Romeo takes a left, and I look out the windshield at a light blue building with two big windows on one side, and a glass door on the left. A big sign reads “RisingStar Meats.”
“Are we getting food?” I ask, a little confused why we’re at a meat shop when we’re supposed to be target practicing. I want to learn how to take care of myself. I need some independence, and learning to shoot a gun was the first step.
“No. I know the people here, and in the back they have meat culturing, it’ll be the closest thing to actually shooting a human. Plus, me going to a shooting range will spark questions.”
That makes sense. He is in the mafia, him showing up with a woman days before a slew of bodies are dropped on the police department would make eyes turn. He opens the door, getting out and my hand grazes my own handle. My heart beating so fast I feel like I may pass out. I’m so excited to be out here seeing everything, I’m terrified too. The door suddenly opens, Romeo opening it for me. Inhaling a sharp breath, I take a step out onto the concrete. I’m assaulted with so many smells, I don’t know which way to look. I smell cooked meat, garbage, Romeo’s scent, and fresh air. It’s so noisy out here too. Cars zooming by, people hollering, a horn honking, and some kind of emergency siren down the way.
I’m glued to the asphalt, overwhelmed by so many things happening around me. I could be tackled and thrown into a trunk at any second and I wouldn’t even see it coming.
“I got you,” he whispers into the back of my ear and I blow out a steady breath. Romeo’s here.
He won’t let anything happen to me. He presses his hand on the small of my back, ushering me toward the meat shop. A small black car pulls up, and Romeo stops, making me come to a halt as well. A short man wearing a clean black polo and slacks steps out, his shoes shiny. He has shorter hair than Romeo, the color more brown.
“Come back later, shop is closed,” Romeo tells the guy, waving him off. The man walks up to us and I find myself stepping behind Romeo a little more, nervous that the man isn’t going away so easily.
“I’m Gideon,” the stranger says, reaching out to shake Romeo’s hand. Romeo doesn’t shake it back.
“Good. I need you out here to make sure nobody comes in. Can you do that?” Romeo says, his tone dark and facial expression fierce.
“Yes, sir,” Gideon accepts.
Without another word, Romeo turns and we walk inside, a bell ringing to alert the staff of our presence. There are freezer displays showing red meats in different sizes and shapes, a scale on top of one, and there’s a long rectangle banner hanging just above with the rations and prices. The smell of raw meat is almost too much.
A skinny tall man with a dark mole on his cheek comes from the back, wiping his hands on a bloody apron tied around his neck.
“Romeo? I just made a payment—”
“I’m not here for that,” Romeo cuts him off in a tone I haven’t heard before. In fact, the way Romeo holds himself when he walks to the counter is completely different. He’s confident, face serious and dangerous looking. This is the Mafia Romeo.
He talks to the man in a hushed whisper over the counter, and I can’t help but cross my arms, a sudden chill in the air making me cold. Maybe I should have brought a sweater.
They both step away from the counter, and the tall man walks out from behind the counter to the left, pushing open a door with a scratched-up circle window.
“Follow me,” the butcher man says to us.
Romeo reaches back, taking my hand, his palm warm, and we follow the man. Now in the back of the shop my eyes sweep past torsos of meat, a man grasping a cleaver hacking at it like something out of a scary movie, and an old lady wearing a hairnet wraps up cuts in parchment paper on the other side. The man jerks open a large silver door in the back of the store and we go inside. It’s cooler, it’s a fridge of some sort with large hooks holding flanks of meat. We pass several before the man grabs ahold of one that is more brown than pink, and is on the smaller size than the others.
“This one. It’s perfect,” he says, looking to Romeo for approval.
Romeo inspects, looks it over.
“This will do. Thank you Greer,” Romeo says, and the man leaves us.
Romeo pulls open the flaps of his suit jacket and I notice for the first time a holster holding two guns. He pulls one out, handing it to me.
“Step back a few steps,” he instructs, coming behind me. “Look down the barrel and line up the marks, see them?”
His finger comes into my vision, pointing at the notches at the very end of the gun. I squint an eye, lining them up.
“Wait,” he says, stepping away from me.
I hear the noise of metal and I look to what he’s doing, he’s
