Page 39 of My Dark Fairy Tale
“Says who? The internet?”
“I read like forty forums and blogs from locals,” she retorted.
“Well, one of them should have mentioned this has become a popular spot for drug deals,” I snapped. “With your self-proclaimed bad luck, how long do you think it will take for you to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “This is Florence. Compared to most other cities in the country, it has a really low crime rate. And don’t even get me started on comparing it to big cities back home in the States. You’re being silly.”
“Silly?” I echoed.
“Si,” she said with a sharp nod. “Sciocco.”
“She ridicules me in my own tongue,” I murmured, once again shocked by her gumption. “You know, most women would thank me for looking out for them.”
“Maybe you should spend the day with them instead.” She smiled sweetly, tossed her hair over her shoulder, and got out of the car.
It gave me time to lock down my grin before I followed suit and joined her at the door to the flats.
“I can meet Signora Verga without your help,” she groused.
I ignored her, but when the buzz sounded and the door unlocked, I did not immediately follow her into the building. After catching the door before it could close, I wedged a loose brick into the jamb and then turned to face the cluster of young men a few yards away.
They did not notice me approaching at first. Probably because they were high.
But when a skinhead caught sight of me, he glared and nudged his friends with his elbows.
“Hey, asshole,” he called in Italian, thin chest puffed out, a fanny pack worn crossed over it in the style of trendy teenagers. “What the fuck do you want?”
It was an easy mistake to make. A young man thinking he could prove himself by throwing words like knives at a well-dressed civilian walking down the street. An easy mark for an unprovoked attack that would make him cool to his friends in crime.
Only I wasn’t a civilian.
I was a camorrista, acapo dei capiof my territory.
I had the satisfaction of watching his bravado crack down the middle when I continued my quick, strong strides toward him. It crumbled completely when one of his friends turned, saw me, and gasped before muttering quickly, “È il gentiluomo mafioso.”
The Gentleman Mafioso.
Such a stupid nickname, but one my best friend had given to me the first time I killed a man in cold blood. It was my eighteenth birthday, and my father told me if I wanted to be allowed to leave the country for college, I had to prove my loyalty to the family.
Andnella mafia, the only way to prove anything was to write it in blood.
To this day, I have no idea what the poorbastardohad done to cross Aldo Romano, but that was the point. A loyal member of the Camorra followed orders without needing context.
I was dragged out of bed at dawn by my father, still in boxers and bare feet as we crossed the courtyard into the rows of vines separatingthe main house from the barn. A man was waiting within, tied to a chair, wearing a stained, ruined suit that had once been worth a lot of money. My father’s consigliere, Tonio, was there, and, shockingly, my best friend, Leo.
It was Leo, stern faced, who handed me the gun.
“Kill him,” my father had ordered as he sat in a wooden chair at a table near the back wall set with a moka espresso maker and a hand-painted ceramic cup and saucer.
He proceeded to pour himself an espresso and ignore us entirely, looking over documents someone had left for him to peruse.
“You have to,” Leo told me in a quiet murmur before Tonio reeled him to his side with a hand on his shoulder.
“Please,” the man who had wronged my family begged as I stepped closer. He was much older than me, his skin sallow and flaccid from too much drink. There was a fine sheen of grease on his flesh from old sweat merging with new, and a dribble of blackening blood on his mouth. “Please, I have a family.”
I could still remember the weight of the gun in my hand, how warm it was from Leo’s grip before mine. I’d been taught to shoot almost as soon as I could walk, so it felt natural in my hand, the way a glove might feel to a sportsman.
Except this was the only sport I’d ever been trained at.
