The Untouchables (30 page)

Part of me wanted to just let it fall. There was no way I could run all of this on my own. I could let it die with my father, and I would be able to work my way through school; I had just gotten my acceptance letter to UCLA this morning. I could walk away from this right here and now. I could leave Chicago. My things were packed; I already had my ticket, and yet, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the brick that sat on the desk in front of me. Twenty thousand dollars of smack just sitting there, tempting me.

I glanced up at the greasy, sweat stained, blonde haired man in front of me. For the last three weeks, he had been going around the streets like an idiot, talking about how he knew where to get ‘the realist shit.’ No one believed him. I mean, why would they? He was wearing clothes he must have stolen off a corpse, his hair was so dirty it dropped flakes all over his shoulders, and his shoes looked so worn out, I wasn’t even sure why he bothered. He looked like a homeless junkie.

When word got to me, I asked for him and the smack. I didn’t really think he would bring it though.

Pulling out the drawer, I grabbed a stack of hundreds before dropping them on the table.

He rushed to the stack of money like it was bread and he was starving. He might have been. “It’s good, right? Like I said, one hundred percent cocaine. The best there is.”

“Where did you get this? Mr…?”

“Brooks. Beau Brooks, and I got word of this real big wop back east. People are whispering about how he’s got mountains of this shit, just lying in his warehouses; millions of profits just being chewed up by damn rats. I’m telling you, girlie, I got the connections—connections your father and I should speak over. I’m sure he’ll like them.”

“My father is not here. When he’s not here, you speak to me. So let’s hear it, I will decide if it’s worth it or not.” Crossing my legs, I waited as he paced in front of me.

“I’m not sure if I should be telling a kid this,” he finally said.

“A kid? Do I look like a kid to you? Besides, this
kid
is also the one that gave you ten thousand dollars, cash.” I tried my best to keep my composure. His eyes went straight to my exposed legs before looking back at me.

“No, I guess not.”

“Then where did you get this?” I hated repeating myself.

“An old friend of mine is stationed in South America. He’s been bringing in small shipments on the side to make extra cash. But he can’t move it all, not without risking his job. For the right price, he would sell only to you…”

“And you’re his spokesperson?”

He nodded, allowing small flakes to fall from his head.

“You shouldn’t be.” I frowned in disgust. “But tell him if he gives up all the product he has with him, we have a deal.”

Pulling out the bag of money, I stared at it for a moment. This was supposed to be my backup plan—my way out—and yet here I was, dropping the brown bag right in front of him. His eyes lit up and just as he reached for it, I grabbed his hand, pulling his body towards me.

“This is enough for a quarter of it. My father’s men will follow you home. Once you’re home you’re going to call your friend and have all of the product delivered within the next two hours to an abandoned factory near the riverbanks. Do you understand me?”

It was only when he nodded that I let him go and gave him the bag before gesturing for one of the men to take him away. When they were gone, I fell back, trying to breathe. This was crazy. I was crazy.

Why couldn’t I just walk away?

“You do know this is why none of them respect or fear you, right?” Fiorello, my father’s right hand walked in with a silver tray of what I could only guess was food.

Fiorello had been with my father forever. His parents were both servants here. He in return, was not only the head butler, but he also saw to all of our food. He was the one who tasted it before we ate. He made sure the villa was a well-oiled machine even though his bones cracked and popped when he walked. He was short for a man, and not as fit as all the rest of the men who came through here, but he always blamed that on old age.

“Maybe I don’t give shit. Maybe I’m tired,” I replied, rising to my feet. I walked over to my father’s brandy cabinet.

“Yes, of course you are. After all, you’re but a woman. Not even a woman, a child playing grown up,” he stated, his gloved hand brushing off the rest of the coke on the table before placing my dinner down.

“You don’t…”

“Oh believe me, I understand, Ma’am,” he said. “You’ve done everything your father has ever asked of you. You trained, you studied, and you agreed to be married. But you were still young. Now you are on the verge of making your own path. You think the world outside this life has much to offer you, but you’re mistaken. You’re willing to throw away your father’s legacy, and when he dies, you will have nothing to remember him by. You will be a useless little girl with no protection, no money, and no future. You are fighting for your life—your right to exist—and you don’t even know it. But who cares, you’re tired.” He lifted the lid to reveal a plate of duck before bowing and turning to leave.

“What if I can’t do this, Fiorello? What if I let him down and he dies knowing I’m a complete failure?”

“From what I know of your father, he would be happily surprised if you tried and failed than if you to gave up without starting. I know what you’re capable of, who you are. I’ve seen it. Which is why I’m baffled as to why you’re trying to hide your nature.”

With that, he was gone and I found myself drinking straight from the bottle, which only made me cough. “Ugh, I hate brandy.” I needed to find a new drink. Leaving the bottle on the table, I covered up the food. I didn’t want to eat. I honestly just wanted to drink myself into tomorrow.

Everything I had ever done was for the good of my father, for his work. It wasn’t my fault he was throwing it all away. He had been able to get through one round of chemo secretly only a few years ago. He had beaten cancer once, and now it was back for round two. The only problem was, he didn’t want to fight anymore; he was too tired. I had to beg him to try again. He agreed, but only if he could be treated in the house.

No one was allowed to see him, but I was done waiting for him to call. Grabbing the keys, I headed down the marble halls to the last door on the right. It looked like a misplaced closet when you opened the door. However, if you found the steel door lock hidden behind the mop and opened it, there was another bedroom and there sat my father, shaving his own head in front of the bedroom vanity.

“I told you not to enter here, Melody,” he hissed at me, not bothering to look up from what he was doing. He was as pale as ever. His left hand would shake every few moments, but he just went on cutting away. The dark curls that once adorned his head drifted to the ground.

