Page 5 of Wild Card

Giovanni

I see my mother’s face in my dreams a lot. Usually she’s apologizing to me, and I wake up in a cold sweat, remembering the day I found her. She was splayed out on our kitchen table in a dark pool of her own blood, a gun just inches from her limp hand. My nonna thinks it’s her spirit trying to reach me, but I’m not superstitious. This time, a pounding on my door wakes me before she can tell me she’s sorry again.

“Gio! It’s me! Get up!”

I roll over and look at the clock. 8:00 a.m. I’m usually up much earlier, but I decided to start the demolition myself yesterday afternoon and worked too late into the night, falling into the mind-numbing sleep of the dead only that level of physical exhaustion can bring, well after midnight. There’s still a lot to do, but the situation is better in hand.

I push out of bed, rolling my shoulders to release some tension, and open the door.

“What happened to you?” I ask, taking in the angry red scratches on my uncle’s face.

“Never mind. Put a shirt on. I have to show you something.”

Does this have something to do with his plan to fix yesterday’s bullshit? Do I even want to know?

I head back to my room, pull on jeans and a white t-shirt, and rock my head from side to side, satisfaction rushing through me at the loud cracking sounds that follow. If this is part of Lorenzo’s plan, I’ll probably need all the endorphins I can get, even if it’s just a release of the muscle tension I built up doing demo yesterday.

I follow Lorenzo out the door, and he points up at the attic. My nonna owns the building we all live in—she’s on the first floor, Lorenzo on the second, and I’m on the third. I pay most of the bills, but my grandfather left his wife this property so she could bring in income if she needs it.

The attic is a small studio-apartment-sized space with sloping ceilings that my grandfather used to treat as a safe house for some of his associates. At the risk of sounding like some new age hippie, it’s got seriously bad energy, and I try to avoid it at all costs.

I don’t like to think about some of the terrible things that could’ve happened up there in the past. Or may be happening now.

“What the fuck is up there?” I grumble.

“Our fix, Gio. You’re gonna love this.”

Not so sure about that.

I’m behind Lorenzo as we walk up the stairs, ducking my head the whole time. The old wooden stairs are barely wide enough for my feet, and I’m only able to stand up straight when we hit the landing. A sick feeling rises in my stomach as I watch him fiddle with a series of padlocks that have been recently installed across the heavy door.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Patience, kid.”

I’m out of fucking patience, and I have to crush the urge to punch him again. He finally gets the locks off and tosses open the door. It’s dim inside. I take in the boarded up windows before my gaze lands on a putty colored mattress in the middle of the room.

A girl lies on the mattress, a wild tangle of strawberry blonde curls covering her face. She’s in a tattered dress, her legs are covered in bruises. A particularly bad one on her shin is bisected by a deep laceration clotted with blood. She has no shoes on, and her right foot is bloodied.

“Who the fuck is she?” I spit, my voice low. “Lorenzo, what the hell have you done?”

He smiles at me toothily.

“Wake up!” He commands, walking over to the girl. He leans down and yells in her ear. She contracts into a fetal position. Jesus.

“Stop yelling at her. Who is she?” I punctuate each word.

“She’s James Carney’s kid.” Lorenzo grins up at me, pride shining in his eyes.

Just hearing Carney’s name sends another stab of disgust and anger through me. The girl shifts into a sitting position.

Fuck me. She’s absolutely stunning. Her curly hair spills over her full breasts to a tiny waist. I take in her beautiful face: high cheekbones and full lips, both marred by more cuts and bruises. Bright, intelligent green eyes track me and Lorenzo. Her eyes remind me of a cat Nonna used to have.

“What did you do to this girl?” I ask, not bothering to contain that anger and disgust.

“Woman,” she slurs.

Her voice is raw from screaming, I imagine, and dehydration. It’s hotter than the inferno in this attic.

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