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I pause for a moment, gulping down half my water as I fight to regain balance. My throat and lungs are begging me to let go, and my eyes water with every second that I repress the urge.
“We can do this another time,” he continues, bemused.
I slam my water glass on the table, leaving a water ring around the base in my haste. “No!”
His eyes widen in curiosity, and for the first time I can see just how striking they really are. Steely blue, light in the middle, with a dark navy ring around the rim of his iris. They remind me of the glaciers we used to see on TV when I was a kid watching the Discovery Channel after school - so icy and disarming to stare into.
“Alright then, is this an interview? Are you prepared to take that on right now?” he asks, leaning forward with his hands folded on the table. “We can just keep this off the record if you need some more time to settle in.”
His words are gentle and affirming, but his tone and facial expression act against his kind intent. He behaves as though he’s never had to interact with someone who wasn’t head over heels for him in some way. He’s so impatient and aggressive when he doesn’t need to be.
And still, I’m obsessed with staring into his eyes.
“We can keep it off the record, but it would be nice for me to get to know you better in general,” I reply, finally able to keep myself from coughing up my lungs as my nerves strangle me.
Before responding, Matteo pulls a box of cigars out of a hidden drawer on his side of the table. Now Iknowthat this table has sentimental value to him, and I’ve made a water ring in defiance. I wonder what the punishment for such a specific little crime would be. Would he spank me?
Stop it!
I watch in awe as Leonardo approaches his right side and lights the cigar for him. Blue smoke begins to writhe and curl up to the ceiling, quickly forming a haze above us.
“Well, what would you like to know?”
I freeze.
How do I not haveanyquestions prepared?!
All of my synapses shut down in real time as I grasp into the darkness for something relevant, meaningful, or intelligent.
Nothing.
He’s completely and totally incapacitated me.
“I’ll start, I guess. I was born in Italy, lived there until I was fifteen. We came to the United States to escape debt collectors from my father’s first business that failed. I have six siblings, and I’m the firstborn. Is that a good place to start?” he asks, lightly grasping a tumbler of whiskey and swirling it in a tantric, unconscious manner.
“Yes, that’s a perfect place to start. I’ve heard a lot about you, but I feel compelled to dig deeper. People like to form stories in their heads about people who are elusive or unobtainable like you are,” I reply as two glasses of wine are set before me – one red and one white.
“What do they think of me? I don’t interact much with what you might call civilians,” he replies, leaning back a bit and relaxing, which in turn puts me at ease.
I take the glass of red wine, inhaling the bittersweet tannins and undertones before sipping modestly. “Well, not good things. Your reputation is that of a violent criminal, and I can’t say that I blame them. Your gang has left a very peculiar impression on the city.”
He laughs to himself, his head turning a bit as if to search for an audience to encourage him. “It’s not like we’ve done extensive charity work or anything. But we keep the streets safe. It’s no secret that the police department is corrupt as fuck, and there are some neighborhoods that they don’t even go into. We do.”
My mind races as I remember hearing a similar story involving a little boy who had been shot in a street gang crossfire. “Was that you with that little boy? The one that got shot? I heard he was able to make a full recovery because of your timing.”
His smile fades, and his expression turns grave and humorless. “Yeah, that was me. I was lucky to have picked up that call on my CB radio. It was almost out of range. I knew the cops weren’t going to go anywhere near that site, so I practically sped through peoples’ backyards to get there. His parents were passed out on heroin a few houses down.”
My heart sinks as he recounts such a horrific memory. I’ve already begun to admire him and his strength, performing acts of heroism that I could never imagine. I’d be a screaming, crying wreck if I saw a little boy in such a dire state.
How did he learn how to act so quickly?
I know that over time, I’ll learn enough about him to create a more informed opinion of him, but so far all I feel is heaviness for him. He wants to help people, but his reputation has been destroyed by someone weaker.
There’s a tension in the air now, and Matteo is pulling the strings. Now that I’ve learned something so intimate and tragic about him, I feel a sense of closeness that I never could have expected from such a casual interview. I want to get up from my chair, walk over to him, and hold him close to me. I’m certain that he would push me away, given the fact that I’m certain he hates sympathy or coddling of any kind, but I’d be there in seconds if he beckoned me.
“Something I need you to understand is that we’re not the monsters that the media, that meansyou, make us out to be. We deal in crime and the underground business world, sure, but the real monsters are guys like Blanco back at the warehouse. He needed to be put down like a dog, and I made sure it happened. That makes me a bigger hero than the fucking cops who are going to win an award for it,” he continues, finishing his drink.
When I notice that his drink is empty, I realize that even the smallest bit of wine that I’d consumed is beginning to dissipate into my bloodstream. It courses through my body, warming me all over before pooling between my legs. A steady throb takes over my attention, and I cross my legs to distract myself from it.
