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The aftermath is oblivion.
I sit and wait, while my mind screams at me to leave.
Go, it says. Go and leave Carlos and the others to their fate. Leave this old house with its old memories to its fate.
Go with Gavin, your love. The one person who hasn’t betrayed you. Who loves you – or did before at least.
I pat Jane absently. She has lowered her head to the ground, slumped into a crumple. She knows. There’s no way we’re leaving here.
This old house and its old memories are all I have left of my parents now. I can’t let the Rebel Saints destroy it.
And what of Maria Fernanda? I can’t just leave her here to die, there would’ve been no time to alert her, to save her. Where is she now?
I try to stand up, but my body refuses to move.
And those girls, all those girls, the whole business. I need to fix it. I just need time. A few months. A few months to make the business legitimate, get it off the ground, then I can hand control over to someone else. Then, only then, can I be free.
I owe it to those girls, my family, myself.
I stand up, slide the armchair back in place. Sit back down on it.
Wait for what will come. Whatever it is, I have a feeling that it won’t be good.
Carlos gets back sooner than I would’ve hoped. Maybe fear speeds time along, who knows. Then again, I would’ve hoped he’d never get back.
He is a shout outside the house, a racing from room to room, his footsteps a drum roll until he finally makes it down to the basement.
“WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?” he yells.
“I don’t know,” I say.
Now he’s right in front of me, his voice a deadly hiss, “Two of our compounds were just blown to shit and you’re sitting here, calm and quiet and have no idea how.”
I shake my head.
“No.”
He rips me off the armchair and throws me to the ground. He starts shoving the armchair over, slow-going with his one usable arm, speaking as he goes:
“Well, it doesn’t matter really. Because those Rebel Saints are sure gonna be sorry they messed with us. Because now, Torrie, you’re going to see what I’ve been trying to show you for weeks now. You’re going to see why we’ve got the Rebel Saints in the palm of our hand. How we’re going to crush them now that they were stupid enough to attack us.”
The door flap now revealed, Carlos crouches down and sticks his head through.
I knew what he’d find, and yet the vehemence with which he swears still sends a chill down my spine. As did his scrambling in and storming around.
I consider trapping Carlos in there, but he’s out before I can make a decision, snarling in my face before I realize that I should have left as soon as he came home.
“What... happened?”
His eyebrows are arched incredibly, and, his eyes flashing, he almost looks like Papa now. It’s in the mouth more than anything, the bared teeth, the curve of the lower lip, that’s too big for the top one.
His eyes are full of tears, like he’ll cry or strike me or both.
Should I tell him or should I lie?
“Torrie...” he growls.
I open my lips, but no words come out.
Carlos doesn’t understand. That this is it: my final decision – where my loyalty lies: my family or Gavin.
“What... happened?” he says, and his hand trembles so that the light catches on the green of his ring, and suddenly I get it. What I’ve known all this time.
“I don’t know,” I say, and Carlos strikes me.
“You bitch,” he hisses, grabbing me by the shirt, shoving me through the flap door.
“Carlos!” I cry, crawling out.
He draws his gun, presses it into my forehead. The second time today I’ve been in this position.
I stare into his eyes.
The tears are streaming down now, no longer obscuring the rage there. The unmistakable, dangerous rage.
“Carlos,” I say and he cocks his rifle.
“Don’t talk. Don’t say another stupid lying word. I know, okay? I know.”
He wipes away the tears with his gun hand, his bandaged arm trembling.
“I know about Gavin Pierson, about how you’re trying to change everything, even went down to the Factory.”
For one stupid, crazy last chance of a second, I wonder if Carlos actually understands. Is only mad about the withholding, is only doing this to teach me a lesson, to teach me about trust.
But then Carlos laughs, and I know it’s all over.
“How dumb are you? You think that Gavin Pierson of all people is doing anything other than using you for the stupid bitch that you are, trying to mess with us from the inside? God Torrie, I knew you were sentimental, but I never took you for a full-on idiot.”
His mouth is an ugly sneer, his eyes flicking search lights – searching, scanning, eager to see that he’s cracked me, hurt me as much as he intended to.
