Heartless People

ONE

I am an American, Chicago born – Chicago, that somber city – first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent."

~ Saul Bellow

LAUREN.

He was somewhere in the crossroads of being scared fucking shitless and desperately anxious. I had seen a lot throughout my life, and I say that knowing damn well I was only thirty-five years old. But thirty-five in mafia years had to be the equivalent to at least sixty years for normal people, give or take a year.

Nevertheless, glancing at my son, sitting quietly beside me, his hands reaching up to fix the tie around his neck every few minutes, was still strange as fuck.

"Ethan." I didn't bother facing him, scrolling through the email Vero had sent me, but I heard as his whole body shifted towards me.

"Yes, mom?"

"Is something wrong with your bow tie?"

He paused before speaking "Uhh I don't think so."

"You don't think so?" I glanced over to him and he quickly answered.

"No. There is nothing wrong with my bow tie."

"Then stop fidgeting."

"Yes, ma'am."

I want sure which part confused me more—the fact that I was the mother of a nine-and-half-year-old or the fact that I was the mother of nine-and-half-year old who looked completely identical to me, the same unruly brown hair, sharp green eyes, even my damn nose and ears, Ethan had them all. My mother sometimes would even call him my name by accident; even Vero and Chris had started to call him Lauren Jr.

Each time they did, he stood a little prouder and in return that made me proud. However, if I wanted him to be named after me, he would have fucking
been named after me. There was only one Lauren Jauregui, now and forever. I did not think this out of jealousy or pride—I earned my name, my Camila earned her name, so he would have to do the same starting now.

"Ma'am," Fedel nodded to me as I stepped out of the Rolls Royce. Fedel had changed over the years; the death of Monte had really gotten to him. His black
hair was cut in a buzz, his olive skin tone had gotten only a little lighter in all the years he had been here, but that was nothing in comparison to his behavior now.

He took no chances with anyone, he hardly spoke unless necessary and there was darkness in his eyes I was familiar with. Where I went, he went. He was now my right-hand man; Italian, Irish, it didn't matter anymore; we were beyond that.

"Glass Emperor Hotel," Ethan read when he stepped out beside me. He craned his neck up and stared at the silver skyscraper in front of us.

Without a word, I walked ahead with Fedel and three other bodyguards surrounding us. No one spoke to us as we entered, not the hostess or the valets, they only offered a short nod before moving on to whatever they did for a living.

Those in the marble lobby were confused but moved out of our way as if they were water and I was Moses.

"Out," Fedel told the elevator attendant staring wide-eyed at him.

"I can't leave my post," she foolishly said.

Before Fedel could move, an older man with gray-black hair—George, his name tag read with the words manager underneath—stepped forward. "Keri, its time for your break."

She raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything and stepped out. As she did, the rest of us stepped on.

"George find another post for her," I said. Her mouth dropped open as the doors closed on her face and we shot up towards the penthouse suite.