He can barely breathe. The three of us do a dance of sorts. Grayson is choking while Reese is apologizing, but she’s not entirely sorry. Me? I’m watching The Stiff gag, with a sliver of a smile on my face. A server doesn't even stop to take a glance while walking out of the French doors with a tray in hand.
In a fit of wheezing, Grayson threatens, “I’m going to call the cops.”
“Oh, yeah?” I laugh. Half of my brain just keeps registering the fact that Grayson and Reese once had feelings for each other. Grayson continuously referred to Reese as ‘love,’ and his mannerisms were just too comfortable as he said it. The other half of my psyche is pissed that he considered disrespecting Reese, let alone in my presence.
Rubbing a hand over the side of his neck, Grayson wags a finger, “Yes, you’re going straight to jail, pal.”
There’s a smug look on his face as he catches his breath and massages at his throat. I gather his attention, dead eyes locked onto his. Then friendly as ever, my knuckles tap softly against his chin. “I am the fucking law, bitch!”
22
Reese
“You lookin’ at my wife?” Spittle flew from Milo’s mouth as his knees sunk into the man’s fleshy gut. The guy still had the Little Bambino’s napkin tucked in his shirt, but the tomato sauce on his mouth began to blend with his own blood. Half the white linen from the table the big, fat Italian guy sat at was on the floor with him, along with an abundance of spilled spaghetti and meatballs.
My stomach had been growling when we stepped inside of Little Bambino’s a few minutes ago. The café was old school even when I was a kid, red-and-white checkered linen table-tops. Dusty memorabilia, mock ancient stone walls, and the token flag. The place was on West Jefferson in Los Angeles, and Milo always swore it rivaled his favorite restaurants in New York, Napoli even. Guess that’s why I liked it so much, since dad allowed us to visit all over the world except for these two places…
Anyway, the moment we stepped inside, dad had bragged about me to everyone who looked our way. He was always a puffed up man, short but with a stocky-build. His muscular chest was elevated as he told all the patrons that his first-grader had just won the spelling bee at school.
The patrons had happily agreed; they’d said I looked sweet as a button. I wore a princess dress, bubble skirt, puffy linebacker shoulder pads, and a third-world fortune on my head in the form of a glitzy tiara. My dad’s eyes were only for me as he bragged. Now, that light, airy happiness which drew people to Milo had been suffocated to death. Like a kid blowing out a candle atop a cupcake, it took a nanosecond for him to transform from pure goodness to evil.
My father only stood at five foot seven, yet his quick hands had this unnatural power. Blood sprinkled on Milo’s sneering face, making him appear as the devil himself. Fingers in the shape of scissors he said, “I’d clip a motherfucker before I let ‘em eye-fuck my wife, capiche!”
The pound for pound against flesh made me heart skip a beat. The guy didn’t even standup for himself… or maybe he was unconscious, brain dead even.
My mom pulled me to her chest, my face hidden in her stomach. Her voice had gone raw from yelling at Milo to stop. Now Lolita encouraged, “Don't look, Reese.”
She'd gotten tired of trying to pull Milo off the customer. Lolita's chest heaved. Suppose I was lucky that her heart thumped a symphony in my ears and took away the sound of pounded meat as I clung to her.
The waiter who had gotten a broken nose for trying to stop dad, had just returned with the manager.
“We're gonna call the fucking cops if you don't stop!”
Just like that, Milo arose. Those seemed to be the magic words for him, the loyal customer. The guy everybody thought was so fucking cool. He’d given that very waiter a hundred-dollar tip on a few occasions. But threatening Milo was so far removed from being their source of safety, they didn’t know it yet.
The gold rings on his fingers were dripping with blood. I turned away from my mother’s embrace to see a cocky smile tip the side of his lips which usually were reserved for laughter or arrogant chatter about being Napolitano. Milo lifted up his shirt. Next to a Glock was Milo’s badge. It seemed like the air was sucked out of the entire café. Or perhaps it was the patrons gasping in a breath at the thought of having a guy like my father on the task force.
“I AM the fucking law, bitch!”
The horrible vision fades before me. We still ate at Little Bambino’s because that’s the place I chose for dinner if I won the spelling bee. My father had me choose the table. My tongue weighed a ton, but I’d learned not to be too fearful. My fear actually scared Milo, and made him sad. So I took a deep breath before I had pointed to a table. He went to the restroom to clean up. The manager and waiter did something with the big guy who’d just been eating alone, and truly minding his business.
Mom held me closely, and told me not to cry. When dad returned, the evil Gemini mask was replaced with the charismatic, handsome one. His only form of intimidation was placing his gun on the table as we ordered. Other than that, it was as if, Milo forgot what he had done.
The image fades and Evan is staring at me. But I’m staring at Grayson. My own fright mirrors my exe’s.
There’s a wet blanket of worry and concern on Evan’s face. He reaches out to touch me. Thoughts of Milo make me curl away from him. Evan isn’t my dad; I don’t have to worry about his feelings. My dad’s eyes became glossy as
