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“Hey,” she half shouts, “pancakes too. And orange juice.”
After I’ve ordered, I fall down on my seat again as our coffee is served. “So, Angela. How’s life? Seeing anyone?”
She sighs and accepts the coffee. “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”
“You work too hard. You could live life in luxury.”
“And in the clutches of Uncle Salvatore. No fucking thanks.”
“He’s not happy with this, you know.”
Her face turns serious and she puts down the cup, her hand shaking a little. “Did he say anything?”
“He hints at it from time to time.”
“You’ve got my back, though? Right? It would kill me. I could never live that life,himdeciding what I do, who I meet, what I fucking eat, drink and wear.”
I frown. Out of all us Russos, Angela is the one who has chosen her own path. I’d rather die than sell her out. There’s nothing more important to me than keeping my promise to her.
“You know it. I won’t let that happen.”
“Thank you,” she says and smiles faintly. “I love you to bits, Bro, but every time I meet with one of you guys my stomach clenches up a little, thinking this is it, this is when it ends and you pull me back by my hair. Now, let’s talk about something else. I found a new site yesterday, an old church a few miles from here. I’ll go check it out this weekend. Want me to send you the pics?”
I smile, fighting down the unease. “I’m always interested in your work, Angel, you know it. Is it in ruins?”
“Yep. A big wonderful pile of rocks. When are you going back to San Francisco?”
“Eager to get me out of town?”
She shrugs. “Just making conversation. If you have time you can buy me breakfast again.”
“I’d be happy to. I’ll head home as soon as I’m done here. Couple of days, tops.”
It’s not a good feeling knowing I represent darkness to her, fear. But it’s who I’ve become. There’s not a thing I can do about it.
I’m not one of the good guys.
Two
*San Francisco*
Kerry
“Who are they?”
“Who are you talking about, sweetie?”
The young boy sitting by my feet rocks back and forth. “The men in black. What is the red?”
A shiver slithers down my spine, even though I can’t tell why. I’ve never seen little David Salvatore looking so worried. He’s usually a quiet boy. He has his favorite toys he won’t let anyone else touch. I can only put them back in the cupboard after he leaves, even though he somewhat trusts me. I’m the only one he trusts enough to talk to. But he usually only talks about his blue truck, and the Gameboy.
“Where did you see the red, David?” I sit next to him on the floor and cross my legs, careful not to come too close. He has a very specific distance he accepts.
“Floor. On the man.”
The hair on my nape stands. “Who was the man?”
“My truck is green.”
