Page 354 of Rage

“Dine-in, please.”

The grandmother only nods, still never letting her eyes leave me. She doesn’t glance around or fidget. She smooths her hands down her blouse and over her thinning apron. “That will be up in about fifteen minutes. Sit wherever you feel comfortable.” She doesn’t offer any other pleasantries. She just pivots and darts through the doorless archway to what I assume is the kitchen.

Am I actually going to be getting a pizza? I wasn’t necessarily planning on that. But pizza sounds damn good right now, too. I definitely won’t be passing it up.

I turn from the counter, looking back at the dining room. Red leather booths line the walls with various sized circle tables filling the middle. Their red and white checkerboard tablecloths look to be vinyl, the shininess of them gleaming in the harsh, yet dim light. I conduct a mental survey, trying to calculate what the best option for seating will be.

The booths aren’t all occupied, however, there’s not much room between filled tables. In the far-right corner sits a corner booth, about half the size of the others. It’s missing the harsh glare of the lighting and shadows cast over it mysteriously. It has good vantage points of both the entry and the counter that the grandmother abandoned.

A perfect option for me, then.

I slink my way over to the booth, refusing to look anyone in the eye. I don’t need to start drama where there isn’t any. I’m here for one reason, and one reason only.

Onemanonly.

Sitting in the booth is a visceral experience. The red leather isrealleather and sticks to any exposed skin. Luckily, I’m wearing jeans, or my thighs would be sticking and peeling off it. Smallmiracles and all. The tablecloth isn’t sticky, and I don’t see any visible residue from previous patrons.

Have there ever been other patrons? Or is this only an establishment for members of the mafia? I shrug to myself, not really giving a shit either way. Regardless of if there’s been other patrons outside of the mafia rings, I’m here now, and I’m outside of those rings.

But apparently Rhett wasn’t.

That’s the thing I haven’t been able to decipher in the last year. What was he doing? Who was he working for? Was what the gunman said even true? He called Rhett out by name, so there must have been some kernel of validity to his statements. Resting my chin on my fist, I lean on the table. The window to my right is covered with thick blinds and sheer red curtains. Not much light peeks through, but what does manage to seep in is bathed in red. The haunting glow of the light makes my stomach churn.

Not in apprehension, anxiety, or grief.

But in excitement.

My plan has been brewing for so long, it’s time for the action to come into play. It’s time for me to get what’s mine: revenge.

While I’m lost in thought of murder and rage, the grandmother slides from the kitchen carrying a large circle tray propped on one arm. She chatters lightly to the men seated organically in the dining room, smiling and carrying on like there’s no tomorrow.

Once she reaches me, she gently places the tray onto my table. The pizza is perfectly cooked, with a light brown crust that’s covered in butter, and cheese so melted it could cause a heart attack from looks alone. I waft in the delectable smells of the gooey cheese and crisp pepperoni, smelling the thyme, parsley, and oregano that must fill out the robust scent of thesauce, which I assume is homemade by the grandmother still standing over my table.

I halt my wafting and stare up at her. Her face isn’t pursed like I thought it would be, but instead her lips are clipped with only the corners being lifted ever so slightly. “I’ll bring your check out in a moment,” she tells me matter-of-factly.

“Thank you,” I reply earnestly.Don’t piss off the grandmother of the mafia.My mantra does little to settle my soul. The grandmother gives me one more long look, her eyebrows pulling tight in their centers. She gives me one more look before returning to the other individuals in the room. She continues her talking and walking until she makes it safely back into the kitchen.

I dive into the pizza, savoring the flavors as they explode across my tongue. I devour several slices in an inhuman amount of time all while keeping my eyes locked on the entry door. Waiting, watching.

I’m blotting my lips of grease when the tiny bell on the door chimes, welcoming a medium-built man with no hair and bad posture. My eyes lock on him, following his every movement as he saunters up to the grandmother’s counter. She’s nowhere to be found. He waits for several moments, tapping his sneakered foot against the tiled floor.

I shovel another slice of the best pizza I’ve ever eaten into my mouth as I nondescriptly stare at the man. He’s theman, the one I’ve been looking for. He’s the man who gunned down the love of my fucking life.

Chapter Seven

Katherine

Ifinish my pizza with glorious speed. I know I’m going to regret it later when the heartburn fueled by a thousand suns hits my gut and chest. I can’t find it within me to really give a shit, though. Good pizza sometimes results in heartburn, and if that’s my cross to bear, so be it. The pizza was so fucking delicious that it’s worth every bit of pain I’m guaranteed to have later.

As I wipe my hands, I keep my eyes locked on the man at the counter who continues to stand at the front longer than I’d expected him to. As I watch him, he hops from foot to foot, displacing his weight effortlessly. His subpar build doesn’t intimidate me and I’m grateful that he isn’t one of the six-foot-tall men that reside in one of the booths here. He doesn’t exude brutality like the others. But I know the truth.

He’s more brutal than most.

Gunning down teenagers.

Murderinga teenager.

I still don’t know how I managed not to get hit with one of the stray bullets.

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