Page 1 of Unforgettable Underboss

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VALERIE

“The worst part is, these low-life, filthy criminals have yet to pay the piper for their multiple strikes against the Las Vegas PD,” my older brother, Isaac, rambles to no one in particular. It’s the same rant every day before he goes to work.

He buckles his tactical belt around his ample belly, double-checking that his gun, Taser, and handcuffs are in their proper places. Isaac glances at me, his eyes glassy from the two shots of whiskey he had before putting on his police uniform. I know he’s expecting me to say something, but I have a different view of thefilthy criminalshe’s referring to.

“Don’t you agree? They shouldn’t be allowed to run the city the way they have been for the last… well, since this place was fuckin’ founded, I guess. It’s time for a regime change. These fuckers don’t know what’s about to hit them.”

I bite my tongue, barely restraining myself from what I want to say. I’d like to tell my brother he’s not in a position to judge anyone, considering how much liquor he consumes—both on and off duty—as an officer of the law. Instead, I take a more diplomatic route.

“There was a time the Caparellis helped us,” I remind him.

Big mistake.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re defending the goddamn mafia instead of your own flesh and blood?”

Isaac slams his hands down on the kitchen table where I’m sitting, knocking over a glass of water as well as my container of charcoal pencils. I quickly grab my sketchbook off the table before the water can reach it, then crouch on the floor and clean up the art supplies that took me weeks to save up for.

My brother continues to scream about how awful everyone and everything is and how there’s no redemption for “men like that.” If I were a braver woman, I’d ask if there’s redemption for abusive, bitter, and violent alcoholics who refuse help. However, I still have the bruises from the last time I stood up for myself and had a different opinion.

Isaac’s phone dings with a text message, distracting him for a moment. I look over my expensive charcoal pencils, wincing when I see two of the five are broken into small chunks. Swallowing back tears, I gather everything up and set it aside so I can clean up the water.

“You’re lucky my shift already started. Partner’s waiting,” he clips out as he holds his phone up in explanation. “I expect you to be in a better mood when I get back. I’m getting real sick of your disrespect, Valerie. I let you live here, you know.”

For the second time tonight, I forcefully swallow the words I so desperately want to yell.Mom and Dad left the trailer to both of us in their will. I have as much right to be here as you do.

I’m jarred out of my thoughts when the screen door rattles and slams shut. Isaac is off to his evening shift as a cop, allowing me to take my first full breath of the day. Being around him when he’s like this is suffocating on the best of days and downright horrifying on the others.

Like yesterday.

My hand automatically goes to the angry bruises littering my right arm from when he wrenched it behind me and shoved me against a wall. Thankfully, I turned my head to the side at the last minute to avoid another broken nose. I brush my fingers over my slightly swollen face, tracing the scratch marks on my cheek. Still better than a broken nose and two black eyes.

That’s why I have to leave tonight. I’m doing it this time. I won’t chicken out like I have all week.

Taking a deep breath, I roll out my shoulders, biting back a yelp at the soreness in my right arm and shoulder from yesterday’s confrontation. That’s it. I won’t let him hurt me anymore. Mom and Dad wouldn’t have allowed it, and I shouldn’t either.

My father might have turned a blind eye to Issac’s excessive drinking due to his addictions, but my mother would have defended me. I think. Honestly, my memory of them fades more with each passing day, replaced with the vile things my brother says and does.

I grab my backpack and stuff a few days’ worth of clothes inside, along with basic toiletries and, of course, my sketchbook. When I draw, the chaos of life blurs into the background, and I focus solely on the subject of my art. Las Vegas certainly has its gritty, unsavory parts, but there’s beauty here, too. Even in the pain.

Taking one last look around my small bedroom, I nod to myself and head straight out the front door, knowing I’ll never be back.

Mrs. Gray waves at me from where she’s sitting on her rotting porch steps, though her blank stare tells me she’s on some mixture of drugs. I’ve drawn her several times over the years, chronicling her life at different points. It’s weird to think I’ll probably never see her again.

I wave back, my heart breaking for all the people who found themselves living here in Orchard Grove trailer park. Spoiler alert: there are no trees, let alone an orchard or a grove. Just misery and dead ends.

I turn left out of the trailer park and start the trek to the other side of The Strip. It’s Tuesday night, which, according to my research, means that Enrico is likely at Grimaldi’s Bistro. The upscale Italian restaurant is owned by the Caparelli crime family, along with many other businesses and casinos in Las Vegas. Grimaldi’s seems to be Enrico’s favorite.

Yes, I’ve been keeping tabs on the Underboss, Enrico, for weeks. Well, to be honest, I’ve been keeping track of his whereabouts since our last encounter over a decade ago. I was just a kid, but I’ll never forget how he swooped in and saved our trailer park from a territory war with a rival gang.

As silly and far-fetched as it sounds, part of me always wished he’d come back for me and take me out of this shithole once and for all. Then my parents died in a car accident while my father was drunk behind the wheel, and my older brother got custody of me. I stopped my stupid childhood fantasies and began planning my escape.

I weave my way through back alleys and side streets, hoping to avoid the dense tourist traffic along The Strip and the thieves who like to take advantage of drunk people with cash. Finally, I see the familiar red brick building with well-kept vines growing up the sides and large golden letters spelling out “Grimaldi’s Bistro.” A deep-red awning covers the few tables out front, the color masterfully weaving in the red brick with the golden letters.

I silently repeat the speech I’ve been practicing for weeks in my head.Mr. Masini, you may not remember me, but we met twelve years ago. You helped my family back then, and I’m hoping you’ll show me mercy now.

Simple. Straight to the point. I consider adding a line about how I know the cops are planning something against them but ultimately decide against it. I don’t want to complicate my message or put him on the defensive.

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