Twisted Loyalties (The Camorra Chronicles 1)

I knew he was right. Dad was probably already losing money he didn’t have right as we spoke. He couldn’t act any other way. He let his addiction rule his life. I doubted he even still considered going to rehab. I’d seen with mom that rehab wasn’t going to save you if you didn’t have the willpower to go through with it.

“Take your money,” Fabiano pushed the notes farther in my direction. “And use it for yourself, for fuck’s sake.”

I picked up the money and stashed it in my backpack. “Do you want something to drink while you’re here?” I grabbed the Johnie Walker Blue Label from the shelf.

“You remember,” he said with a smirk.

“Of course,” I said simply. I remembered every moment of our encounters. They were the bright light of my time in Las Vegas so far, as ridiculous as it may sound. I poured him a generous amount. It wasn’t as if Roger would care. The Camorra owned everything anyway.

Fabiano took a large gulp, then held the glass in my direction. “Want a taste?”

It sounded dirty the way he said it. “No. I don’t drink. Ever.”

He nodded as if he understood, then he downed the rest of his Scotch and pushed back from the bar. “I still need to do some business. See you in a few hours.”

So he really intended to drive me home every night. I watched his broad back as he made his way through the hall, his gait elegant and lithe like that of a predator.

Sometimes I wondered if I was his prey, if this was an amusing chase for him, he’d soon get bored with. I wasn’t sure if it was something I should hope for.

He didn’t try to kiss me again when he drove me home that night, hadn’t since our first kiss. Perhaps he’d sensed that I would have pushed him away.

“Tomorrow morning, I’ll pick you up. Dress in something you can work out with.”

I got out. Fabiano waited until I was inside our apartment before he drove off.

The light was out in the apartment when I entered. I turned it on and was heading to my room when I noticed movement on the couch in the living room. Dad was sitting with his head bowed, moaning. I approached him slowly.

First I noticed the empty beer bottles on the table. If he stopped throwing away money for alcohol, he’d be better off. Then my eyes were drawn to his naked back and a glaring red mark.

I turned on the lights in the living room. Someone had cut a ‘C’ into his back. Blood had dried around the wound. It didn’t look as if Dad had treated it in any way, except for numbing the pain with alcohol of course.

Dad didn’t acknowledge my presence. He kept his face buried in his palms and let out a low moan.

“Dad?”

He grunted.

“Who did this?” I knew the answer of course.

Dad didn’t reply. He was probably too drunk considering the number of empty bottles that littered the ground. I turned and headed for the bathroom to grab a washcloth. I soaked it with cold water, then searched the cabinets for something to put on the wound. Except for expired Tylenol and a few dirty band-aids they were empty.

I returned to the living room and touched Dad’s shoulder to alert him of my presence. “I’m going to clean up your wound,” I warned him. When he didn’t react, I gently pressed the cold washcloth to the cut.

He let out a hiss and lashed out at me. I avoided being hit by his elbow by inches. “Shh. I’m trying to help you, Dad.”

“You’ve done enough. Leave me alone!”

His bloodshot eyes flashed with anger when he looked up at me.

“You should go to a doctor,” I said quietly, then put the wet washcloth down on the table in front of him in case he decided to clean his wound.

He returned to his bowed position and ignoring me.

I went to my bedroom and closed the door, bone tired from a long day at work and what I’d seen. Fabiano had cut my father as punishment for what he’d done. I didn’t kid myself into thinking that this small wound was the full extent of what Fabiano would do to my father if he messed up again.

I wasn’t sure if I could stop Fabiano. I wasn’t sure if I had the energy to try. I was sick of solving other people’s problems, when I had enough of my own.

I was dressed in my jeans shorts and a loose t-shirt when Fabiano picked me up at ten.

His eyebrows climbed his forehead when he saw my clothes. “That’s not what I meant when I told you to wear comfortable clothes.”

“I don’t own any workout clothes. And to be honest, this is one of three outfits I own in total, including the dress you bought for me,” I said snidely.