Page 40 of Married with Mayhem

Though I grew up at the center of violence, I’ve rarely witnessed acts of violence in person. This is about as up close and personal as it gets. Fear has turned my muscles to lead. I can’t seem to utter a sound. Every second feels endless.

Amid all the yelling and the awful sound of Lenny Lombardo choking to death, there’s also an outbreak of laughter. Some of these people have an odd sense of humor. Bruce is positively howling. Eddie D is having so much fun he needs to shove his oxygen mask back on his face.

The basement door flies open. The guards we saw devouring pizza in Gino’s earlier come thundering down the stairs. The second man trips and knocks his predecessor off his feet. The two of them go airborne and land on the cracked concrete floor with a very loud smack. Bruce shrieks with hilarity before he descends into a coughing fit.

Big Pete mutters, “Son of a bitch,” and motions to Carlo, which is worrisome because Carlo is the caretaker of the guns. If Monte refuses to quit killing Lenny Lombardo, then he might get shot.

This new and terrifying thought knocks me out of my frozen trance long enough to jump to my feet and screech, “STOP IT!”

Miraculously, everyone listens.

Bruce quits laughing. The two dudes who fell down the stairs sit up, looking dazed, one with a bloody nose. And Monte loosens his grip on Lenny Lombardo, who rolls away and gasps and then vomits on his expensive suit.

Sal stalks over to Monte and furiously yanks his son to his feet. Meanwhile, Carlo has managed to unlock the cabinet and extract a gun. He’s not yet aiming it anywhere scary but from the way he glares at Monte it’s clear that could change in a heartbeat.

It’s not courage that prods me to move in order to stand in front of Monte as a human shield. This entire situation is sort of my fault. All my life I’ve been warned not to go where I don’t belong and tonight I was too stubborn to remember why. If Monte gets hurt, then I’m to blame.

But Monte apparently has no use for a human shield. He’s gruff about shoving me behind his big body. Now I no longer have a good view of what’s happening but I can hear Sal trying to be the voice of reason.

“Okay,” says Monte’s father. “Things got a little heated for a minute. Everyone can relax. It’s over.”

Lenny Lombardo is still wheezing and rolling around on the floor. I’m not looking forward to his full recovery.

The murmur of voices picks up but I still can’t see much because Monte refuses to allow me to escape from his protective custody. I’m wedged between the basement wall and a fortress of Castelli muscle. My nose is practically pressed into the middle of his back and he holds me in place with one stubbornly rigid arm. Every time I try to peek around him, he shifts and cages me in even more tightly.

Under different circumstances, I’d enjoy being this close to him. He’s warm and he smells excellent, like amber and pine. The hard muscles of his ass are pressed against my belly. Alas, this really isn’t the time to get horny.

“I think the best idea is for Monte to take Sabrina home,” Sal says. “Don’t you agree, Big Pete?”

Big Pete blows out a loud sigh. “Yeah, that’s probably about right. When that asshole gets up again he’ll start making noise. Fuck, we were having such a good game too.”

“Get out of here,” Sal mutters to Monte while Big Pete keeps carrying on about how much it sucks when poker night is ruined because some uninvited dipshit shows up and makes trouble. “Wait in the apartment for instructions.”

Monte doesn’t argue. He throws an arm around my waist and hugs me to his side as he marches me upstairs. I don’t even get the chance to collect my chips or wave goodbye.

Stevie stands in the middle of Gino’s with a broom in his hand and alarm written all over his open-mouthed face. “What the hell happened?” he says.

Monte probably doesn’t mean to be rude but right now he isn’t pausing to explain anything to anyone. He ignores Stevie and moves fast, dragging me along with my face mashed against his shirt and his arm an immovable steel band around my waist.

When we reach the apartment stairwell, Monte decides very quickly that he’s not in the mood to deal with my dainty and slow stair climbing technique so he throws me over his shoulder. With my brain still reeling from the trauma of recent events, I’m so shocked I can’t even muster an objection.

Maybe Monte should have been a firefighter. He has a gift for rocketing up narrow stairways with an adult body draped over his shoulder. He’s not even breathing hard. Also, I’ve never been too curious about how a sack of potatoes feels but now I think I have a pretty good idea.

By the time we reach the apartment door, I’m feeling dizzy from the impact of being groped, then observing a life and death struggle, then getting conveyed up multiple flights of stairs at a dizzying pace. It’s a lot to take in and I’ve never been very adaptable.

Despite the fact that I’m now squirming to be released, Monte won’t set me down until we’re inside his apartment. My head is spinning and I’m unsteady on my feet but Monte cups my chin in his hand and stares down into my eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks with the first hint of anxiety showing up on his face.

Not really. I kind of want to vomit.

“I’m fine,” I say with a fervent hope that I don’t start crying. This is mortifying enough already without snot running out of my nose. I swallow hard and feel my eyes sting with hot tears anyway. “Monte, I’m so sorry.”

“Stop.” He releases my chin. “Sit down. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

Actually, I’d much rather have a shot of that throat-burning whiskey from the cabinet above the sink but this doesn’t feel like an appropriate moment to start making requests.

My trembling legs manage to carry me to the sofa while Monte fills a water glass and brings it over. He’s watching me so I gulp back a few sips since that seems to be what he wants. The simple acts of swallowing and breathing does help calm me down.

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