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I’m confident there is no outward sign of sympathy on my face as I march past the girl, despising the calm, flat click of my own heels on the tiled floor.
My uncle and his sons have refurbished the former garage bay, turning it into a soundproofed office where it’s not unheard of to spot a blood stain or two. They keep a collection of live rattlesnakes, venom intact, often used as brutal tools of persuasion. Now and then a bloated body shows up, punctured with fang marks, and everyone knows that the unfortunate fucker must have crossed the Essex Street Marchenko boys somehow.
If I never step into this corner of the city again that would sit just fine with me but I’m not the one calling the shots.
A door swings violently open but before I can put a hand on the gun in my purse, the tension is gone. My little brother spills out of the bathroom.
Robert spots me and breaks into a crooked grin. “Hey.”
He’s changed since I saw him last. How long has that been? Months, it seems. A year ago he would have run to me with a hug. In another year he’ll likely top my height.
I settle for a fist bump. “What are you doing here?”
He pushes shaggy honey-colored hair from his eyes. “Dad decided I was ready to be part of things.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t growl my fury out loud. Robert is a child. Nothing that goes on in our world should reach his ears.
A loud sniffle rises above the bar sounds of clinking glassware. I can feel the heat of the girl’s desperate gaze on my back. Or maybe that prickle at the base of my spine is just guilt.
Meanwhile, my little brother’s chest is puffed out and he stands tall, clearly proud that he’s being treated like a man even though he isn’t one. He’s the son of a woman who once worked onstage in the club long before it was mine. Even if she never existed my parents would not have stayed married. She’s long since been discarded but she has earned special status for giving Aric Marchenko the son he craved.
It's a mark of how little progress we’ve made that powerful men still have this Henry VIII-type obsession with a male heir. I used to be resentful. Now all I feel is dread because my brother doesn’t fully understand that his future has already been written for him.
His choices will never exist. This is the start of an inevitable journey and from now on he’ll be coached to be a monster.
Like them.
Like me.
Robert frowns because I’ve let too much time go by in silence. For his sake, I force a smile even as my heart withers.
“First lesson is to never be late for a meeting. Come on.”
He nods and falls in beside me. “Hey, can I go with you to see Lita sometime? Mom keeps saying she’ll take me but she never does and Dad gets mad whenever I ask about her.”
A memory swims before my eyes. When Robert was born, Lita and I went to see him in the hospital. I was still smarting over the fact that our father was so clearly over the moon to have a son even though he could barely bother to remember that he still had daughters. When the squawking bundle was placed in my arms I held him for less than a minute before eagerly handing him off.
But not Lita.
Her face softened into wonder and she rocked him in her arms. He quit crying when she began singing softly. She tried to get me to join but I was too busy protesting by standing in a corner with my arms crossed, annoyed that she was making such a fuss.
Robert was still a diapered toddler when Lita slipped away. He has no memories of her.
“I’ll take you to visit Lita anytime you want.”
We’ve reached the end of the hallway. I breathe out slowly, buying a few seconds to calm my irritation before twisting the handle of the door. Robert waits until I give him the nod to walk right in. I square my shoulders and follow.
The acrid stench of cigar smoke does nothing to calm the inferno in my stomach. Though the sun blazes in the outside world, no natural light reaches in here. Fitting in a way. Kind of like strolling into a vampire lair. Even the snakes have been invited today. They’re lounging within a portable plastic container atop a dark wood end table. A petty show of power.
There is no illusion of equality at the cherrywood rectangle in the center of the room. My father sits at the head in a wingback red velvet chair. He leans to the right, in the middle of a private conversation with his favored brother, Estes. He pauses and his eyes skate over me with a stiff nod.
I return his nod. That’s about as affectionate as we ever get. We’re not the sort of family that plans cruise trips or sits down to Thanksgiving dinner together. We’re a family that plots gangland takeovers and deploys hitmen to erase anyone in our way.
Desmond is responsible for the cigar stink. He puffs away, looking bored. The chair creaks as he shifts his weight. Desmond’s original plan was to become an attorney and slink into politics but while he was jerking off in an east coast law school his younger brother was making his bones on the streets. My father began with a laundromat won in a poker game and swiftly acquired a taste for gobbling up real estate, then veered into the cash cows of seedy bars and strip joints. But for the last decade his biggest windfall comes from illegal casino operations. Keeping those in business comes with a different set of challenges. There are politicians to buy off and competitors to squash. Literally, not figuratively.
Growing up, I knew little about what my father did when he was gone from the house, which was most of the time. He was busy turning swaths of the Emerald City’s most neglected neighborhoods into his blood soaked domain. At his side was the older brother who used his knowledge of laws to gleefully break them and the younger brother who is best known for throwing one of his own henchmen off a freeway overpass after the guy told a bad joke.
I was very young the day I asked about my father’s tattoo as he climbed out of the swimming pool. The menacing diamond-shaped head of the snake contrasted with the pale skin of his chest and I was fascinated enough to risk a timid question. He didn’t even look at me as he shot out a curt answer. The mark his chest was a family honor, an emblem of blood and loyalty. When I asked if I’d have one too someday he peered down at me with scorn and said two words.
