Protected By the Monster

“No, Don,” I said.

“His sister Annabella married my brother Emilio.”

“Oh,” Luca said, though the name didn’t mean anything to him.

“He passed years ago,” Don Leone said. “Well before your time. When he was killed, Annabella turned her back on the family and vowed to keep my brother’s daughter away from us, perhaps from grief, perhaps from anger. They stayed in the city, and I’ve kept my eye on them over the years, but they kept their distance, and Annabella kept her vow.”

“That must be… difficult,” I said, staring through the windshield. I saw Roberto give me a flat glare out of the corner of my eye.

“It was,” Don Leone said. “But life continues. I respected Annabella’s wishes, kept my distance, and only made sure that my business didn’t cause them trouble. Truth is, I hadn’t thought about them much over the years, until three days ago, when Fazio died and left his fortune to Annabella’s daughter.”

I coughed and cleared my throat. “Your niece, sir?” I asked. “Why would he do that? Were they close?”

“I don’t know,” Don Leone said. “I don’t know if they were even aware of each other, or if they were as close as a niece could be with an uncle involved in violent crime, although I very much suspect they didn’t speak. If Annabella didn’t want anything to do with our family, I would guess she also didn’t want to be involved with them.”

Luca nodded and watched as they car crossed over the Schuylkill River into West Philly. Roberto steered them toward the University of Pennsylvania’s campus and the surrounding neighborhoods. It was a decent enough area, not great by most standards, and the Leone Family only has a passing presence. Mostly West Philly was run by local gangs, small-time operations that controlled only a few blocks at a time. I knew there’d been talk of taking it all over and being done with it, but that never seemed to pan out.

“Does this job have to do with the girl, sir?” I asked.

“Very good, Luca,” Don Leone said. “You picked up on that quickly. I’ve heard you’re ruthless and good with a gun. Is that true?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Is aid. “I do what I’m ordered to do and I try not to let my Capo down.”

“Well said,” Don Leone said. “But be honest.”

I looked out the window, at old glass-fronted businesses, as young kids walking with backpacks and messenger bags.

“I’m good at killing,” I said. “I got used to it.”

Don Leone let out an approving grunt as he nodded his head. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

“Do you want me to kill the girl?” I asked.

A ghost of a smile slipped across his face. “Tell me, Luca. Would you, if I asked?”

“I’d do as ordered,” I said, although I didn’t mention that I’d never killed a girl before, and didn’t want to start now.

But I wasn’t about to contradict a shark in his ocean.

“I’m sure you would,” Don Leone said. “But no, that’s not what we’re here to do. In fact, I want the opposite.”

I sat up straighter. “Opposite, sir?”

The car stopped just on the outskirts of the campus outside a light red brick rowhome with a small concrete porch out front. It shared a porch roof with its neighbor, the borders around the front painted a pale lime green color. The door was white, glass up top, bars on the windows.

“Here we are,” Don Leone said.

Roberto jumped out and walked around to the back. I sat there for a beat before unbuckling my belt and getting out. Roberto helped Don Leone down, and together they hobbled toward the front door.

I followed them at a distance, hands shoved in the pockets of my jeans, not sure what the hell was going on. I didn’t know why Don Leone told me that little family story, and I didn’t know what any of this had to do with killing. If I wasn’t here to murder the girl, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do.

I wasn’t a fucking babysitter, if that’s what he had in mind.

But then again, if he told me to jump off that porch roof, I’d do it.

The Don and Roberto walked up the three low steps then to the front door. They didn’t knock, just opened the door and stepped inside. I followed at a respectful distance and stepped into a neat little entryway.

There was a staircase just ahead and a small living room to the left with bare bones furniture. A low, wooden coffee table had random magazines thrown on top, a couple Vogues and an ESPN in the mix. There was a leather chair, used and abused and patched with duct tape, but it looked comfortable at least. The flat-screen TV sitting on top of a rickety black-brown Ikea stand had some golf tournament on mute, and I watched as a fat guy in a green shirt missed a short, easy putt, and I swear he nearly threw his club.