Raised by the Mafia

A Man Scorned (2 of 2)

I clear my throat from the invisible, stubborn obstruction and introduce Ryan. "My partner."

If I have to point at this door again, I'm going to scream.

The Russian-speaking-guy bobs his head, then unleashes a stream of unfamiliar words supported by the energetic gestures. He mostly addresses two men: one has an aquiline cast to his weather-beaten features, and the second who has the same enviable bone structure obscured by a network of wrinkles. Could be family, could be a fine example of these mountains' stamp on their people.

With the conference over, the orator turns to me with a toothy smile.

I bite my lip. We probably don't look trustworthy; I smile back so hard the lips barely fit my face. No teeth though; that's not good for trustworthy.

"You want us to release dogs, then yell like we're on fire," he pokes the Walkie-talkie, "until they come out, so we can kill them? Yes? Yes?"

I exchange a brief glance with Ryan to confirm. "Yes. That's the plan."

The guy's smile grows even wider, ever toothier. Really, what a remarkable set of teeth in a place with a pitiful dentist per person ratio.

"We two come with you." He points at himself and the old man. Then to his younger friend. "He takes the women to hide."

This gives me a pause. The grandpa is gnarly, but it would be too late to work through the misunderstandings when the gunfight breaks out. "He comes with us to fight?"

"Yes, darling," he confirms. "Yes, yes."

His eyes narrow to confide a dangerous secret to me. "He talks to the dogs."

Okay then. The dog-whisperer is hired! Anything and anyone to control the feral shepherds. "Good. Let's do it."

Ryan hands out the liberated machine guns—he has them hanging from his neck like some macabre Christmas decorations—to the eager hands. That eagerness gives me a pause, but hard places breed hard people. We came looking for allies, not fodder, so it's too late for the second-guesses. Let them keep the hardware after... what comes after isn't my problem, and I have far too many problems on my way to after.

When it's my turn to receive the spare handgun from him, I have to put it down by my feet. There are no convenient straps on my ankle, and I can't very well stuff it into my back pocket. That's some tough work conditions.

I'll carry a gun in each hand, firing by turns, like a harridan when the party starts, but let it rest on the dirt floor for a sec. I need my hands free right this minute for a more important thing.

I grab Ryan's hands in mine. "Don't get yourself killed, love."

He nods. "Likewise."

It takes forever for his fingers to slip from my grip until even the tips no longer touch. When this is over, I'll hold his hand for an hour. Just hold his hand! Yes, I'm this badly in need of him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a strange smirk on the younger local's lips. Is he a traitor? But then the sun catches the bright gold on Ryan's finger, and my paranoia recedes. Ryan still wears his wedding ring. The local's thoughts are flickering in his eyes: you dog! Or, perhaps, you fool! Or whatever else men think about the cheaters in these parts. He pegged the wrong person with his suspicious mind.

My fingers instinctively tap Luca's ring stashed for safe-keeping in the zipped pocket. There it is, the metal circle, the cut jewel, a hard cold shape even inside the fabric of my jacket. I fight the impulse to dig it up and put it on, which is ridiculous: I'm the cheater here.