Page 6 of The Taker

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, theNueva Nottesymbol 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,Summoningby 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 Pompieriis easily almost as expensive asSquisito.

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 Pompieriis 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 pushesthem 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?

---