The Mafia’s Obsession

Ayla

I don’t say much to Dominguez as he drives me to the airport the next day. It hurts that Alessio wouldn’t even do it himself, but I know that isn’t his friend’s fault. I wonder if he knows about the fight we had. Do they talk about things like that?

“Fly safe,” says Dominguez, pulling my suitcase out of his trunk as he drops me off. “To wherever you’re going.”

“Thanks,” I reply dully. “I’m sure I’m going to have lots of fun in-”

“Don’t tell me,” he interrupts me quickly. “No one but Alessio is allowed to know.”

“Jesus, you don’t think that’s a littleover-the-top?”

I’m relieved that his reaction is more amused than serious. “It doesn’t matter what I think. He gave a clear order.”

“Oh, come on! He’s being ridiculous and you know it.”

“Maybe. You could take it as a compliment.”

“That he’d rather send me to a different state than have me at home?”

Dominguez takes a deep breath. “Think what you want. But I’ve never seen him like this before.”

“Like what?”

He closes the trunk, then shakes his head. “Have a good flight, Ayla.”

I know my collar could probably pass for jewelry, but I’m still wearing a turtleneck to cover it. When I get to security, I’m anxious that it’s going to set off the metal detector. It doesn’t, to my relief. I guess Alessio would have thought of that.

My ticket is to Boise, Idaho. Not what I would’ve picked, but I guess that’s what happens when you leave the decision to someone else. I couldn’t bring myself to name a location. It would have felt like endorsing this whole idea.

Not that I have any intention of staying in Boise.

I buy myself an overpriced blueberry muffin and a vanilla latte in the airport with Alessio’s credit card, which he gave me before sending me away. The muffin is good, at least. The best part of my morning.

Travelers pulling suitcases breeze past me as I take the moving sidewalk to my gate. For a moment, I think about trying to refund my ticket. I could probably do it, and catch a different flight instead. Alessio wouldn’t be able to stop me.

The idea is certainly tempting.

But no. Not yet.

Not while I’m still wearing the tracker.

Alessio

My phone rings, and I pick up quickly. I’m in a shitty fucking mood, so whatever this is will be a welcome distraction.

I didn’t like having the penthouse to myself this morning. It felt wrong. It felt… empty.

Sal’s voice greets me. “Maroney wants to meet tonight. Are we in?”

“Where?”

“He suggested the carnival. Seems okay to me.”

I think it through. The Bover City Carnival is a year-round amusement park with rides, games, and other activities of that sort. Neutral territory. It’s always filled with people, and there’s a security station at the entrance. As far as meeting spots go, it checks the right boxes.

“Tell him I’ll be there. 8 o’clock.”

“You got it, boss.”

I put down the phone and pick up my throwing knife. Meeting with Colin Maroney isn’t something I look forward to, but it has to be done. I have two goals: to confirm that he’s the one who arranged the car bomb, and to make a decision on whether my family needs to go to war.

Thunk!

My knife misses the target again.

Fuck it. Let the wall have holes.

***

I’ve never met Colin Maroney before, but his reputation is that he’s mean. Similar vibes as Gio the Butcher. I show up to the amusement park with Dominguez and a small coterie of bodyguards, expecting Maroney to do the same. He’s waiting there at the entrance, surrounded by his own muscle.

“So there’s the young buck,” he greets me, smiling coolly. His goons chuckle appreciatively. Suck ups.

Colin Maroney is at least 10 years older, with flaming red hair and an equally vibrant beard. He wears a black tracksuit, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tattoos climbing down each of his arms.

I shake his hand. “Why don’t we leave our people behind and go play some carnival games.”

“Yes, why don’t we? Can I call you Alessio?”

We go through security and into the park, almost like we’re friends. I’m more dressed up than he is, in dark jeans and a black button-up. I’m overdressed for the situation, truthfully, but I don’t feel right in a T-shirt. Not when I’m acting as the boss. I sure as shit never saw Nonno in a T-shirt.

