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“I’m coming!” I screamed. I broke into a run, ignoring the stitch that sprang up in my side. The burger I’d just eaten was threatening to come back and twist my stomach to shreds, but I didn’t care. If my best friend was in trouble, I was gonna fucking make sure he got out of it fast.
“Sil!” I yelled as I ran closer. “Where the fuck are you?”
The shouting increased and I moaned softly as I came within sight. Silvio was on the ground, dirty and bleeding. His suit was ripped at the knees and elbows and there was a gunshot wound in his stomach. He was pale in the face and clutching at himself as blood spilled over his hands like some kind of macabre fountain.
Tony was lying on the ground, dead.
A man with thinning hair was pointing Silvio’s gun at him and screaming.
“Michael Bennett,” I said loudly, pulling my gun from my waistband and cocking it. “What the fuck are you doing to Silvio?”
Michael turned to me and his face was etched with horror. “You leave me the fuck alone!” Michael screamed. “You know what this means? My father is going to destroy you!” His voice rang out over the docks and I glared back, staring him down.
“That’s what you think,” I said calmly.
I pulled the trigger.
Michael’s body crumpled to the ground.
5
Beth
The day after our fight, I felt like shit. I knew that it was my fault – Michael was right. He’d provided for me for close to four years, and I had a lot of responsibility to live up to. I decided right then and there that I’d try to be a better fiancée, as practice for being a good wife.
Michael had made it clear to me that he wanted me to stop working as soon as we got married. That morning, I submitted my two weeks’ notice to my job. It wasn’t a big job – it was only part time, and I maybe got fifteen hours a week. But it felt like a big deal symbolically, and I knew Michael would be pleased when I told him what I’d done.
Michael hadn’t spoken to me that morning before he’d left. When I’d called at lunch, his receptionist, Jeanne, told me that he had a bunch of evening meetings off-site. Normally, the news would have upset me. But today it just made me nervous – I wanted things to be perfect by the time he got home, and this gave me just the right amount of time that I needed to impress my fiancé once again.
I went to the salon and got my hair done – new highlights – as well as a pink manicure and matching pedi. Before Michael and I had gotten together, I’d had kind of a wild side: I’d liked dyed hair and wild colors on my hands and feet. But Michael liked traditional, quiet girls and I wanted more than anything to show him that I was ready for that kind of life. I knew that to Michael, marriage wasn’t just a piece of paper. We’d already talked and agreed that no matter what, we wouldn’t get a divorce or separate, even for a trial period. Michael wanted a traditional life – he wanted me to stay home all day with our kids, cooking and cleaning and making myself look perfect and presentable.
I wanted him to know that I was serious about committing to our life together. When I got home from the salon, I called Heather. We had our differences when it came to pleasing men, but there was no one like Heather who knew how to make a man happy…if only temporarily.
“I’ll be right over,” Heather promised on the phone. “This is gonna be fun!”
“I know,” I said. “We haven’t had a girls’ night in forever.”
“When is Michael getting home?”
I sighed. “Late,” I said. “I mean, later than usual. Maybe eight or nine. I want to have dinner warm in the oven by the time he gets here.”
When Heather and I hung up, I went into the living room and vacuumed again until the lines in the carpet were as clean as razor cuts. I was satisfied with my work. Growing up, I’d always been kind of a messy person. But I knew that as an adult, I’d have to be neat as a pin in order to make my future husband happy.
Heather knocked on the door and I let her in with a squeal. We hugged and danced around until I pulled her in the kitchen and shoved my arsenal of cookbooks under her nose.
“What should I make?” I flipped through an elaborate dessert cookbook that featured tiny little custard dishes and petit fours. “Michael doesn’t like any of this fussy stuff – at least, that’s what he says. But he always eats the dessert I make.”
Heather frowned. “What’s his favorite?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said. “Like I said, he won’t tell me.”
“What about cheesecake? Men love cheesecake,” Heather opined. “I made one for Jay and he ate like, half of the thing in one sitting.”
“Holy shit,” I said. “That’s a great idea.”
“It’s easy, too,” Heather said. She walked across the kitchen floor and pulled open the fridge. “You’ve got everything,” she added. “Even the lemon zest!”
Twenty minutes later, I carefully slid the warm cheesecake into the oven. I beamed, proud of my work.
