Twisted Loyalties (The Camorra Chronicles 1)

I headed straight toward Cheryl and put my backpack down behind the bar. When our eyes met my cheeks grew hot at the memory of what I’d overheard her do with Roger last night. Luckily she didn’t seem to notice. “You are late,” she said, a bit on edge.

I glanced at the clock on the wall across the room. I was actually right on time but I decided not to say anything. After all, I wanted to get some information from Cheryl.

“Sorry,” I said as I grabbed two glasses and helped her fill the shelves.

“You could clean up the changing room or Roger’s office. I’ve got this.”

Roger’s office was the last place I wanted to clean. “I’ll clean the changing rooms,” I said, then turned to her.

She returned my gaze questioningly. “What’s up?”

“You know I’m new in town, so I’m not in on what’s going on around here,” I began and could see her defenses come up. Perhaps getting answers from her wouldn’t be as easy as I’d hoped.

“But people are acting strangely around Fabiano, you know the guy who fought the last battle?”

She laughed bitterly. “Oh, I know him.”

I was taken aback. “Oh, okay. So what’s the matter with him? My father freaked out when Fabiano gave a ride home last night.”

“He gave you a ride home?”

Okay. This was really starting to grate on my nerves. Why couldn’t she just spill it?

“He did. It was late and he didn’t want me to walk by myself. He seemed worried.” I decided not to mention that he’d picked me up the night before too.

Cheryl gave me a look like I’d completely lost my mind. “Trust me, he wasn’t. I don’t know why he took you home, but it sure as hell wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart. You are lucky nothing happened.”

I moved closer to her until we were almost touching. “Cheryl, just tell me what’s going on. This bar, Fabiano, everything is off.”

“This is Camorra territory, Chick. Everything belongs to them to some degree. And your Fabiano.”

He wasn’t my Fabiano but I didn’t want to interrupt her from fear she could change her mind about giving me an honest answer.

“He’s Falcone’s right hand.”

“Falcone?”

The name didn’t ring a bell, but it sounded Italian. She cursed under her breath. “It’s not my business. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“So is Falcone some kind of mobster?” I’d seen movies about the mafia, and I knew they were the bad guys, but was that even the reality of things? This was the twenty-first century. The mafia seemed like something out of the nineteen-twenties, old men smoking cigars in black and white movies. Fabiano was someone who instilled respect in others, I could see that, but did that stem from him being a mobster or the fact that he was simply impressive to look at? Anyone who’d seen him in the fighting cages would think twice about a confrontation with him.

“Some kind of mobster,” she murmured like I had committed blasphemy. “You say it like it’s a normal job, Chick. It’s not, trust me. The things the Camorra does, the things your Fabiano does, they…” Her eyes went to something behind me and she fell silent.

“Now go clean the changing rooms,” she muttered. I turned, spotting Roger a few feet from us, with a disapproving expression. He wasn’t looking at me, only at Cheryl, and a silent conversation I wasn’t privy on seemed to pass between them.

I took the mop and bucket, and hastened past him. I was used to being the new girl in town. I’d moved about a dozen times in the last ten years, and had always felt on the sidelines of life because of it. I never got the insider jokes.

I knew being a mobster wasn’t a normal job. These people were bad news. But Fabiano hadn’t seemed bad. Something about him made me curious, made me want to catch a glimpse behind that cautious mask he wore. Who knew why he’d become a mobster? Sometimes life just left you with little to no choice.

I was glad that cleaning the changing room required no concentration at all, because my mind was occupied processing the news. I wasn’t sure what to think because I didn’t know enough. The Camorra, Falcone, mobsters – the words held no meaning for me. But for my father and Cheryl, they did. For them, they instilled fear.

My train of thoughts was interrupted when the first fighters entered the changing room. Apparently, there were fights scheduled every evening. I wondered where Roger found all these guys eager to beat each other up. I supposed many of them had as little choice when it came to jobs as I had.

One of them, the youngest of the lot, around my age, sauntered closer. I lifted the bucket from the white-tiled ground, ready to leave them alone. He gave me a flirtatious smile, which died when one of the other guys whispered something in his ear. After that I might as well have been invisible. Confused, I left the room. Was I some kind of pariah? The untouchable cleaning lady?