Page 44 of Savage Empire
“My God, yes,” I answer, breathing out a huff. “What do you want to know next? My blood type? Social security number?”
“Not yet.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Apollo doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls a handgun from the small of his back, careful not to point it at me as he holds it up. It’s medium-sized, matte black, and clean as a whistle.
“This is yours now,” he starts, releasing the magazine to show me that it’s loaded. The gold ammunition disappears back into the gun as he shifts it in his hands. “The chamber is empty, otherwise known as condition three. You’ll need to rack the slide before you fire. There’s no safety, so don’t look for one. It’s a 9mm, so it shouldn’t recoil too badly for you, but it likely won’t inflict detrimental wounds unless you hit head or heart. Someone comes for you, you empty the mag into center mass, yes?”
“What if there’s more than one person?”
“You’ll have two extra magazines, both loaded.” Turning, Apollo opens the drawer on the right side of the island counter. “It lives here now.” Dropping the gun softly into the drawer, he adds the other two promised magazines and gently rolls the cavity shut. Spinning back around, he meets my eye. “Any questions?”
“Yeah, do you play fairy gun-father to everyone you know, or just me and Yordan?”
He smirks, almost like he wants to chuckle. “Your timer is about to go off.” His head nods, gesturing over my shoulder to the oven clock.
“Great,” I grumble. “You can go get the other two, then. Dinner is about to be served.”
If he stays in the kitchen for even a moment longer, I don’t notice. I busy myself by pulling things out of the oven and shutting off the burners on the stove top. Everything looks and smells good, but I’m too unnerved from Apollo’s presence to enjoy it.
“Thank God,” a familiar voice chimes happily. “I’m starved. What’s for dinner, sis?” Yordan practically skips up to the counter, sporting a wide grin while Elio and Apollo trail in behind him.
“I made fried chicken, loaded baked potatoes, and garlic zucchini,” I say, setting a stack of plates on the counter. “It’s the best I could come up with on short notice. I couldn’t very well make a pasta dish for two Italians. I know better than that.”
“Ahh, we’re not that harsh of critics.” Elio chuckles, waving me off.
“Are you sure about that?” I challenge, grabbing a couple drinks from the fridge. Some soft drinks, water, and juices to choose from. “When I make pasta, I use boxed spaghetti and break it in half.”
“Sacrilege!” Elio gasps, clutching his chest.
I roll my eyes. “Exactly.”
“No, no, no,” Elio continues, shaking his head. “We can’t just speed past this. You have to vow to never do such a thing ever again.”
“It’s better broken in half,” I say, waving a dismissive hand. “Noodles that are long as fuck are annoying. I’ll never stop and I’m not sorry.”
Elio looks pained, physically wincing. “Gesù Cristo, please never mention this if you meet Martha. She’ll have a heart attack.”
“Martha?”
“Their chef,” Yordan answers, grabbing a plate. “And caretaker, I think? She seems to do a little bit of everything and she already loves me. So, don’t ruin it by confessing your pasta sins, all right?”
“You love my pasta,” I scoff. “Keep up the sass, and I’ll tell her as much.”
Yordan shakes his head, grinning. “I’ll deny it.”
“Whatever.” My arms fold over my chest. “Fill your plates, we can eat at the table or in the living room. Whatever is going to make this dinner from hell less awkward.”
Within a few minutes, all of their plates are piled high with food. Once they disappear into the living room, I fix myself a small portion, enough to where I’ll satisfy my hunger and can eat more later if I want. My stomach is a little uneasy with nerves, and I’m never super in the mood for food after cooking more than a quick meal.
Mybabacalled the phenomenon the chef’s curse. As a Bulgarian grandma, she was no stranger to cooking for large family gatherings. And each night without fail, she hardly ate any of the delicious food she prepared. When you cook for yourself, you do it because you’re hungry. When you cook for others, you stop thinking about yourself and fixate on what will make them happy instead. It’s not always a bad thing, but a strange feeling all the same.
The TV is playing some kind of MMA fight when I join the men, sitting down in an arm chair whilst they share the large couch. No one says a word, but Yordan swallows whatever food he’s currently chewing to smile at me in greeting.
I force a passable smile in return, and start to eat slowly, pretending to be interested in the violence on screen. I’m not sure how, but I don’t think the men on screen are professional fighters in the traditional sense. I’m 90 percent sure these are made men, and this is an underground fighting stream of some sort. I wouldn’t be surprised if Elio and Apollo knew the men who were bloodying each other personally—or at least the people running the illegal event.
“Apollo says he’s getting me a tutor,” Yordan says, finally breaking the silence. “He won’t let me work with the family unless I finish school.”