“So, you want me dead,” I say without preamble. It’s more of a statement than a question.

Maroney laughs. “So dramatic! What could possibly have given you that impression?”

“I had some trouble with my Tesla the other day. Thought you might know something about it.”

“You’d have to talk to an electric car mechanic. I drive a truck.”

“How’s your gas mileage?”

“Bad, but I can afford it. You have any trouble finding charging stations?”

“Not anymore.”

We walk through a row of carnival games, all blasting music and flashing lights. To our right, a pair of teenagers compete to shoot red stars from their paper targets using the BB guns mounted on the counter.

“I used to like that game when I was a kid,” Maroney remarks. “Always wondered if you could find a way to detach the BB gun and start shooting people. You ever wonder that?”

“No.”

He shrugs. “Fair enough. I guess I’m the only sick fuck.”

“Not in our line of work.”

“I suppose not. The sick fucks are always the dangerous ones.”

He lets his words hang as we keep walking through the crowd.

“I’m going to need you to stay out of my territory in South Bover,” I tell him. “That means Razone neighborhoods and Gonzalez neighborhoods. It’s all mine now.”

He stops. “Is that so? Hold on. I’m going to get a funnel cake.”

Maroney is a confusing mix of threatening and disarming. He has more charm than Gio the Butcher, I’ll give him that. I wait next to him on line for his funnel cake.

“Want a piece?” he offers. “Come on, you know it looks good.”

Fuck it. I rip off a piece of his funnel cake, covered in powdered sugar, and I can’t deny that it’s delicious. I should come here with Ayla some time.

Ayla.

…Fuck.

“You want to talk about that fight at the bar between our boys?” Maroney asks when he’s finished eating.

I scowl. “Honestly, I don’t care. That’s not what I’m here about. Kids will have their bar fights. But if you and I have a problem, I’m going to piss on your fucking corpse. I will not accept a thorn in my side, do you understand me?”

I hold eye contact long enough to make my point. My organization is bigger than his, considerably. An all-out war isn’t good for either of us, but it’s worse for him.

His face is impassive. “How about we ride the Ferris wheel, huh? I haven’t done that since I was a teenager.”

“Why not,” I reply with a shrug.

***

The Ferris wheel operator looks us over as we get in, me in my dark shirt with buttons, him in his tracksuit. A mismatched pair, united only by profession. Maroney and I take seats across from each other in the gondola, a small, enclosed pod with a maximum capacity of four.

He gazes out the window as the ride starts up. “This is nostalgic, isn’t it? Did you come to the carnival when you were little?”

“No,” I tell him. “We weren’t really a carnival family.”

“Ah, yeah. I remember your old man was a real hard-ass. Such a shame, what happened to Andres and your mom.”

I try not to react at the mention of my father. It hadn’t occurred to me that Maroney would have been around long enough to have met him. I wonder if they ever did business together.

The Ferris wheel stops when we reach the top, presumably for more people to get on. I look out over the carnival with the city behind it, the colorful lights gleaming in the night. I know Ayla would like this view.

The sound of Maroney rustling underneath his seat causes me to turn. When I look back at him, he’s pointing a silenced pistol at me.

“Sorry for the surprise,” he chuckles, standing up. “And no, if you’re wondering, this Ferris wheel won’t start turning again until I give the word.”

I’ve had guns pointed at me lots of times. Probably more times than I could count on all my fingers. But it’s never scared me before.

This time, when I see the gun in Maroney’s hand, it terrifies me.

If he kills me, I’ll never see Ayla again.

She’s probably getting to the hotel room I booked for her in Boise right now, maybe unpacking her suitcase, maybe getting out of the Uber. She probably hates me. Probably thinks she means nothing to me at all, that the only thing I see in her is a womb and a convenient last name.

I have to tell her she means more to me than that.

