“So staying away from him isn’t going so well, huh?” Cheryl said as she came to a stop beside me, carrying a tablet stacked with beer bottles.
“I can’t stop him from having a drink in the bar,” I said with a small shrug.
“He isn’t coming for the drinks. Before you started working here, he was hardly around, and to be honest, I preferred it that way.” She sauntered off, her hips swaying from side to side as she expertly maneuvered past tables on her high heels.
I sighed. My mother’s knack for troublesome men had obviously been handed down to me. Perhaps there was some way to lose Fabiano’s attention. Problem was that part of me didn’t want him to lose interest in me. Some twisted, idiotic part was eager for his attention. That a man like him had even a flicker of interest in me boosted my meager self-confidence. Back in school, boys had only showed me attention because they thought I’d give it up easy as the daughter of a whore. They weren’t interested in me because I was pretty or clever, but because they thought I was cheap. But Fabiano didn’t know about my mother, and with the way he looked he certainly had no trouble finding willing women.
Cheryl shot me a glare across the room. I’d been lost in my thoughts and ceased working again. I pushed Fabiano out of my head. If I didn’t want to lose this job, I’d have to get a grip on myself.
That night after work, Fabiano wasn’t there to drive me home. And I realized I’d been secretly hoping that he’d come in after he’d handled business – whatever that meant.
I swung my backpack over my shoulder, and gripped the straps tightly as I began my walk home. Few people were around at this time, and most of them made me want to run. I quickened my pace, checking my surroundings. Nobody was following me, and yet I felt as if I was being hunted. All this talk about the Camorra had been fuel for my imagination.
It was ridiculous. I was used to walking on my own. Back at home with my mom, she definitely had never picked me up anywhere. I had been the one who had to go in search of her more than once when she didn’t return home. And often enough I’d found her passed out in one of her favorite bars, or in a backstreet.
When I finally arrived at home, I released a relieved breath. The lights were still on in the living room.
“Leona? Is that you?”
Dad sounded drunk. I hesitated. I remembered the last time I’d seen him drunk when I was twelve. He’d had a huge fight with my mother and hit her so hard that she lost consciousness. After that she left him. Not that the men got better after that. For my mom life was a downward spiral that never stopped. Perhaps she’d put a stop to it now, her probably last chance at rehab.
I stopped in the doorway of the living room. Dad was sitting on the sofa, the table in front of him covered with beer bottles and papers. They looked like betting slips. I doubted he was celebrating his betting luck.
“You are late,” he said, a slight slur in his voice.
“I had to work. The bar is open late,” I said, wanting nothing more than to go into my bedroom and let him sleep off his intoxication. He pushed himself off the sofa and came around it and closer to me.
“I thought you weren’t drinking anymore.”
“I’m not,” he said. “Most of the time. Today wasn’t a good day.”
I had a feeling the good days were few and far between. “I’m sorry,” I said automatically.
He waved it off. He took another step in my direction and almost lost his balance. Memories of all the fights between him and my mother that I’d witnessed resurfaced one after the other. I didn’t have the energy for them now. “I should probably go to bed. Tomorrow will be another long day.”
I turned when I heard his uncoordinated steps and then his hand clamped down on my wrist. I jumped in surprise.
“Wait,” he slurred. “You have to give me some money, Leona. Roger must have paid you by now.”
I tried to slip out of his grip but it was too tight, and painful. “You’re hurting me,” I said through gritted teeth.
He didn’t seem to listen. “I need money. I need to pay off my betting debts or we’ll be in trouble.”
Why would we be in trouble if he didn’t pay his betting debts?
“How much do you need?” I asked.
“Just give me all you have,” he said, his fingers on my wrist as much a way to keep me from leaving as a way to keep himself upright.