Page 30 of Petrichor

“Are you fucking with me?” He crushes the empty bag of pretzels between his hands. “Who doesn’t! He’s a scary dude. He gives me the heebie-jeebies. ”

Not to me. He showed me some undesirable traits—kind of like an anti-hero—but I wasn’t put off by them, slightly irritated, but never scared. “Iworkfor him.”

Art makes a displeased face, the silver glitter on his eyelids glows under the midday light. “Did you close downFly to Honey?I love your naughty lingerie! Everybody I talk to does. Isn’t your website going well? I spread the word as much as I could. Did you start making the personalized ones? I want to slap my name on my butt!” Art is indeed one of my best clients.

“It’s going great, and I’ll keep working on my pieces, but I need to do this for Mr. Moretti right now.”

“Puh-leeaze.” He grabs the half-eaten roll. “Youa mafioso? More like his mobster’s pet. Is that it?”

Oh, so he knows Marco works for the mob. “Pet? No.” I sigh. “I’m repaying a debt by taking care of his penthouse.”

Art suddenly starts patting his chest to help the stuck piece of avocado roll slide down. “You owe a debt to Marco ‘the Knuckle’ Moretti?” He then gasps incredulously.

“The Knuckle?” I researched him a little on the internet after that night. I was curious about the man who helped me once again. And I had a name now. There wasn’t much. A couple of articles confirmed that he works for Sebastiano ‘Ice’ Leone, the son of a notorious mob boss who died a year ago. Mr Leone invested in different companies which quickly after expanded in the market sectors, increasing their profitability—too quickly. I’m not that naive. Mafia organizations have a lot of influence through money, threats, intimidation and so on.

“They call him ‘the Knuckle’ because he packs a punch that can land you flat. He wears custom-made gold knuckles—hence the nickname—and enjoys starting brawls wherever he goes. He’s a hotheaded, easily angered dude.”

I remember him fighting. I saw the relish in his eyes.

“He’s suspected of killing more than forty people. Most police are on the Leone’s payroll, and the last journalist who wrote about him disappeared—poof!” Art wiggles his fingers in the air to emphasize the last word. Is that why I didn't find much on the internet? “I’ve seen him from afar a few times. He’s fucking hot I give you that, but dangerous! Are you crazy owing him money? You know he’s part of a loan shark organization, right? Kind of a debt collector. What the fuck were you thinking. I could have loaned you the money!”

I sigh. “I ruined his suit. I didn’t ask for a loan.” Again, I saw how brutal he can be, and I sense his viciousness every time someone doesn’t follow his orders. But still. I can’t be afraid after he saved my life and took care of me when I was all bloody and bruised.

Art sniffs. “That’s mind-boggling. It’s like trouble finds you at every turn, Fly. But why don’t you look afraid? Is there more to it than you’re telling me?” He leans over the table. “Is it related to your brother?”

I nod. After I found out how connected Art was, I asked him to look for my brother. My research hadn’t gotten me anywhere until then. Ten years had passed, the trail had turned cold. But he managed to find out what happened. My brother left me with Bailey—the woman who took me in—that day, but I always hoped he would’ve come back to me one day. Through Art I found out he couldn’t have since he lost his life a little time later. When the sense of deep loneliness and choking pain hit me I wished I died in that fire with him.

“Why aren’t you talking? I’m dying here. Tell me what the connection between your late brother and ‘the Knuckle’ is before I waste a donut-slap on you.

“A what?” I try to gain some time to compose myself, but he sees rightthrough me.

“I’ll bitch-slap you with this delicious donut.” He licks some of the pink frosting off with the tip of his tongue.

It wouldn’t hurt to tell somebody. Art keeps things from me as well, but he’s been kind and helpful since I met him. Also it’s been ten years, I can leave out some details. “Mr. Moretti saved me and my brother when we were kids.”

“‘The Knuckle’ saving someone? Sounds fictional.” Art shakes his head. “I know his type. Mobsters are all the same,” he adds in a disdainful tone.

“It’s true. Could never forget his face. I didn’t get his name at the time, and I left for Boston soon after. I knew he was part of the Mafia scene, though, but I’d have never thought I’d meet him again one day.”

“So, you met again by chance?”

“Well, I knew Rino’s was a mob joint. It was a long shot,” I mumble. I let my fingers move over the smooth side of my to-go cup, catching the condensation drops as they roll down.

“Fucking shit. How do you turn creepy stalking into an adorably dark fairy tale?” He chuckles at my expense. “Is that why you were at Red Ruby the other night? Hoping to see him on Coretti’s turf?”

Art told me about the three Italian families sharing New York’s dominion. Leone, Coretti, and Enzino. My father worked for the Leones once upon a time, until he betrayed them and was killed for it—by Marco.

“I get confused with all the turfs. I went to the club to avoid…the creep.” Jerry. But he found me and followed me. I can still remember the hatred in his eyes when I told him once again that we were over—if a hookup even needs averbalending. Thanks to a group of people passing by, I escaped from that alley. I don’t knowwhat Jerry and his men would have done to me otherwise. Worse than beating me up. The healing scratches on my thighs pull at my skin. My ribs still hurt when I move too fast, but the bruises on my face and body are almost gone.

That reminds me of the way Marco took care of me when I showed up at his place. He could have taken the money and slammed the door on my face—that’s what I actually envisioned. Instead, he laid me in a bed and cleaned my wounds.

His manners are appalling, and he has no tact whatsoever. He doesn’t miss a chance to remind me who he is and what he’s capable of. I can feel the ice-cold walls he built around himself in opposition to the fire burning in his eyes. It’s like I’m standing at the top of a boiling volcano filled with molten lava when our gazes meet. They pull me in but one misstep and I’m going to end up burned alive.

Still I want to be with him. The days with him could end when I least want it—like right now. There are so many variables to life. It’s impossible to predict all of them.

“Did you tell him who you are?” Art asks while ogling a guy walking to a nearby table.

“He doesn’t remember me. It was too long ago.”

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