Suddenly, to have her so far away from me is devastating. I’ve been so worried about losing her, so worried aboutprotectingmyselffrom the pain, that I didn’t notice she was already gone.

If I never see Ayla again, she’ll never know what she truly meant to me. She’ll never know about the future I wanted us to have together.

“It’s an honor, really,” says Maroney, standing up. “Getting to clip Andres Razone’s son. And Nazio Razone’s grandson. Long line of hard hitters you come from, kid. Hope you know it’s onlybusiness.” He presses the tip of the silencer into my mouth. The metal is cold, and it tastes like smoke.

The image of my wife’s face is burned into my brain as I launch into movement, all the tension inside me releasing like a slingshot. I swat the gun to the side, trying desperately to move my head out of the way as thecrackof the silencer momentarily fills the enclosed space.

A sharp pain rings through my head, but I ignore it. I have to get the gun. Maroney grunts with exertion as I try to pry it out of his hands, then he throws a hard knee to my body, knocking the wind out of me. It’s all I can do to keep from crumbling, but somehow, I stay upright. I gasp for air, fingers scrambling around the handle of the pistol.

“Fuckin’ piece of shit,” the Irish mobster snarls, throwing another knee. This one catches me too, right in the liver, and I can barely breathe as I keep fighting him with everything I have.

Somehow, I pry his fingers open, and the gun drops. His eyes go wide. Both of us dive for it.

He gets there first. Because I let him. The moment his hand reaches the weapon, I stomp on it as hard as I can, receiving vicious satisfaction as I feel the fingers break. He cries out, still bent over, and I grab his head and slam my knee into it.

The gondola swings as Maroney sprawls backward into one of the seats. I pick up the gun and dump the entire magazine into him. Crack crack crack crack crack crack crack crack crack. Bullets rip into his chest, blood exploding from hole after hole and spattering the inside of the Ferris wheel car.

After about 30 seconds, the Ferris wheel starts moving again. I don’t know if somebody heard the commotion, or if Maroney’s corrupt operator just couldn’t keep it paused for any longer. It doesn’t matter. I wipe down the gun with my shirt to remove my fingerprints and drop it on the floor.

When my gondola gets to the bottom, I pull up my undershirt to cover my face and sprint out, shoving through the crowd before anybody can recognize me or see what I’ve left behind. I fly through the exit, run several blocks, then call Dominguez as police cars speed past me, their lights and sirens cutting through the night.

“You okay?” he asks. “They’re shutting down the amusement park right now, some kind of emergency. Police are coming. We’re on our way out. Did you have something to do with that?”

“Colin Maroney is dead,” I tell him flatly.

“Oh, fuck. Okay. Did you plan that?”

“No. He forced my hand. Are any of his men still hanging around?”

“A few of them, yeah. They’re trying to call Maroney. I don’t think they know about whatever just went down.”

I take a deep breath, pulling up the app on my phone that allows me to check on Ayla’s location. “Kill them.”

***

I call an Uber to take me home, then wait on a bench for it to arrive. The nights are getting chilly now, but I don’t feel it. I’m too hopped up on adrenaline. My ride shows up, and I get into the backseat.

The driver, a skinny kid wearing too much cologne, looks back and stares with a shocked expression on his face. “Uh, mister, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, why?”

He gapes at me. “Your… ear…”

I put my hand to the side of my head, suddenly aware of a painful stinging. My fingers come back red and slippery.

When I look at my reflection in the window next to me, I discover that there’s a hole in my left ear.

“Do you want me to take you to a hospital?” asks the driver, still staring.

I grimace. “No. Same location.”

“Are… are you sure? That looks pretty bad.”

“It’s nothing. I was going through the park, must have snagged it on a branch. You keep gauze in your glovebox or anything? Ibuprofen?”

“Sir, this is an Uber, not an ambulance.”

I resist the urge to swear. Now that I’m aware of it, the hole Colin Maroney just shot in my ear is killing me. “Okay, change of plan. Can you take me to the nearest drugstore?”