Page 25 of Alliance

“I’m fine,” I say, shrugging, trying to act like my entire body doesn’t ache.

She wipes her hand on a dish towel before tossing it onto the counter and walking toward me slowly. “You’re hurt,” she says, the words leaving her lips in a hushed whisper. “Ignazio, who did this to you?”

“I’m fine,” I repeat. I can’t tell my mother that her worst fear almost came true. That she was a few minutes away from having a closed casket funeral. Or worse, an empty casket. The thought that she’d never see my body, never have closure, eats away at me.

Her brown eyes rim with water as she brings a wrinkled hand to my cheek. I lean into her touch, closing my eyes and letting her warmth permeate my skin. Even as an adult, I find comfort in my mother’s touch. She’s possibly the only person in this world who loves me unconditionally.

“Grammy!” I blink my eyes open when I hear Anthony’s shout behind me. “Grammy! Look what Mama got me!” He stops dead in his tracks, holding a sealed PlayStation game when he sees me. “Uncle Naz…” He trails softly. “What happened to your face?”

Elly is on his heels. She turns into the kitchen and her eyes widen when she sees me. “Jesus, Naz. What the fuck happened to you?”

“Elly!” my mother scolds, but she just shrugs her shoulders. “Anthony, why don’t you go play that new game, hmm? Uncle Naz will be right out.”

To his credit, Anthony nods, spins on his heel, and heads out to the living room.

Ma brings each of her hands to her hips, her eyes still scanning over me, looking for more cuts, finding the bruises that peek out from under my collar.

“Ignazio, tell me what happened?”

The tone of her voice has guilt gnawing at me. “It was a misunderstanding, Ma.”

Next to me, Elly scoffs. “What was the misunderstanding, Naz? Did they accidentally hit your face with their fists?” She leans back against the counter as she poses the question. Her tone is cold, but I can hear the fear that’s laced into her words.

Elly’s been my counterpart since we were kids. As much as we fight and torture each other, she’s always been on my side. When she got pregnant at seventeen, I was the first one she told. We both knew that the boy she had been with would never take responsibility, and he proved our theory true.

So I stepped up. Working two part-time jobs to earn enough before I found Marcus and started dealing. I know she would never admit, but she cares for me. If I ended up dead, I don’t know what she’d do.

Sighing heavily, I run my fingers through my hair. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I wasn’t careful. But I’m okay, I’m alive, and I won’t let it happen again.”

My mother huffs, clearly not convinced with my apology. “Ignazio,” she breathes, taking another step forward. She places each of her hands on my shoulders, squeezing them in that way that only mothers do. “If anything happened to you...” She trails off. “I don’t know what I would do.”

“I know, Ma. I’m sorry.”

“You need to get out. It’s not safe,” Elly adds, her arms still firmly placed across her chest.

“That’s not how it works, Elle, I can’t just hand in my two-week resignation.”

“Why?” she huffs, throwing her hands up dramatically.

“It’s the mafia!” I hiss before I can think better of it. Ma retracts her hands, wrapping them around her torso like she needs to hold herself. Elly’s face turns to pure shock beside me. “I’m sorry,” I mutter.

Without a word, my mother turns away, dusting her hands on her apron and going back to the stove. Elly rolls her eyes. “I’m serious, Naz,” she says. “You need to get out before they do something worse than a few cuts.”

If only she knew. It’s more than a few cuts, it’s an ache that radiates through my entire body. I wake up sweating through my sheets at night, thinking about the punches raining down on me, the harsh words thrown at me, the fear of almost dying pulsing through my body. I thought I was going to be killed in that basement. I know that it could have been worse.

And still, I know I won’t quit.

Anthony is quiet when I sit down next to him on the pale beige carpet. His fingers grip the PlayStation controller, his eyes glued to the TV.

Normally, hanging with the kid is effortless for me, but today my heart aches and my body’s sore.

“Ma sounds mad,” he says, his thumbs wiggling the triggers while he shoots at someone on the screen.

“She is.” I sigh, running a hand through my hair.

“What did you do?” he asks, his eyes not moving from the screen. I’m always amused by the kid’s ability to simultaneously have a conversation with me, and keep moving and shooting on his game.

“It’s complicated,” I tell him.

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