Page 3 of Ruthless Consequences

First time death has come to claim me, but somehow, I’m still breathing.

That makes a first, and what feels like an end.

ONE

LUCILA

PRESENT DAY

Every lightin New York was out. Or it seemed like it.

I kept my bag in my arms, the letter clutched to my chest, as my personal chauffeur navigated the streets. My private car was an old yellow taxicab, and my chauffeur was Aren Macaluso. He was like the uncle I didn’t have. He was related to the people I worked for at Valentino’s Bakery in Brooklyn.

He sang an Armenian song I didn’t recognize as we cruised down the dark streets. Then he switched to Italian. His mother had been Armenian and his father had been Italian. It wasn’t the first time he’d gone back and forth between the languages, but the darkness was intimidating, and he wasn’t saying anything about it.

Besides the glow from his dashboard, it felt like I was in a cave that usually shed some light on the wildness around me. I was used to that light. Thrived in it. I didn’t like being kept in the dark.

I always rode in the back, since he insisted this was my city chariot, and I scooted up some to get closer to him. “What do you think happened?” I whispered, not meaning to.

He shivered, probably because my hair had touched his scalp, or my breath had fanned over his neck. He shrugged. “Power outage, probably. That’s why Michele thought it was best if I brought you home. Too dangerous for you to walk.” He yawned, then grabbed for the coffee in its holster on his dash.

I nodded, even though he probably hadn’t noticed. His eyes were bloodshot, and the bags underneath told a story of how many late-night shifts he’d been working. I clutched the letter and the seat until he pulled up in front of my place.

The lights were out there too.

“I’ll walk you in,” he said, preparing to leave his cab in the street and walk me to my door.

“It’s okay,” I said, holding up my phone. I had switched out the letter for it and already had the flashlight turned on. A lousy beam of light, compared to the wall of darkness, highlighted my face in the glass of the window. “It’s only a few steps from here.”

He gazed at me through the mirror. “You sure?”

I nodded. “Positive.”

He nodded back. “Same as always. I’ll wait here until you get inside.”

“As always, I’ll wave right before I do.”

I touched his shoulder, he squeezed my hand, and then I let myself out. He idled in the street, his high beams only touching so many feet in front of him, while I made the walk up to the house I shared with my dad, Sonny, and my two sisters, Ava and Minnie.

The house had been in my dad’s family for years, but over the years, the neighborhood had been subjected to everything the world had. Inflation and lack of work, which meant crime was at an all-time high. The homes were older. The neighborhood was basically forgotten. Which meant old cars, some without tires, slept in front of houses and in driveways; the grass grew freely, along with weeds and rodents; and paint jobs were a thing of the past.

If any of those shows on television wanted an aged look, all they had to do was show up at our place. We had the original tiles in our two bathrooms, along with mildew that couldn’t be blasted off with a pressure washer.

After making it past the cement walkway, each step I took on the weathered wood of the porch creaked with my weight. It sounded louder than it ever had. Even the sound of Aren’s taxi sounded like a rock concert in church. Without light, the night seemed too quiet, and every sound was too loud.

Even my breathing sounded too loud to my own ears. Each gulp of air that I took went down hot. It would be even hotter inside. No AC. Even though we were in May, it felt like mid-August.

I turned my phone toward the door so I could see to turn the lock, but I stopped before I took out my keys. No need. The door was already cracked open. I turned around and looked at Aren. He was still waiting for me. Before I could even lift my hand, he must have taken it as a sign to go. He waved, pulled off, and left me alone with the lame flashlight and a cracked door.

All the hairs on my neck stood up, but I pushed open the door, trying to decide whether to call out or not. Sonny was a man of few words. But Minnie would have said something, or come running. She was fourteen years younger than me—still young and usually excited when I got home, especially with desserts from Valentino’s in my bag.

And that letter, but that’s only for me.

What if something was wrong, though? And then I alerted someone in the house that I was home? If I called attention to myself, I’d lose the element of surprise.

The air in the house felt almost suffocating, like no one had opened the windows all day. It also reeked of booze and…I breathed in deeper, trying to place the smell. When it hit me, I almost collapsed to the floor.

Blood.

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