my car window, I see he has his arms folded, his muscles bulging in tight knots.
“Can I help you?” I say, turning and squinting as though he’s a stranger.
“Ah.” He lets his hands drop. “So we’re playing that game.”
“Game? I’m sorry, but I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you interested in a class? You seem to speak English very well.”
His eyes are sparkling now. He’s enjoying this. Maybe I am, too. Not good.
He sidles closer. I can smell his breath, mint and something else, and his cologne, and something underneath the cologne that I can’t put my finger on. Soon, he almost has me pressed up against the car. I place my hand on his chest to push him away. But I end up feeling the ripples of his chest muscles far too easily through the thin fabric of the shirt. I squeeze a tight fist and feel my fingernails almost break against the stony muscle.
With herculean effort, I give him a shove. “Back off, please,” I say sweetly. “Now, if you’re not interested in a class …”
He just keeps staring. Blue-green eyes sear into me. I wish my squirmy insides would shut up.
“Seriously, does this work on, like, any girls? Just staring like a freak? Because right now that’s what you look like: a real, trench-coat-outside-a-high-school, binoculars-in-a-tree freak.”
He places his hand beside me on my car, still silent. He’s like a ghost. Maybe this is a dream. Or a nightmare? But if it was a nightmare, my knees would not be weak. Jesus, I thought that only happened in old-timey Victorian novels. Weak knees, are you fucking kidding me?
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
His eyes say more than his lips ever could.
“Say something.”
He leans close. His breath washes over my face. I place my hand on his chest again and scratch him. Goddammit, he has no right to be this sculpted.
“What would you like me to say?” he whispers.
“How about: ‘Sorry for accosting you in the parking lot. I’ll be on my way now.’”
A twitch of the lips is all I get for a laugh. I don’t blame him. I don’t feel like laughing, either.
Closer, closer, and then his lips are grazing mine. They are rough and soft at the same time. The tips of our tongues stroke against each other. His hand moves agonizingly slowly through my hair, sending ripples down the back of my neck.
I hear myself moan, snapping me back to reality. I shove him again, harder this time. “No,” I snap. “Back off. I mean it, Carlo.”
“Ah, so you do remember me.” He smiles and takes several steps back. “I’ll be seeing you, Hazel.”
He turns and strides away. From the alleyway between the rec center and the electronics store, a limo pulls out.
“No, you won’t!” I call after him. “Stay the hell away from me!”
He climbs in without so much as a backward glance. I watch the car pull away, picturing a brief, annoying image of me in the back with him, continuing where we left off. I touch my lips to wipe away his kiss. I don’t want to taste him anymore.
Yet my heart is pounding—whether from attraction or anger, I’m not entirely sure—and when I climb into the car, I find myself gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
4
Carlo
I sit behind my desk at Sole Nero, the music pounding from the floor. I like my office to be up here, secluded, where nobody will happen to wander by. Dark deeds are best done in the dark, I’ve learned, and we’re conducting some shadowy business tonight.
The war with the Irish. Fergal Sweeney’s crew. Sweeney, their intrepid leader; the man who killed my father. His name alone fills me with bone-burning rage.
I move my finger around the edge of my whiskey glass as Santo continues his rant.
“We should burn these motherfuckers to the ground!” Santo is a small man with narrow eyes and a habit of moving around nervously as he speaks. Some of the men call him Rabbit because of this. Others call him Pesci because of his resemblance to the actor. I just call him when I need something violent done. “War is war, boss. Let’s take it to ’em.”
Nario tuts from his place against the wall at the back of the room, looking even more tired than usual. He strokes lazily at his scar. “That doesn’t sound like a plan,” he says. “More like a pep talk.”
“Find every Irishman and burn him alive,” Santo hisses, seeming annoyed at having to