“I wanted to make sure you—”

“Leave,” he snapped. “Leave an old man to die.”

I couldn’t move; I just kept watching his hair fall.

“Melody, Leave!” he barked at me.

“No!” I snapped back, shutting the door behind me. “Have you been getting your chemotherapy?”

Slamming the razor down on the dresser, he stood and glared down at me. “You know stubbornness is not attractive. You, Melody Nicci Giovanni, are nothing but a child, an ungrateful one at that. You do not question me, and you do not raise your voice to me! I run this household! I may be dying, but I am still ORLANDO GIOVANNI! Neither you nor anyone else will treat me any differently. Have I made myself clear?”

“You are not dying! You are not as sick as you think! Get the chemotherapy, Orlando! I refuse to put you in a grave. Ever since I was a child you have dictated every part of my life. I let you do it out of loyalty and love for you; I have to do it because you are all I have! So no, you don’t get to die. You don’t get to leave me with this shit and just give up, Oh Great Orlando Giovanni!”

The moment I finished, his right hand grabbed my neck and pulled me closer. “Your loyalty should be to yourself. Your love should be only for yourself! No one will ever protect you but yourself. I have spent years trying to drill that into your pretty little head, but you refuse to get it. You are alone. You never had me. It’s time you grow up and find your own damn path instead of clinging onto mine!”

The shaving cream still on his half-shaven head fell onto my hand as I tried to pull away. He let me go, dropping me like a wet rag. I slid onto the cool floor. Holding my neck, I tried to breathe. I tried to control myself, but I was done.

“Grow up, Orlando? GROW UP?” I screamed, picking myself up from the ground. “I’ve been grown up since I was six! It’s a miracle I’m not a serial killer with the shit I’ve been through and the things I’ve seen! You may have thrown money, and trainers, and tutors my way, but you did not raise me, and you sure as hell were never there for me to cling onto. But hey, if you want to die, go ahead, knock yourself out you big coward! In the meantime, I will run this…this fucking empire all by my fucking self and I won’t lower myself to steal the top spot, I’ll earn it.”

“You think you can sit in my chair?” He laughed, staggering a little as I reached for the door handle. “I’ve seen you try, and it’s too big for you. You’ve tried, sweetheart. But don’t worry, I’ve set away a small fortune along with a few contacts that the Callahans will be interested in. That should be enough for them to still want to marry you. I wouldn’t want my daughter to end up on the streets.”

I watched him stumble over to his new bottles, he grabbed one and drank deeply. He was already drunk. He gulped it all down before reaching for the next one.

“To cancer, the bitch that never dies!” he toasted to himself before drinking again. Sadly, that bottle only lasted a few seconds before he threw it against the wall. It shattered on impact, staining the wallpaper a beautiful blood red.

As though someone had taken out his batteries, he fell onto the chair in front of the mirror. He tried to pick up the razor, but between his shaking hand and his undoubtedly blurry vision, he couldn’t.

Sighing, I found myself walking over and taking the blade from him. “I’ll do it, you look like you lost a fight with a pair of scissors,” was all I could say, as I took the old-school blade to his hair.

Snickering, he nodded but I held onto his neck. “I’m on the poison,” he said. “I stopped for a while but I started again this morning. I shouldn’t have stopped, but it’s just as painful as the last time.”

I couldn’t bring myself to look into the mirror to see his face. I knew it hurt him. I’d talked to all of his doctors and pain was just a side effect; they could do nothing but give him more meds. But the meds made him angry, and sometimes violent. It was one of the reasons he tried to lock himself away.

“How much was this small fortune anyway?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Small fortune?”

“The one you have locked away from the Irish pig and his rat family.”

“Mel…”

“Don’t ‘Mel’ me with a razor at your skull, Orlando. I have another use for it and it’s not going to be wasted on those people.”

“What could you possibly want to do with that money that you can’t do now?”

I met his eyes in the mirror and just smiled.

I was going to do what he didn’t think I could. I was going to make us a force to be reckoned with again. I was going make sure we had the monopoly on cocaine and heroin. I was going to make sure we didn’t need any Callahan and damn well no Valero.

“I don’t trust that look in your eyes.” He frowned, watching me carefully. Even drunk, he was still trying to read me.

“Why, because it reminds you of the look in
your
eye?”

“No, because it reminds me of your mother. I always knew a storm was coming when I saw that look.” He pointed into the mirror at my brown eyes and I just smiled.

Grabbing the towel he had left on the desk, I wiped the leftover cream from his head and kissed it. “I have to go, Orlando. Get some rest.”

Taking the razor with me, I left him sitting there, with the rest of his hair lying on the cold marble. Walking back out into the closet, I locked the door behind me before leaving. It wasn’t the only entrance to his room. There was a back door into the gardens where the doctors came and went, but he wanted this door locked, so I obliged him.

“Fiorello, just the man I needed to see.” I smiled, stepping out into the hall.

“Is there a reason why you’re in the closet, ma’am?” he asked, but he already knew why. The walls had ears and the maids would talk. They always talked.

“Never mind that. My father has money in holding for me.”

“Ma’am…”

“Don’t lie to me, Fiorello. I need to know how much and where it is. After all, I’m fighting for my life here.”

He fought the wrinkled grin trying to creep onto his face. “And how will seven million dollars do that?”

Seven million dollars was not a small fortune; it was a large one and just enough to pay off debts along with procuring a few dozen kilos of cocaine.

“You two.” I pointed to the men just standing in the hall.

Walking up to me, they stood straighter. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Names.”

“Fedel Morris, Gino Morris’s son, you were the one who—”

“Stop talking,” I snapped at him before facing the other one. “You?”