Page 59 of Petrichor

Pretty Butterfly

Yes, sir. Thank you, sir

Fuck, I wish he was here to shut his impertinent mouth with mycock in his throat. I turn hard as a rock when he calls me sir while we fuck. And the little shit knows it.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m exiting the gelato parlor with two bags filled with ice cream. I may have gone overboard with the number of flavors I bought, but I remember Fly saying he wanted to try them all.

In my periphery, I see a black car rounding the corner very slowly. Too slowly. My instincts are screaming at me to take cover. I watch in slow motion as the windows of the suspicious car come down. I recognize the sight of the muzzle of a gun straight away.

I drop the bags and unholster my Glock, while diving on the sidewalk behind the small blue mailbox as bullets start flying. People’s screams, windows shattering, a dog’s bark—I tune it all out. I aim my gun, let out a breath, and shoot.

Whoever is gunning me down, they’re emptying their whole mags on me. This is not a warning. They’re certainly here to kill me. I prefer fists to guns, but exceptional situations call for exceptional measures. I hit the side of their blue Toyota Crown twice before the car speeds up—tires skidding on the asphalt. I straighten up while continuing to shoot at it as Jo runs down the street, sending some bullets their way.

“Sir, are you alright?” Jo jogs my way when the car disappears. There’s some blood on my suit sleeve. It’s just a graze. The pain is manageable. He still lends me his handkerchief to press on the wound.

“Call Strickland.” The policeman we have at one of the Brooklyn stations. “And tell him what happened. Give him the license plate. I want those fuckers! And I don’t want us to be linked to a shooting.” This kind of publicity wouldn’t be good for us.

I grab my phone as Jo follows my order, and we move to the car. When Luca picks up, I don’t let him talk. “Just got shot at.”

“Where are you?” he asks, his voice sounds angry after hearing what happened.

“Brooklyn, on Montague Street. Jo is calling Strickland. Two shooters, a driver, not sure if there were more. The car is a blue Toyota Crown, bulletproof tinted windows. We sent some bullet holes into the right side and back.” I give him the license plate as I get into the car. Jo remains on the phone outside.

“Did the shooters look familiar?”

“Couldn’t get a good look,” I reply, closing my eyes to replay the scene in my head.

“You go to a meeting with the other families, and fifteen minutes later you get shot at. It has to be Enzino,” Luca growls.

“Could be Coretti, too. Being rejected by Seb hurt his Italian ego big time if he decided to give his daughter to the Enzinos.” I sigh, putting the call on speaker to tug off the jacket and take a look at the graze on my bicep.

“They fucking ruined my suit. Assholes!” I snarl.

“Two suits in a month. That’s a record,” he jokes, earning myvaffanculo. “Need me to call Doc?”

“No.”

I unbutton my shirt and push the cotton fabric down my shoulder. It’s not deep, but long, no need for stitches. The blood has already stopped. I clean it with the handkerchief and pull my clothes back on.

“They must have been tailing you. Did you stop somewhere?”

“An ice cream shop.” After Fly hinted he wanted more. A fragment of a doubt slithers inside me while I try to remember the texts he sent me. I told him I’d buy it, but did he count on that? I never told him where I was going this afternoon. He didn’t know about the meeting. Is my past mistake trying to taint what I have with him?

The small uncertainty grows slowly, filling my chest. It reminds me of the reason why I’ve kept people at a distance for the last ten years. I can’t trust anyone.

“Is there a possibility someone knew where you were going?” Luca asks after a few seconds.

My chest cracks under the sudden dreadful pressure. “I texted Fly.”

“Fuck!” He curses some more. “Meet me at Rino’s when you’re done there. Don’t rushto conclusions.”

Conclusions? About Fly being forced to be a snake for another family—just like Denny? A myriad of questions starts piling up inside my head. Did Jerry put him up to this? Did he beat Fly up to coerce him that night? Threatened to kill him? Was he compelled to get closer to me?

I’ve been suspicious of him from the fucking start. I could feel he was hiding something from me, but at some point, I began to think it was unrelated to my family and me. My head starts to throb, warning me of an impending headache. I search for my migraine pills. Fly slipped some in my suit. “Just in case,” he said, with that sweet expression of his.

My eyes fall on the cardboard box on the car seat. I got it on an impulse for him. It’s unlike me. When have I ever bought something for someone else just because I wanted to see them smile?

Fucking. Never.

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