Of volume lineage

III

 

Isabella

 

I woke up to the corralling of my mother.

Surprise quickly followed a

“Mother?”

She peered over me, brown eyes sharp. “Get up. Quickly.”

I pulled myself into a sitting position, still blinking and trying to push away my grogginess. Darkness swarmed the room, the only light coming from the skyscrapers outside.

“What time is it?”

Mother had pulled out my suitcase and was throwing clothes in. “Get dressed.” She tossed me a pair of pants and jacket. “Quickly, Isabella. There is no time to waste.”

I suddenly realized my mother was fully dressed. Not in her usual formal attire and shiny pearls, but instead she wore pants, boots, and a warm jacket. Even her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. I had never seen my mother’s hair in a ponytail.

“Where are we going?”

“You’re going to your uncle’s.”

I slid out of bed, hurrying to change out of my pyjamas. When I returned, my mother had zipped the suitcase close and was pushing it into my arms.

“Where are you going?”

She sent me a sharp look. “I can’t tell you. Now, no more questions. Be quiet and stay with me.”

The apartment was silent, shrouded in shadows and blue light. Cold air brushed over my exposed skin, but I hardly noticed as my thoughts tumbled rapidly through my brain. My worry and panic were so blaringly loud inside of me I was surprised my mother couldn’t hear them.

Downstairs, the place was in disarray. Shoes and coats littered the foyer, guns were scattered over the dining table and there was a trail of papers leading from the study to the front door.

“What happened?”

“Be quiet.”

I sca

Suddenly, voices sounded from the hallway. Masculine and deep. Unfamiliar.

Mother grabbed my arm and yanked me into the shadows. Neither of us dared to breathe.

They passed.

“Who attacked us?” I asked, sliding the pieces together. “The Feds, the Russians? Who is it?”

I thought she wouldn’t answer me but to my surprise, Mother replied, “The Viglianos.”

I might not be as up to date with the Mafia Times as I would’ve liked but I knew who the Viglianos were. Everyone knew about the Italian American organization that dictated what came into the East and what left.

My mouth dried. “Oh. Oh God…” I swallowed, trying to push away the tales I had heard about the violence and blood their Don had spilt. “I thought they were in Maine.”

“Not anymore,” was my mother’s reply. “No more questions. Be quiet.”

We ventured out into the hallway. It was silent once again, but the side tables and paintings had been torn from their places. We stepped over the rubble, taking the emergency stairs instead of the elevator. Uncle Angelo lived a few floors below though he barely spent any time there.

The emergency exit staircase was old and dim, the only light coming from a flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling. Rat droppings and spider webs lurked in the shadows.

My hand reached out to the railing.

“Gross!”

Mother shot me a violent look, shushing me immediately.

I held my palm beneath the faint light, swallowing my scream when I realized it was slick with red. When I looked down, I spotted more blood, some patches a fresh crimson and others a dried brown. It didn’t take long to realize who it belonged to.

Bodies were pushed against the walls, slumped awkwardly down the staircase, none of them moving. I checked their faces as we passed them. Aldo Lucchese, my father’s driver who used to help me with my homework; Ilario Udinesi, a childhood friend of my brother’s who used to put my toys on high shelves so I couldn’t reach them; Gino Dellucci, an old soldato who always let me have the last slice of lasagna.

Grief gripped my heart and lungs, but no sound erupted from my throat. I bent down to close Aldo’s eyes before continuing to follow my mother.

We reached Uncle Angelo’s floor. Voices sounded from behind the door, deep and rough. Mother inched open the door, not daring to make any noise until she was certain we were safe. Both of us peered through the crack, cheeks squelching together as we tried to get a clear view.

The hallway was a replica of all the other hallways in the building, with the same vintage red paper and golden crown moulding. Usually, the Turkish Kilim rug that ran the length of the hallway was immaculate and vacuumed, but today blood soaked the wool and golden threads.

A body was thrown out of a doorway, smacking into the wall, causing the lamps and chandeliers to rattle. He slumped to the ground, nose bloody and eyes swollen.

It was Valentino Lo Duca. He was one of my father’s capos…and had been my mother’s lover for a few years. I had caught them once but had never breathed a word of it–it was the only time my mother had said please to me.

I tilted my head awkwardly, trying to gauge her expression. My mother hid whatever she was feeling beneath her cold façade.

A man stepped out from the same room, gun hanging loosely in his left hand. He was a handsome man, no older than thirty-five. Long dark hair was tied back into a bun, the hickory color of the strands matching his eyes. I didn’t recognise him…one of the Viglianos then.

“Valentino,” he said, voice calm. “Where is the safe house?”

My mother stiffened.

Valentino spat out a wad of blood. It landed beside the Vigliano’s shoes. “Go to hell, you dirty bastard.”

The man crouched. “One more time. Where is the safe house?”

“I’ll–” Valentino coughed harshly. “I’ll never tell you.”

“So it appears.”

With no more than a flick of his wrist, the man shot Valentino’s foot. He let out a howl of pain. My eardrums split at the sound.

“Where is the safe house, Valentino?”

“I…” Valentino’s head lulled to the side. His eyes landed on us, widening ever so slightly. Something seemed to click in his mind. “I…I’ll tell you.”

He hadn’t revealed the location of the safe house because he thought my mother was there.

I almost felt like calling out: she’ll never love you as much as you love her. Save yourself, Valentino. Not her.

“Oh?”

Valentino looked back to his attacker, his breathing growing more and more haggard by the second. He was losing too much blood. “The safe house…it’s an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn. It’s…it’s listed under one of our shell companies…”

“Which one?”

“Gray Tower…Gray Tower Enterprises.”

The man nodded. “Thank you for your confirmation, Valentino.” The sound of another gunshot ricocheted through the hall, more shocking than deafening.

My mother didn’t even breathe, staring at the slumped body of her lover. No tears, no cries, from Maria Lombardi, the Ice Queen of Manhattan. A sudden thought occurred to me: would she scream and sob if I died? I wanted to believe she would, but the dark quiet part of my soul knew I shouldn’t ask questions I didn’t want the answers to.

The man turned, eyes landing on us immediately.