Dark Redeemer by Raven Scott
1
Angela
“I’m going to lose two hundred thousand Euros today because of that cazzo,” Papa curses.
Around me, everyone is standing and cheering. Their enthusiasm is infectious, and I can’t help but feel the excitement building inside me even though I don’t particularly care for horse racing. I should probably feel concerned about the considerable sum of money my father stands to lose, seeing as it’s partly mine as well, but paradoxically that only makes me cheer on the current leader all the more.
Papa lowers his horse racing binoculars, a fancy pair designed by Nikon, to glare at me. It’s a look I’m used to receiving from him. “Why are you clapping?”
I bite my lower lip and give him an innocent look. “I’m cheering on the second place horse?”
He snorts, then returns his attention to the race.
Seriously, I hope we lose. Serves him right for dragging me out here.
Since I don’t have binoculars, I squint to make out the current lead horse, a beautiful colt named Allegro who has dominated the race since the starting gates opened. The animal’s muscles flow so smoothly along its flanks as its head bobs up and down, while its tail is strung out behind it like a streamer as those powerful legs rise and fall.
Allegro’s rider perches in that half standing, half crouching position known as the Monkey. At least I think it’s called that.
My eye’s drift to the jockey’s face. Wish I could make it out, but without binoculars it’s useless.
Bet he’s hot.
Well, if he doesn’t lose this race, that won’t last for very long—not after Papa’s men are done with him.
“Damn it,” Papa exclaims as the race enters the second lap. “Someone give me a gun so I can shoot that horse.”
Leonardo, one of my older brothers, promptly offers my father the aforementioned gun. Papa looks at the pistol, then hits Leonardo in the back of the head. “Idiot! Put that away before you kill someone. I was speaking metaphorically, not literally. You’re supposed to be the smart one!” Papa passes me the binoculars. “I can’t watch. Tell me what happens.”
I eagerly accept the pair and train it on the lead horse. Specifically, the jockey. I’m disappointed when I see his face. Very ordinary looking. Then again, most jockeys are—definitely not the sort of people you’d see on the cover of magazines outside of International Racehorse. Still, he has balls for defying my family.
Growing bored now that I know what he looks like, I let the binoculars drift across the stands. People watching can be so much more fun. The Palermo Ippodromo is fairly packed today, with only a few empty sections.
As I’m shifting my view around, I spot a few members of the Rizzo family. A chill runs down my spine when I see The Cleaver among them. The most horrible man I’ve ever met. His binoculars are lowered, so that his face is readily visible. The grotesquely puckered scar running from forehead to cheek is unmistakable, as is that nose—the biggest I’ve seen, giving Pinocchio a run for the money. It’s twisted and bumpy like an enforcer’s, a testament to the number of times he’s broken it.
I can’t believe I’m supposed to marry him in a month’s time.
As if sensing my gaze, The Cleaver turns his head toward me. His face lights up with a lascivious smile, and his eyes regard me with a mixture of lust and cockiness.
How the hell can he even see me from this far away?
I inhale with a hiss and quickly lean back and out of sight, hiding behind my bodyguard Maurizio. I lower the binoculars and reach behind me, searching for Papa’s hand. When I find it I entwine my fingers through his, wanting the reassurance of his presence.
“What is it?” Papa asks.
“You never told me he was going to be here!” I hiss.
“He?” Papa says. “He who?”
I glance at him. “The Cleaver.”
My father gives me a confused look.
I release his hand then give him the binoculars. I point past Maurizio. “Over there.”
Papa doesn’t bother to look. Instead he shrugs. “So?”
“He never comes to the races,” I tell him.
Papa nods. “He’s a free man. I have no control over him or his family. Although that will change after you’re married.” He says that last part with an iron tone that will stand no disagreement, and trust me, I’ve tried to disagree. Many times.
“Yes, a free man,” I mutter. “Free. Unlike me.”
Papa shrugs. “You will learn to tolerate him. If not love him.”
I don’t answer.
Papa rests a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be afraid, my piccola. If he ever hurts you, he’s a dead man. Not even marriage can protect him from that.”
I nod slowly, not sure I believe it. Papa could simply be telling me what I want to hear. He’s done it before.
I release his hand and he returns his attention to the race. After a few moments he leans toward Leonardo and whispers something in his ear. Leonardo frowns, then quickly departs with my other brother, Salvatore. I watch the pair make their way down the main aisle, and they soon vanish from view in the corridor beneath the stands.
I remain hidden behind Maurizio’s frame, but finally curiosity gets the better of me and I peer past him. The Rizzo family is still watching the race, but The Cleaver is no longer present. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. I’m gonna go with bad.
“Did you send Leonardo and Salvatore to talk to the Rizzos?” I ask papa.
“What?” he asks without looking from the track. He waves a dismissive hand, as if to silence me.
I realize I’m not going to get anything more out of him until the race is over.
The Rizzo’s had made a request earlier in the week, asking that I move in with their family before the wedding. Thankfully Papa had already refused the request. You see, he’s a traditionalist, someone who believes a groom shouldn’t sleep with his bride before the wedding night. That would be far harder for Papa to control if he let me out from under his thumb a month before. Either way, I’m just happy his beliefs worked out in my favor this time: the longer I can stay away from The Cleaver, the better.
