The Last Boss' Daughter

Annabelle

There’s an old junkyard in Brooklyn that doesn’t mean much to anyone but me.

My father used to bring me when I was young. Behind the old, beaten fence stands a huge oak tree with an apple tree just behind it. Dad hung up a rope swing just for me and before long it became my favorite place in the world. Dad would grab two apples, toss me one, and push me on the swing while I told him about my day or my dreams or my dolls or the boy I liked—whatever I wanted to talk about. My dad was a busy man, so having his undivided interest in those moments… well, it was special to me.

Every year on the anniversary of his death, I come back. I trespass on the land that’s no longer ours, steal two apples from the tree, and swing on the swing that the new owners never took down. While I’m there, eating stolen apples and swinging on someone else’s swing, I talk to my dad. Of course he isn’t there, but I talk to him anyway.

Only this year, something is different.

The junkyard isn’t abandoned.

I’m unsure what to do at first. Lights are on inside and a few vehicles are parked in front of the building. The alarming part is the two armed guards stationed by the rickety old fence, guarding the entrance. All this for a yard full of rust? There can’t be much left of the cars at this point.

The guards go on alert as I walk by. I pick up the pace, my heart pounding as one takes a threatening step forward. What the hell? I’m not sure what to do now. I could go home and forget my annual tradition, but…

I reach the end of the road before I decide, fuck it. Those guys saw me keep walking, so they’re probably back to relaxing and bullshitting with each other. I don’t want inside the fence anyway; I want to go behind it.

I have to go about it a different way, that’s all. Usually I walk right in, cut through the hole in the fence at the back, but my instincts tell me before I even get there, that hole is probably gone. Whatever’s inside, someone wants their privacy.

Cool with me.

I couldn’t care less.

My curiosity isn’t even piqued.

I just want a few minutes on my swing. I just want to steal two apples, then I’ll be on my way.

It may be dangerous. Little red warning flags, but fuck those, too. I’m going on my swing. I haven’t let dangerous men stop me from doing what I want in 26 years, so why start today?

And I make it. I cut through an alley, go behind a building, hustle across a clearing, and I’m along the side of the fence, safely out of the view of the guards. Smiling faintly to myself, filled with an unfamiliar sense of peace and victory, I pluck a pair of apples from the tree, climb up on the seat of my swing and push off. I’m a little less sure about talking to my dad with the security on the place, but as long as I’m quiet it should be okay.

“Hey, Dad,” I murmur, hooking my left arm around the rope. “It’s been a while.”

For a moment, I stop, words clogging my throat. As much as I love the idea of telling Dad about my life, I realize things have gotten so bad that I don’t want to tell him.

Instead, I say, “Do you remember when I was 14 and I finally figured out the whole Mafia thing? How I was so conflicted about it, and… and I felt like my image of you was sort of damaged, and it was so morally reprehensible to do the things I realized you were responsible for?”

I remember an argument we had during that time, in the car on the way home from the junkyard. My arms crossed in anger, telling him, “I would never do those kinds of things, not for any amount of money.”

My dad shook his head, seeming vaguely irritated with my naiveté, and told me, “You think that now, but everyone has a price.”

“I don’t,” I assured him, vehemently.

He nodded, not agreeing. “We’ll see.”

He never did get to see, since he was killed two years later. I hadn’t sold out by then. Not what you would expect of a daughter of a criminal organization, but I was actually a goody goody. Hadn’t even had my first kiss until after he died.

As it turned out, life’s sharper corners poked holes in most of my ideals, like my father predicted they would.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Remember when you told me, even though our family was our kind of family, that if I really didn’t like it, and it really made me unhappy, I didn’t have to have any part of it? I could have a normal life with my little ideals and live blissfully unaware of the goings on?” He couldn’t answer, of course, but I nod anyway. “I think if you would’ve lived, that might’ve been true.”

I don’t get to further speculate, share, or reminisce. The sound of dying leaves crunching beneath heavy boots serves as adequate warning. I launch off the swing and turn with my back to the tree so I can look my attacker in the face, a particular habit of mine.

I like to unsettle them, if I can.

This guy doesn’t seem unsettled. A blonde, short-haired guard stands, legs braced, large gun trained on me, ready to attack.

“Over here!” the guy calls over his shoulder.

Another guard comes around the side of the building, leaves crunching beneath his heavy, black boots. He’s bigger than this guy—a lot bigger. Looks like he’s all broad shoulders and lean muscle underneath all that gear.

He doesn’t stop next to his friend, but keeps coming. I lurch back when I realize he’s coming at me, but there’s no time—and no point trying—to get away with him right on me. If I run, he’ll give chase. And probably tackle me. Bruises. Soreness. Nah, not worth it.

I can just explain myself. I don’t want the nuke codes or dead bodies they have inside, I only wanted a few minutes on the swing from my childhood.

“This has all been a misunderstanding,” I attempt.

Blondie is inexplicably out for my blood and enthuses, “That’s the same

girl that just walked by!”