Page 7 of Alliance

“Tell me,” he sneers, his lips curving around the words. “Are you going to be a pain in my ass like your older sister?” His grip on my arm tightens to a punishing pain as the threatening words leave his lips with droplets of saliva.

“I—” I choke on the words, taken aback by his sudden forcefulness. Gone is the man who just ate a plateful of fried chicken and biscuits at my dining room table. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I nearly shout at him, tugging on my arm in a feeble attempt to free myself from his grip.

“Stupid girl,” he mocks. “I require very little from you. Be quiet, behave, and walk down the aisle in a pretty little dress. If you do as I say, I’ll reward you, if you fail… well…”

In perfect timing, he squeezes my arm with punishing forcefulness as if making a promise for future pain if I disobey.

Tears begin to well in my eyes as I look up at his menacing face. I’m not sure what I’ve ever done to make this man so hateful, other than be born with a vagina in place of a dick.

“Don’t cry, baby,” he taunts, lifting his finger to delicately wipe my tears away, a confusing gesture in comparison to the pain he just inflicted on me. “Just behave. Do I make myself clear?” he asks, those silver eyes digging deep into my soul, waiting for my answer, my commitment to him.

I nod, if only to get him off me, to gain space between us so I can breathe and think again. With my agreement, he drops his grip on my arm, and instinctively I reach for it with my opposite hand, running it over the reddened flesh.

I want to cry and scream, do anything other than stand here and take the abuse. But the southern belle inside of me, the girl they raised me to be, can’t move from this spot standing in front of the Christmas tree. My hatred for this man and love for this holiday begin to mix, swirling around and staining everything with bitterness. I don’t have words to express myself, no vocabulary to tell him to leave me alone or fuck off. I stand there like a scared child waiting for the burst of abuse and love, the two emotions so entangled together.

Davis flexes his hand, as if causing me pain has hurt him. He reaches into his suit pocket, withdrawing a black velvet box and popping it open. Inside sits a diamond, far too large for my finger. With no words, he plucks the ring from its cozy home and grabs my hand. He slides the gold band with the heavy diamond onto my finger. Afterward, he snaps the box shut and deposits it back into his suit jacket, walking away, leaving me flushed and empty.

Merry Christmas to me.

Chapter Four

“YOU WANT SOME?” JASON, ONEof my regulars, extends his rolled up dollar bill to me and gestures to the white lines that lay on top of the coffee table with a flick of his eyes.

In my weaker moments, I’ve dropped to my knees, stuffed the dirty dollar into my nostrils and snorted deeply. Letting the white powder ease my nerves and erase my mind was not the best coping mechanism of mine. Ditching the powder was no easy feat, but luckily, unlike Jason, I stopped before the addiction got too bad. My motivation came from looking in the mirror and only seeing a younger version of my father.

His paper-thin hand shakes while he extends it to me, the loose skin from all the weight he’s lost jiggling with the motion. Once upon a time he was probably a bright kid, now he’s an addict.

As long as he places the stack of bills in my hand, it’s not my place to judge. I’m just here to hand over the product and leave him to his vices.

“Nah.” I shake my head. He bumps it, tipping his head back after snorting the powder and moaning in pleasure. There’s always a sickness that rolls through my stomach when I watch others take drugs. I think I should feel worse, guilt or shame, something to stop me from continuing to enable the addicts that find me. But I can’t. Because the money they put in my hands is worth more to me than doing the right thing.

“That’s good,” he tells me, his hand fishing in his pocket for the pile of money he owes me. Pulling the wrinkled bills out, he slaps them into my outstretched palm. I shove the cash in my pocket. Somewhere in the background I can hear a baby cry, and I shudder. Weeks from Christmas and this man is spending money on coke rather than providing for his baby.

Without commenting, I leave the house and head back out into the Lower Ninth Ward. I keep my eyes peeled as I move down the street to my next drop. I’ve been working for Marcus Ricci for a few years now, and I’m still stuck with the Lower Ninth Ward, Central City, and The Garden District—the parts of town that no one wants. The money is still good, but the clientele is slowly fading away, falling victim to the drugs. The only bright side is they’re less likely to end up in rehab.

I don’t complain though. I’ll work any street Marcus puts me on with a smile on my face. As long as the money keeps finding its way into my pocket, I’ll keep showing up.

Marcus picked me up out of a club where I was working the door. He saw me bouncing a few junkies and offered me a job. I wonder sometimes if he could see the desperation on my face, the need for money so strong it was the only thought that flowed through my brain. Maybe he preys on kids like me. Kids with Italian genes and bank accounts in the negatives, the perfect soldiers.

As if on cue, my phone rings, boasting Marcus’ name on the caller ID. “Yeah?” I answer.

“Got time for an event tonight?” His voice rings through the speaker.

Flicking my wrist, I check the time on my watch. I need to stop by Ma’s, but I know this isn’t a real question from him. The answer has to be yes. I don’t get a choice while working for my button, my key into the CostelloFamiglia.I do as the made men ask, whenever they ask, and pray that sooner rather than later, they initiate me into this thing.

This thing of ours, this secret society is the only thing that’s kept me above water. And if they initiate me, I won’t have to worry about money ever again.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Where at?”

Marcus rattles off the address and I make a mental note of the location. It’s in the French Quarter, a private party at some club, looking for hookup. I’ll need to make my stop at Ma’s quick, change my clothes and head out.

I reach for the keys in my pocket and head for the new Jeep Wrangler parked on South Street. One of the many perks of working for Marcus is that the money is steady, coming in quicker than I can spend it. For the first time in my life, I have a nice car that won’t break down every ten miles.

Another perk of the money is being able to lay an envelope of cash on my mother’s kitchen table, knowing that I can still buy groceries for myself and pay my rent.

Whoever said money can’t buy happiness clearly had money.

“I don’t want that,” Ma tells me without even turning around to see the envelope. She swipes a hand through her graying hair while the other one stirs the pot of red sauce bubbling on the stove top.

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