Page 73 of Bullseye
He lifts his shotgun, pointing it at me, and I raise my hands in response.
“Avery Pairings. Friends call me ‘Bullseye’.”
“We ain’t your friends.”
“I know that. But Don Bordono is. Call him.” Nodding to the guardhouse, I point to the guard’s phone. “He’ll want to see me.”
“You got a set…” the guard mumbles, keeping his gun on me.
“Joe, wait.” Another guard—this one thinner and taller—materializes. Even though my father is in deep with the Bordonos, and I was with them for a year, I don’t know either of these men. “The boss called. He knows this punk. Wants to see him.”
Without a word, the second guard walks up to me and pats me down. Thankfully, I knew enough to store my piece in my tail bag, and I’m not carrying.
“He’s clean.” The way his voice trails off and his pitch drops, the second guard sounds disappointed I’m not packing. Must not be a lot to do around here lately. Just wait, boys. Just wait.
Using the barrel of his gun to point the way, the first guard motions to the house. “Come on, cumwad, you’re not gonna keep the boss waiting.”
Exhaling, I walk ahead of the two men, and it’s like I can actually feel the guns pointed at my back. In another place and time, I would have spun around, grabbed both guns, and shot the assholes—dead.
A cold chill passes over me, and I close my eyes and collect my thoughts. But it’s not then, it’s now. And enough with the killing.
Standing at the front door, the taller guard presses the doorbell and it opens quickly. A man in his mid-sixties and dressed in an expensive suit—Benny Bordono, consigliere of the Bordono family and Don Bordono’s younger brother—answers. The fact that he answered the door shows that they’d never suspect I would hurt them. Ironclad’s plan is foolproof.
“Bullseye.”
“Benny.”
Benny pulls me into his warm, sweaty embrace, then, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, walks me through the main hallway and toward the don’s business office. We pass a sitting room stuffed with oil paintings, leather couches, opulent lamps, and walls covered in heavy, red-textured wallpaper.
“I gotta tell you, Bullseye, this is a surprise.” His breath reeks of expensive brandy. “Life not treating you well in Arizona?”
Another chill washes over me. Obviously, they knew where I was, but hearing him say it…
“No, it’s great. Really.” Or at least it was until freaking Mikey and Tony got out.
“Knock, knock?” Benny stops at the don’s office door, which is cracked open. He’s expecting us. Benny knocks on the frame for emphasis.
“Come in, come in.” Don’s voice is cordial and enthusiastic.
As I walk into his office, I’m overwhelmed by the smell of brandy and cigars and the feel of the warmth from the modern fireplace that’s built into the floor-to-ceiling stone wall.
Don Bordono lays his cigar in his silver ashtray on his mammoth wood and marble desk and gets up from his leather desk chair, fanning the air as he does. “You know Mimi won’t let me smoke anywhere but here.” He shrugs happily. He loves Mimi. “But if Mama ain’t happy—”
“—no one’s happy.”
I finish his statement for him as he comes to a full stop before me.
“Avery, Avery, Avery…” He repeats my name like he’s making sure that I’m real. Like a grandparent seeing a grandchild for the first time in a year.
He opens his arms, and I step into his embrace. I’m taller than he is, so I squat down. Pressed against his suit; what must be thousands of dollars of the finest Italian merino wool, I’m being held too tight, but I don’t dare move. Holding my breath, I wait. Don Bordono has his ways, and anyone who’s been with him long enough knows them. There are no bro-hugs in this world.
If he trusts you, you are embraced with both of his stocky arms wrapped around you—like I am now. That’s good. But it’s where it goes from here that matters.
Pulling back, he clamps one of his chubby, smallish hands on the back of my neck and holds my cheek, slapping it slightly as I smile. That’s a sign of love.
Still not daring to breathe, I wait for the next moment that will tell all.
A kiss on either cheek by Don Bordono is a death sentence.
