Page 8 of Mistletoe & Mayhem
“Not like this.”
He slides a file across the desk, leatherette, expensive, stained faintly where his thumb pressed out his own blood. Stamped on the top: FINAL.
I don’t touch it. “Why me?”
“You’re the only one I trust. The only one I own.” He leans back, exhaling blue smoke. “And after this, you’ll be free.”
I laugh. It’s a brittle sound, almost a cough. “Your kind of freedom, or the real thing?”
“Whatever you want it to be.” His lip twitches, almost fondly. “Address in Lenox Hill. One target. Alone. No witnesses, no casualties. Gino drives. He’ll confirm when it’s done.”
I open the file, skimming names and numbers. No photo, just an address and a time. I look at him, waiting for the catch.
“Who is it?” I ask. My voice is flat, dead asphalt.
“Does it matter?”
It does, but not for the reasons he thinks. I need to know if I’ll dream about it after.
“I’ll go,” I say, tucking the file under my arm. “But after this, I’m gone. No more. You won’t see me again.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Laura. You’re a Stasio. You don’t get gone. You get old, or dead, or both.” He ashes his cigar into a bronze dish, eyes shifting to the window, to the slice of night beyond. “But maybe you’ll get lucky.”
I stand, and for the first time in years, I feel something stir beneath my ribs. It’s small and mean, but it’s alive: hope, or a shape like it. I walk out without waiting for permission.
Gino sits up when he sees me, smearing donut glaze from his cheek with the back of his hand. “Well?”
“I need to be at Lenox Hill tomorrow by dusk. There’s a place to stake out across the street. I’ll need to prepare.” I slide into the seat, slamming the door harder than I need to.
“Another one?” He sounds sorry, which is almost worse than if he laughed.
I shake my head. “Last one.”
He starts the engine, glancing at me in the mirror. “You always say that.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe this time it’s true.”
We drive. Rain begins to splatter the windshield, carving the city into streaks of glass and color. I lean back, rest my head against the seat, and let the rhythm pull me under.
For a while, I think of nothing, which is better than most days.
Chapter 7
Laura
Iroll out of bed, feet hitting the hardwood floor of my brownstone in the Village with a hollow thud. The slant of amber light across the wall tells me I've slept through morning, noon, and most of afternoon again. This place—four walls, a roof, my name on a deed—remains just a container, not a home. Through the half-open window, I hear dogs in the park howling at distant sirens, a dusk chorus marking another day I've half-survived rather than lived.
Standing in front of the bathroom vanity, I fish a crust of blood from under my thumbnail and flick it into the sink. It’s not mine; my hands are clean. Still, it lingers, the sticky substance of someone else’s mistakes. I scrub with lemon and salt until the skin peels raw, until the smell is gone, or at least until it’s replaced. There’s a comfort in the sting. Something to remind me I’m awake.
The woman next door is fighting with her boyfriend again. His voice cuts through the drywall—all jagged consonants and slurred accusations that vibrate the shared pipes. She responds in piercing soprano bursts that make my molars ache, her words climbing higher with each exchange until they crack like thin ice. I press my ear against the cool plaster and wish them death inthe casual way you might wish for rain during a mild drought—a fleeting thought without conviction, just something to fill the space between heartbeats.
While my stomach rumbles, I pour myself a bowl of cereal and eat it standing over the sink. If you gave me a thousand years, I would not find my way back to the taste of fresh fruit. Everything has changed and joy is non-existent. Not even the upcoming holiday gives me any joy.
I check my phone: two missed calls from my father, a single text from Gino, no new voicemails. This is either very good or very bad.
I brush my teeth, tie my hair into a fist at the base of my neck, and slide into the closet.The black jumpsuit clings to me like a second skin, designed for slipping through spaces and remain unseen. On my knees, I slide panels from the back wall, exposing the crawlspace. The rifle is in its case, wrapped in an oilcloth that smells like old coins and disinfectant. I cradle it like a child, hating myself a little, hating the world more.
I text Gino:
