Page 8 of Dima's Vision
She beams at me, throwing the large duffel bag, almost the size of her, over her shoulder. “Get used to that feeling, my friend. It’s bound to happen again if you stick with me.”
The thought of me sticking with her has joy radiating through my body. Everything about this woman seems to speak to my soul. She’s light, fun, kooky and yet deadly. She reminds me a lot of the women of the DRMC in Rose Grove, Texas. All those Ol Ladies are wild, loving, protective. Some are deadlier than others, some sweet and fun. Somehow, La Strega is all of them rolled into one.
She uncaps the large bottle she removed from her duffel bag, stepping toward Giuseppe and tipping the contents on his corpse. There’s a terrible acrid smell then the scent of burnt hair fills the factory.
“Well, who thought a balding man would smell of burnt hair? Not me,” she snorts, then turns to look at me expectantly.
I stare back, struck once more by her beauty and the secrets that swirl behind her eyes. She raises her brows at me, hands open palm out as if asking me something.
“Where are we going to find Glen? You’re the finder dude, right?”
Looking to the open second floor of the factory where walkways lead to the open tops of the vats, I stare into the shadows but I know it’s no use. He was spooked by La Madrina, and as soon as La Strega stepped into the factory Glenn was off my radar completely. My head throbs in time with my heart and my vision hazes momentarily before clearing.
“Yeah, I know where to find him.” I hold my hand out and she glares at it as if it’s going to bite her. “You can trust me,Ved’ma moya,”
“That’s the problem,” she mutters, begrudgingly slapping her small hand into mine.
I suppress my chuckle as I lead her to my car. I find myself doing that a lot since meeting her. My hand tugs backward and I stop, looking over my shoulder, met with La Strega’s frown.
“Presumptuous of you to think we’ll take your car.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder pointing to a mint green VW Beetle.
I look between her and the car, then back again. I get that she probably doesn’t want to get into a car with a stranger and all but I’m not sure that car screams incognito.
“La Strega, my ability to do my work relies on me being unseen. A ghost, if you will.”
She gives me a dubious look. “How can you go unseen, Mr. Ghost? From where I’m standing you’re a tall drink of pussy-quivering hotness. There’s no way people don’t see you coming from a mile away.” As soon as the words leave her mouth she frowns slightly, something about that thought having displeased her.
I raise my shoulder slightly, “I don’t know how it works,Ved’ma moya, all I know is people don’t see me.”
She seems offended by that. “That’s sad. And people are assholes. But I’m not, and I’m not getting in a car with a man I only just met. So either you come with me, or we go separately. Your call.”
La Strega
Keep your eyes on the road, Kristie. Do not look at the huge blonde man stuffed into your passenger seat, looking like he’s about to rip the Jesus handle right off my car. Instead Iconcentrate on zipping in and out of the traffic as we make our way from the Mancini Sugar refinery to the Lower Ninth Ward. I know my driving is making him uncomfortable, so I slow it down a little. I mean, I know I’m safe. Ever since I was a kid I’ve managed to dodge death. First my parents were killed in a car accident. My father was a Mancini capo and our vehicle was t-boned by a rival Mafia. According to reports it rolled four times, stopping its mangled journey against a large oak tree. Me and my carseat were thrown from the vehicle and the first responders found me at the tree base, unharmed.
Next came my godmother who took me in after my parents’ death. Aunt Mimi raised me for seven years, until a trip to the grocery store ended in an armed robbery. She and the clerk were shot dead as I stood there holding her hand. Then there was a revolving door of family members, each of them unlucky enough to have been blessed with my presence until the day of their untimely deaths. At fifteen I ran away and found refuge on the streets until Mama Celene found me. She saw me, really saw me. She taught me what I had was a gift, not a curse. She taught me how to harness it, use it to my advantage, to survive. With her at my side we cultivated the myth of the curse, so much so that people left me alone. No one in Orleans wants to tempt fate by hurting the little girl who will bring death to your door. Ten years on and La Madrina found me, helped me turn my gift into power. Those secrets I hear? Yeah, they’ve made me wealthier than I could ever imagine. The killing is a side hustle. I’m good at it and love the rush.
“You know where you’re going,” Dima says, not a question, a statement.
“Yeah, I grew up in the Lower Ninth.” Even with my eyes on the road I can see him turn his head to look at me. Study me. He seems to keep doing that.
“You’re Mancini Mafia, what were you doing down here?”
Ugh. I never open up. There’s no point. Aside from Mama Celene and La Madrina I never see people more than once. It doesn’t pay to get attached when there’s always the threat of death there. Theirs, not mine. But something about Dima calls to me. People like us are a rare breed. We’ve been given gifts that can redeem or destroy. Gifts like that leave a mark on your soul, something that other people,normalpeople will never understand. It’s this very thought that has my gut clench when he slides his large, rough hand onto mine as it rests on my Hello Kitty fluffy steering wheel, gripping me ever so gently for a moment that could have been a millisecond, or an eternity, before he lets me go.
“Mozhes’ doverit’ mne svoi tayny,” he murmurs, his deep voice filling the tiny car with his vow.
“What does that mean?” I slant my eyes toward him, then snap them back at the road, honking my horn at a reckless driver.
A huff to my right has me glancing at him, mesmerised at how a grin changes the whole look of this face. The angles soften, his baby blues dance. “It means you can trust me with your secrets.”
I nod absently. This man throws me off kilter. I still can’t tell if it’s in a good way or not, but fuck it, I don’t have anything to lose. After we get rid of this Glenn loser and maybe hopefully fuck each other’s brains out, we’ll go our separate ways and he’ll be a fond memory of someone I connected with on a deeper level.
“I ran away once all my blood relatives died. It’s part of the curse of loving me I guess.” I glance in his direction, shrugging. I ignore the way his jaw clenches at that piece of information. “Anyway, when you carry a curse such as mine it makes living on the streets pretty safe. And then when I was 16 I met MamaCelene. She helped me learn how to use what I can do to my advantage.”
“Hitwoman.”
“Hey, not everyone can do this job. It’s an honest-ish profession and keeps me in Doc Martens and girly underwear.” I give him an exaggerated wink and snort when the tips of his ears pinken.
