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“And like Mom.”
Ouch. I know he doesn’t mean for that to hurt but it does. “Yes.”
“Was it a bad guy who killed her?”
“Yes. But if I’d been a bad guy too, then maybe I could have stopped her from getting hurt before it was too late. Do you see what I mean?”
Lucas sits and wrinkles his small face in thought for a few minutes before giving me an answer. “Yeah, but I still think I’d rather be a good guy,” he says as he goes back to posing his Batman. “Even with a wobbly arm.”
I run my fingers through his tousled hair and smile. “Good. I want you to be a good guy too,” I say.
“Can I go to work with you tomorrow?” he asks, taking advantage of my good mood. Lucas is always asking to come into work with me, but I rarely ever honor the request. Since my work is an illegal drug-smuggling operation, it’s not exactly child-friendly. But since I’m currently involved in spending time at the theatre while my brothers are taking care of the normal operations of myborgata, I see no reason why now wouldn’t be the perfect time to finally let my son spend the workday with me.
“Sure,” I say to his surprise and delight. “You can come to work with me tomorrow. I’ll be going to a theatre and overseeing rehearsals for a show. You might find it fun.”
“Yay!” he beams. “I’ll bring my toys in case I want to act something too.”
“Sounds good.”
“Dad?” he asks in a small voice as I get up from his floor to go and make us both dinner.
“Yeah?”
“Is it possible to be both a good guy and a bad guy at the same time?”
Ah, through the mouths of babes. “Yes, Lucas. And I think those are probably the best men of all. Guys like me who sometimes have to do some bad things in order to protect good people. Does that make sense?”
He nods his head and then goes back to playing.
7
DAHLIA
I’m shocked to see Vari walk into the theatre the next morning with his child in tow. I know it shouldn’t upset me to see he has a child. Obviously, I knew he’d been with other women since having dumped me. But still, the thought of him being with another woman makes my skin crawl, even though we aren’t together anymore and haven’t been in a very long time. A child is a tangible reminder that he made love to someone else—someone he must’ve cared about enough to bring a new life into the world with. Someone who wasn’t me.
When we were dating in high school, I used to fantasize about what our children would look like. That fantasy ended abruptly the day he left me. I guess I now know what one of his kids would look like, at least. The boy’s adorable. He looks like a miniature version of Vari minus the brilliant blue eyes and Vari’s muscular physique that his son might grow into one day. He sits in the empty theatre, dwarfed by the large red velvet seats as he watches the rehearsal from beside his father. It’s hard to hold any sort of ill-will against the boy, because he’s such a cherub spitting image of his dad.
During this rehearsal, Hector has us rehearsing a fight scene from the play. It’s one of the violent street fight scenes, action-heavy and exciting, and a lot of fun to rehearse. Vari’s son sits on the edge of his seat with his eyes wide as he watches all the action. At parts, he practically jumps off his seat to cheer for the “good guy in the play to win.” It’s endearing and strangely surreal to think that a man like Vari could have such an innocent and sheltered son with such well-meaning intentions. He must be a good dad, and the boy’s mom must be a good mom too. I haven’t seen a ring on Vari’s finger, and I made sure to take notice of it the very first day he reappeared and took me to get a coffee. I wonder if they’re divorced or if he simply doesn’t wear a ring to keep things “open.” Regardless, it’s truly none of my business. So, I try to focus back on my part during rehearsal.
But right in the middle of the fight scene, things take a dark and unexpectedly dangerous turn. The scene is supposed to depict a street fight—two rival crime families engaged in a gunfight in the city’s back alleyways. The antagonist of the play aims his gun at the male lead, who is carefully perched on a fire escape against the façade of the back of a city building. But the set isn’t completely finished yet, and he’s having a tumultuous time staying steady on the makeshift ladder.
My male counterpart is supposed to get hit with the fake gunshot and fall from the fire escape ladder, after the blank-loaded gun is fired and sends a cracking noise through the theatre. Once that happens, I’m supposed to run to his aid, drop down on my knees, and then pretend to mourn the eminent death of my mafia lover.
But things go south as soon as the other actor pulls out his prop gun. He pulls the trigger and the sound cracks in the air, and at the same exact moment the male lead falls off the ladder prematurely. I try to reach out and grab him, hoping to be just enough support to get him to stay steady for the split second longer needed in order to complete the scene, but it doesn’t work and I end up falling in front of him as he hits the ground.
Even that should just be nothing more than a blunder that needs a retake. This is all just acting. Nothing is real. Nothing should hurt, not even the fall, since the distance is so short. But instead, something does hurt—worse than any pain I’ve yet to feel in my entire life. Something strikes my chest with a force that knocks me to the ground, knocks all the wind out of me, and makes my eyes roll into the back of my head. I feel my body crumble over itself, and when I try to suck in a breath of air, I find I can’t. Pain like that of a blunt hammer hitting against my breastbone radiates throughout my chest, and I’m blinded by it.
For a few moments, I can’t do anything other than lie there in pain, struggling to breathe and wondering what the hell happened. Then it dawns on me. A real bullet has been fired instead of a blank. A bullet that just hit me in the chest. A bullet that was aimed at the male lead of this play, but struck me instead when he fell out of the right position.
Pain, confusion and fear all wash over me at once. Around me, I can hear the sound of chaos erupt. Several voices at once are asking if I’m okay. The actor who fired the gun sounds panicked and completely surprised that there was a real bullet inside the prop gun. Beneath me, the lead actor stands up and makes a loud announcement for the director to hear. “She’s okay!” he yells as if he’s giving a public service announcement. “There’s no blood!”
No blood? How can that be? It felt like I got shot. It sure as hell sounded like I got shot. I reach my hands down to trace my fingers across my chest, searching for the feeling of warm liquid and testing the air for the metallic scent of iron. But there’s nothing. When I look down, I see something shiny catch the light. There, wedged firmly against my leather bustier, is a bullet. “What the hell?” I whisper.
Before I can say anything else, Vari’s kneeling down beside me. With a subtle quickness, he snatches the bullet from my fingers and slides it into his coat pocket. “Are you alright?” he asks as he helps me to sit up.
“I’m not sure. I think so,” I say breathlessly. “My costume magically stopped that bullet somehow.”
Vari looks sideways out of his eyes, as if he’s watching to see who else is listening. Then in a low voice, he tells me what I guess should’ve been obvious as soon as I realized that getting shot in the chest hadn’t killed me. “The bustier is made of Kevlar,” he says. “It’s bulletproof.”