I blink back my own tears, refuse to move. Those tears will come out over my dead body. No way am I giving Carlos the satisfaction. That he’s getting to me. That he’s voicing my greatest fear, giving it wings, claws, fangs. That his words are sending my stomach swirling.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Carlos is saying, “That what I did to his sister, Gavin Pierson pulled on my own. Guess stupidity is more universal than I thought.”
There are no more tears in his eyes now. Only a sheen of indifference.
“You won’t get away with this,” I say, and he laughs again.
“How do you figure? I’ve got a gun to your forehead. I’ve got Clarence, Anthony and Roger ready to take my side at any minute. Hell, I’ve even got Papa’s blessing in writing.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
“Oh no...” I say.
“Oh yes,” Carlos says, his one hand gripping the gun while the other burrows into his jacket pocket.
“Actually, I’ve got it right here.”
His shaking hand unfurls the crumpled paper, while his shaking voice spouts off its contents gleefully, “I, Earnest Taurus Piccolo, do assert that my business be handed over to my son, Carlos Piccolo.”
He turns it and mashes it in my face, so the swooping pyramid of Papa’s signature is unmistakable.
“No,” I say, twisting my face away, “That isn’t legitimate and you know it. Getting your vile mother to force it out of him on his deathbed isn’t what anyone is going to consider lawful.”
Tucking the paper back in his pocket, Carlos nods as if he’s actually considering my words. But when he looks up at me, there’s a malicious gleam in his eye.
“You’re right, of course. But really, who’s going to know?”
I gape at him as the inference at what he’s saying sinks in.
“All they’re going to see is this paper,” Carlos continues, his voice light, casual.
“What about me, Carlos?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, his eyes locked on a spot over my head, the inevitable conclusion worsening with every passing second.
Then, his eyes meeting mine, he murmurs, half to himself, “Yes, what about you?”
A smile plays on his lips and my blood runs cold, words surging forth:
“Carlos, please, I won’t tell anyone – I swear. I’ll leave, leave Toronto, Ontario, Canada even. I’ll stay out of your way I promise. Please Carlos.”
His gaze is still beyond me. When it flicks to mine, his smile forms fully, says, “Oh you’ll leave Canada alright.”
Now my whole body is trembling.
“Carlos – please – don’t do this – please, I-”
“Have already shown that you can’t be trusted. You lied to me Torrie. You lied about fucking Gavin Pierson all this time. You lied about trying to change our family business right under me. And just now you lied about letting Gavin Pierson down here to rescue his sister.”
“Carlos, please...”
He pats my head.
“Don’t worry Torrie. You will stay out of my way. You’ve been trying to learn more about the family business, the girls – well, now you’ll get to experience it all firsthand.”
Our eyes meet in horrible understanding, and I croak, “No.”
Carlos pats my head again.
“Yes, I’m sending you out with the next shipment of girls. You won’t be ruining my plans any longer.”
“Carlos...”
“Papa always said that sometimes what we have to do to succeed isn’t always pretty.”
“Carlos...”
“And now mother can come back here, where she’s always belonged.”
“Carlos,” I gasp, “Look at me.”
And, finally, he does.
I let my gaze bore into him, convey all my repentance, my sadness, my terror. I fill that gaze with every one of our childhood memories: snow angels and snow cones, sand castles and paper fights and Monopoly games and pizza birthday parties and crying here, together, as Papa passed away.
But our shared gaze lasts only a moment, our understanding less than a second: he blinks and opens his eyes a new man. Not my brother, not Carlos. But a stranger, a tyrant doing what it takes, whatever it takes.
“There will be a guard waiting in that armchair,” Carlos says, gesturing over, “With orders to shoot you if you try to escape.”
I’m shaking my head, back and forth, not caring about the muzzle of death pressed into my forehead.
“No... no...”
With the palm of his hand, Carlos shoves me back through the door into the room.
“Goodbye Torrie,” he says, and then the door is filled with the back of my favorite armchair.
The irony is a stab to the heart, but really, I’m as good as dead already.
*
