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“I can’t do this anymore!” I slam my hand on the steering wheel.
The road is near empty ahead of me, and the sky is clear blue. I used to love days like this. Brisk ski trips to Pennsylvania with Joey and his friends, where I could cozy up by the lodge fire and read my college romance books while gossiping with the other girls. Those were better days. So foreign I wonder if they’re a figment of my imagination sometimes.
That was before he got in too deep. Joey Lucrazi, son of Benny Lucrazi – a big-time capo in the crime family – had big dreams, only to turn out to be an even bigger schmutz. Joey always had fancy cars, hot tattoos, pinky rings, everything that would entice an ordinary girl like me into the dark side.
He talked up a big game when he was a teenager, which made me think he wasn’t so big, ironically. Others started to think the same, which in my opinion, goaded him into making a name for himself.
I look in the rearview mirror to make sure nobody is following me. A black Cadillac sedan has its blinker on to make a left, so I ignore it.
My father used to yell at me for hanging out with Joey’s crew. Big-mouth show-offs who thought anyone with a desk job was a sucker. He never paid any respect to my family, but I was so attracted to him, I ignored it. He represented all the rebelliousness I wish I possessed.
Oh, how wrong I was.
I park the car in the driveway of my quaint witness protection house in the middle of nowhere, Indiana, and slam the car door shut. Joey peeks through the shades to make sure I’m not his killer. The coward sends me into the open. What else is new?
My hands are still shaking as I fiddle with the keys to get in. You’d think the prick would at least open the door. I walk in, kick off my Uggs, and throw my keys on the little table by the door.
“Where are the groceries?” He leans back in a beat-up leather chair, wearing that same wife-beater tank top he always has on. His potbelly is gross, and the tattoos lining his arm need to be refreshed.
Yes, if you’re wondering, I live with my ex-husband. Because I have no choice. Our federal agent assignee had the budget for one house when Joey decided to rat on his friends. Of course I’d be the number two target if I chose to stay behind. Sometimes I wish I had…
“Two guys from New York came into the store—”
“Again with this?” Joey slaps the chair and stands, brown eyes cold as they bore into mine.
I hate his duck walk over to me. The piece of shit thinks he’s Tony Soprano or something.
“You’re so damn paranoid, you can’t even do a simple task anymore, Sia. What the hell happened to you? Huh?”
My jaw clenches. Not only do I freeze up when men in leather jackets are in my vicinity, but I don’t do too well when I’m being yelled at either.
“Well, are you just going to stare at me like an idiot?” He slaps the wall next to my head, and I jump. “I live with a damn deer in headlights.”
“Joey, I’m telling you, something was off about these guys. They weren’t from around here.”
“You said that last time.” I duck away from him when he leans his face in close like that’s going to prove something, and he follows me into the kitchen where I plop on a stool.
The Asian-style decorative vase on my quartz countertop holds my eye. It clashes so horribly with the droll wallpaper that I want to smash it on the floor. Or maybe it’s just him making me want to throw it. “I’m not crazy.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just useless.”
“Screw you.” I lose it and dig into the pocket of my oversized coat, then wave a piece of paper in his face. “Here. Here’s the list. Why don’t you go to the fucking grocery store? Do something yourself for once.”
He paces, shaking his head. “You know why. You damn well know why.”
“Ohhh, okay… So it’s okay when you’re paranoid, but when I have a legitimate concern, I’m useless?”
“You know what Arnold said. The Lucrazis are under fire. The Rigianos and Valentinos are out for blood. Not just new blood either.” He points to his head with his index finger. “Think, Sia. Hello.”
“Yeah, so just send your sacrificial ex-wife out in the open. That’s the smart move.”
He scoffs. “You look nothing like you did back in New York. Fuck outta here. You’re as safe as a cross in church.” He presses his palms together and waves them at me like he’s talking to an imbecile.
“Yeah, and you look so charming with that fat belly and mangy beard. You look like a Midwestern rooster. Go crow on the roof at six.”
He laughs angrily, holding his shoulders back – which makes his potbelly stick out more – stepping into my space with his arms open like he can’t figure out if he wants to go in for a hug or not. “You think you’re funny, huh?”
“I’m hilarious.” Always the same with him. His tells are beacons to my eyes now. I’m skating the edge when I stick my chin up at him, daring him to hit me like in the old days.
