The next day, I did everything I could to avoid thinking about the contents of the letter — or my realization that my entire family had been murdered. I sprawled on the couch in my pajamas. At times, I napped to make up for the previous sleepless night. Other times, I tuned into old black and white movies on the American classics station. I did everything to avoid thinking. But I knew I’d have to show the letter to my godfather. I’d head down to Carmel the next day.
I wondered if he already knew about Christopher’s death. If so, I was sure he was relieved.
It was the information in the letter I was really worried about. The revelation that my parents had been murdered would be devastating to him. He was my parents’ oldest and dearest friend. They had all grown up together in the same small Sicilian town. News that they were murdered might trigger a stroke or heart attack. I’d definitely have to warn his nurse before I let him read the letter.
By nighttime, I was restless. I ripped open my closet and threw all my clothes onto my bed. Finally, I settled on my favorite outfit, my super soft and worn-in leather pants, an oversized white T-shirt and a black blazer. I tugged on some Beatles-style flat boots and grabbed my apartment keys. I needed to get out of my place. So many things were racing through my mind I couldn’t sit still. A few drinks would quiet my mind.
The second I walked in the door of Anarchy, the bartender, Scott, caught my eye and nodded so that by the time I made it through the Saturday late night crowd, he’d run off the college kids in my regular spot and had a tumbler of Patron waiting. I downed the clear amber liquid, savoring the tingling warmth in my throat and pushed the glass back toward him without saying hello.
He didn’t raise an eyebrow, just refilled my glass.
I didn’t bring up my tiff with him last week for cutting me off. Four hours later, he was wiping down the bar when he nudged my head. My cheek was sticking to something gooey on the smooth wood.
“Gia? You want me call a cab?”
I grumbled and a few minutes later Scott had his hands under both my arms and was carrying me out to the sidewalk and depositing me in a cab.
“10 Jones Street,” Scott said and slammed the cab door shut.
“For Christ’s sake, she can’t walk two blocks?”
“Fuck offfff.” I hollered from the backseat. They ignored me. But Scott must have handed the cabbie some cash because the car lurched forward. I think I dozed off for a second because the next thing I knew my doorman had lifted me from the cab and dumped me in the elevator.
Pushing him away, I said, “I’m fine. Just sleepy.”
Before he closed the door, he rummaged around in my bag and put my house key in my palm. I threw it on the elevator floor.
“Ms. Santella, this elevator comes back down here with you in it, I won’t have a choice, I’ll have to call your godfather . . .”
“Oh, fuck it. I’m fine, God damn it.” My words were slurred, but I didn’t care. So, what? Was it suddenly against the law to tie one on? My godfather paid for my place out of the trust, but that didn’t mean he was in charge of me. I was twenty-three-years old for Christ’s sakes.
Lying in my bed a few minutes later with the room spinning, I wasn’t fine. I was fucked up. Again. At least this time I didn’t have some stranger in bed with me.
I drifted off to thoughts of my mother and father in bed with bullet holes through their foreheads. The nightmares grew in intensity until I woke with fright. Something was in my room.
Two shapes at the foot of my bed stood right near where the bright moonlight stretched in from the long wall of window.
My eyes were slits while I surreptitiously curled my hand near my head. It came back with my gun aimed at one guy’s crotch. I raised myself slowly to my knees and without looking, clicked on my bedside lap. Seeing the gun, the man closest to my bed put up his hands.
“Tell your buddy to toss his gun over here,” I said.
“Easy, now,” said one guy, dressed in designer slacks and a silk shirt. He looked like he’d been stuck on the 1970s train for a few years. He put out his hand in defense as if that would stop a bullet. The other guy near my dresser, wearing black jeans and a tight black T-shirt, must have been the muscle. He gave me the stink eye.
“Do it!” My voice was hoarse. I remembered then that I’d bummed half a dozen cigarettes off the guy at the bar beside me.
“Okay, okay,” the 70s-guy nodded. The muscle shrugged, pulled a heavy looking gun out of his holster and tossed it on the floor by the bathroom door with a heavy thud. Still closer to him than me. Shit.
“Yours too.”
The 70s-guy sighed and pulled a smaller gun out of his waistband, tossing it onto the bed, “We’re just here to talk.”
I didn’t want to talk.
I aimed to the left of the 70s-guy’s crotch and released the safety. The guy jumped about a foot. “Easy now,” he said again. “We tried knocking.”
“Get the fuck out of my place. Now.” My hand was shaking, from adrenaline, fear, and the weight of the gun, but my voice was steel. I was naked but I leaped out of my covers and onto my bed, standing with the gun held in both hands before me.
“Look at my tits and you die.”
The men both held their hands up and raised their eyes. “Jesus H. Christ. We just got a message. From your godfather.” The 70s-man’s voice was even.
My godfather? I lowered the gun. The 70s-man started walking my way.
“He wants you to come back with us. To his house.”
“In the middle of the fucking night? Are you crazy?” I held the gun back up.
“Like I said, I don’t ask questions of Mr. Guidi.”
That made sense. Maybe my godfather heard about Christopher’s death and sent these two goons to escort me safely to Monterey.
That’s when I saw something behind the muscle. On top of my dresser, beside my perfume bottles, lay a pair of black gloves, a coil of rope, and a duffel bag with a black plastic roll sticking out of it.
They weren’t here to talk.
My face grew warm. That’s when I knew.
The warrior knows that there are times in life when we must fight to the death. When every day becomes a battle. When we lose all faith in everything we’ve known, in everyone we’ve known, when our closest allies have become our enemies. When we realize that if we must die, we will go down fighting: ripping, kicking, biting, scratching, tearing and punching. We fight to the last breath and never ever give in or give up.
Someone wanted me dead, too. My own godfather. My knees grew weak. In an attempt to disguise it, I kneeled down onto my bed. Keeping my eyes on the men I reached behind me, under my pillow. When I snapped the silencer on, the 70s-guy started hopping from foot to foot.
“We’ll leave now.”
“Fuck you.” My intention had been to shoot them both in the legs and then run. But I thought better of it. I needed some things from my place first. Besides, they seemed to be paying a little bit more attention to me now that I’d put the silencer on the gun.
“I’m going to ask you to slowly turn around and walk out of my bedroom. I’m going to be right behind you. You’re going to walk to my front door, walk down the hall to the elevator, get in and never come back. My gun has Teflon-coated slugs, you morons might know them as Cop Killers, so if either one of you monkey around, I’ll shoot both of you through the back with one bullet. Got it?”
The 70s-guy nodded. The muscle guy looked bored.
I followed them, my entire body shaking, the weight of the gun almost unbearable. I waited until my front door clicked closed. I slid the deadbolt and stuck my eye to the peephole. It wasn’t until their backs disappeared into the elevator that the full implication of what happened hit me. I slumped to the floor, holding my head in my hands. My own godfather, the one person left on earth I thought loved me, wanted me dead.