still clear that Rita tried to keep it up.
Its other occupants, not so much.
I followed the sound of voices to the living room and stopped in the doorway.
He saw me, but he didn’t stop speaking, too enraptured in the story I had heard before.
“So, I have this fucking guy. Got my arm around his neck,” Santo said from where he sat on the couch. He hadn’t gotten to the good part, but I knew what was coming. Davey did too, but that didn’t keep him from looking at Santo, seeming to hang on his every word, as he asked, “What did you do?”