And with that, the mood is killed for the whole rest of the day. Even when school is over and we’re back at Enzo's apartment, there's no reprieve because Emilio is over, waiting to hear what Davo has to say.
"Stupid fucking idea,” Enzo growls. “Nobody is going to tell their junkie dealer their master plan. We have no beef with the cartels. We shouldn't be starting this. We should keep Mia out of their way and live our lives. All we have right now is rumors. Besides, It’s pretty fuckin’ hard to get any further from Mexico than Boston,” Enzo says.
"It's not 1840 anymore. They have cars. They're not limited to California.”
The conversation tails off. There’s no point in speculating. Until we hear from Davo, we’re all in the dark. We start to talk about ordering some pizza. Nobody feels like cooking and we’re obviously not going out. There’s tension in the air which I’m not used to, but I'm still hungry. I just want everyone to leave. I want to be alone with Enzo. I've been teasing him all day, defying him in big ways and small. He knows I was touching myself after he put me to bed last night, and he watched with that dark stare which promises delicious punishment every time I stole his wine at the restaurant. We have unfinished business, me and Enzo.
As the night wears on, Enzo prowls the room, running his hand through his hair, checking his phone, periodically glancing at me to see if I’m still here. At first, I figured it wouldn’t be a long wait, but the minutes pass into hours and Emilio starts to get on both our nerves.
“What is the Eiffel Towah!" he shouts, watching Jeopardy on Enzo’s television, drinking Enzo's beer, eating Enzo's nuts. I watch him with interest. He likes to portray a relaxed exterior, but he must be lonely here. Mafia life keeps the people in it segregated from the rest of the world. We have family, but that's all we have. And right now, family’s farting on the couch, scratching his ass, and asking if there are any more pistachios.
“Quit fuckin’ eating,” Enzo growls.
“I’m ordering some pizza,” Emilio declares.
I'm just bored and annoyed. This business with the Mexicans doesn't seem that serious. I’m almost starting to wonder if Davo just made the whole thing up to get Enzo to stop hitting him. Wouldn’t surprise me. Then I think about what Emilio said about Davo selling drugs to support his mother. That’s very sad. It’s also how it is for a lot of people in America. They don't have the same kind of support our family does.
“That little shit probably double crossed us," Enzo says. “We should go. If he's told those assholes where our apartments are, then it is only a matter of time before they get here and I don't want Mia in the middle of a firefight.”
“He’s not late yet," Emilio says. “Give him time. You know this shit doesn’t work on a schedule, professor. They're getting high. Having a good time. That’s when the information flows.”
A light tap at the door gets my attention while Emilio and Enzo argue in the kitchen. Pizza already? That was quick. I love that about Boston. You can order anything anytime and get it practically right away.
When I open the door, nobody is there, but there is a bag. The kind you get at Costco, that folds out to hold drinks and stuff. It’s way too light to hold our food. Weird.
I pick it up and bring it in. Enzo and Emilio are still arguing, slipping into rapid-fire Italian every few sentences, then back into English when they want to call each other assholes, which they’re doing almost every other word.
I open the zipper and flip the lid open. There are pictures… lots of them… pictures of Davo, tied up and beaten, bloodied and assaulted.
I don’t scream. I can't scream. I’m frozen, staring. It is too much to process. It doesn't feel real, but I know it is. I need someone to save me from this horror, but I can't make a noise. I can't reach out for help.
"What have you got there, Mia?” Enzo strides over, sees what I see and curses under his breath, pushing me gently away, shielding me with his body from the sight I’ll never be able to unsee.
“What the fuck is that? Holy fuck that’s gross," Emilio curses. “What kind of sick fuck does that? Oh! There’s a card.” He plucks the bloodied cardboard from the bag and lifts it up.
“We're sending you a message,” he reads out loud. "I mean, yeah, these fuckin’ assholes think we're stupid? We send a message, we don’t gotta tell you we're sending you a message. You fuckin’ know you got the message…”