Page 46 of Forgotten Deeds

Darius, seventeen-years old

My piece of shit old man’s been hitting the bottle earlier than usual, and so I sneak out the back and head down the hill to my secret cove. Climbing down the rocky path, I do a double take when I spot a huge yacht anchored in the distance. Must be fucking nice.

My envious thoughts are put on hold when something cold and sharp presses against my neck. Instinct kicks in—years of protecting myself against my old man’s fists—and I move fast, throwing my head back as hard as I can.

Someone curses in Italian, dropping the blade.

Spinning around, I lunge for the knife and get there first. Stumbling back with the knife held ready to strike, I assess the situation: two guys, both around my age. The guy on my left is clearly in charge; confidence and authority radiates from him. Me having just hit a growth spurt and now over six feet tall, we’re around the same height and build, but I can tell this guy has seen some shit, and would definitely fight dirty. “You just got your ass handed to you,” he says with a crooked smile, addressing my attacker.

“Fucker,” my attacker barks at me, his nose gushing blood. Ripping off his shirt, he uses it to stem the bleeding. This guy is not quite as big as me, but I can tell he’s got enough attitude to make up for it.

“You attacked me first.” I toss the knife back to him, in what I hope is a show of respect, and not a fatal move on my part.

He easily catches it by the handle and slips it into his ankle sheath. There’s a Greek superstition you shouldn’t hand someone a knife, or you’ll never be friends; I’m not sure about tossing a knife, but I doubt me and this guy will ever be friends either way.

“Ποιο ε?ναι το ?νομ? σου?” The crooked-smile man asks for my name in perfect Greek.

“Darius Angelos. Who the fuck are you?”

He curls his lips back into a smile. It’s terrifying, and there’s not much that terrifies me. “Romeo Parisi.”

My old man was going on about Antonio Parisi—a mobster from the States he was doing business with—but I thought he was just talking shit. Apparently he wasn’t. This has got to be that mobster’s son. Fuck.

“This is Sam Moretti.” Romeo jerks his head to his buddy.

“Sammy to you; only my friends call me Sam.” He sneers at me.

“Sammy,” I say in a bored tone, even though my body’s screaming at me to run.

“Nice shiner, by the way,” Sammy comments on my black eye, smirking.

“You should see the other guy,” I lie. My old man was railing against Mamá, and I intervened, taking the brunt of it. One day, when I have a wife of my own, I’ll treat her like a queen—not like my babás treats my mamá.

“I bet. You’ve got good reflexes. How old are you?” Romeo asks.

“Old enough.” I’ll be eighteen soon, and I wish I could say I’m getting the hell off this island, but I can’t leave Mamá unprotected.

“You in school?” Romeo asks.

“Nah, I help my folks with their tavern.”

“Which tavern?” he presses.

“Taverna Angelos.”

“Ah,” Romeo says. “Well, Darius Angelos, it was nice to meet you. If you ever find yourself in the States and want to make some real money, look me up. I can always use muscle on my crew.”

“Your crew?”

He reaches into his pocket, handing me a business card.

Parisi Construction

Newark, New Jersey

“Sorry, I don’t do construction,” I warn him.

“Neither do I,” he says with an amused expression. “See you around, Darius.” With that, he turns around and walks off.

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