Maybe the Rizzo’s had insisted on the move though, or otherwise made some sort of threat, and now Leonardo and Salvatore were going to have a little chat with The Cleaver. One that involved fists, hopefully. I wish. More likely my brothers had gone to discuss business with him, now that The Cleaver is practically family.
The thought makes me shudder.
I do my best to return my attention to the race. With only one lap left to go, my father returns the binoculars to me and covers his eyes with his hands, unable to watch.
I lift the cushioned eyepieces to my face and observe. Incredibly, with only twenty-five meters to go, Allegro starts to slow. The remaining horses quickly catch up; the instant before Allegro crosses the finish line, one of the others darts past, claiming first place.
Boos and hisses erupt from the crowd.
Papa tentatively lowers his hands from his head and glances at me. “What is it? Who won?”
“Allegro—” I begin, and pause. I wait for the hopeful expression in his eyes to waver, and when it does, I finish: “Lost.”
Disbelief, anger, and relief compete for dominance on his face. “Ah, piccola, don’t do that to me.” A smile spreads across his face. “So the cazzo came through for us at last. Unbelievable.” He rubs his hands eagerly. “Maurizio, take her home. I’ve got winnings to collect!”
“What about Leo and Salvatore?” I ask.
Papa waves a dismissive hand next to his head. “Leo has his own car.” He shuffles away with his own bodyguards.
I lean past Maurizio to look for the Rizzo family, but I can’t spot them in the crowd dispersing down the aisles. I try not to read too much into it—the race is over after all. Maybe they left early to avoid the usual congestion that grips the parking lot after a race.
“Well, you heard the boss,” Maurizio tells me. “Time to go, Angela.”
I cross my arms. “I’m just as much your boss as he is. Did I mention I hate it when you call me Angela by the way?” Maurizio only calls me that when he expects me to do precisely as he asks, which is invariably something my father ordered, usually under the guise of my safety.
Maurizio calmly beckons toward the aisle. “Come on, let’s go Angel.” He winks.
I sigh and turn to go.
Two of the bodyguards slip ahead of me and I follow; Maurizio and another guard assume positions behind me.
Though I might not act like it, I’ve always loved Maurizio. He’s been my bodyguard since I was twelve, and almost like a second father to me, there for me all the times Papa was not. Maurizio would do anything to protect me, even give his life—he’s taken bullets for me after all. When I was younger he used to call me Little Angel. Now it’s just Angel.
I return my gaze to the pair of bodyguards ahead of me. They are trying to protect me, but sometimes I feel overprotected, if you know what I mean—to the point of suffocation. Though I suppose right now I’m glad they’re with me, especially after sighting my husband-to-be.
I still can’t believe my father thinks it’s a good idea to marry him. A part of me doesn’t even believe the planned marriage is going to happen, that it’s some sick joke Papa concocted to get back at me for past sins. Like the time I stuffed a pebble into his panini. How was I supposed to know he’d break a tooth? I was a kid…
Unfortunately, I know all about alliances of convenience. I also know how much stronger my family will be after we ally with the Rizzos. We’ve always been at each other’s throats, fighting over the same territory.
A few weeks ago we almost descended into all-out war. The Cleaver’s brother badly beat up my brother Michelangelo, and my other brothers geared up at home, strapping on ammo and rifles. Before they could head out and start the war, The Cleaver’s father called mine and the heads of our families met and negotiated. My marriage to The Cleaver was the culmination of those negotiations, and the only thing ending our conflict—by tying our families together. War averted.
At least, that’s how it was explained to me. But I hate being used as a pawn. Hate it. My life is supposed to be a blank canvas, not a chessboard.
I try not to think about that now. I just want to get back to the jeep without bumping into The Cleaver. I’m sick of his gloating, and the sick faces he makes at me when he thinks other members of my family aren’t watching.
I search the stands once more as I descend the aisle steps. I don’t see The Cleaver, or any of the Rizzos in the retreating crowd, but someone does catch my eye. He stands out from everyone else because of his height and muscularity. His biceps are literally bursting from the sleeves of the tight T-shirt he wears. Tattoos ink the exposed portion of his arms, though I can’t make out any of the designs from here. His shoulders bulge, and his back tapers to a perfect V. He has short-cropped blonde hair and steely blue eyes. There’s something so very familiar about that haunted face—
My breath catches.
It can’t be.
Someone stands up in the seats next to the aisle and momentarily blocks my view of him. I continue downward until I can peer past them but he’s gone.
A ghost from the past.
I must have imagined it.
I shake my head. I haven’t hallucinated like this in years. It used to happen all the time after he disappeared. I’d see Massimo sitting in the backseat of the car next to mine. I’d blink and he’d be gone. And then there were the half hallucinations: I’d be walking down the street with my guards and someone would be taking long strides ahead of me, someone with his same build and hair, and I’d rush forward, thinking it was him, only to be disappointed when I saw the face.
But this time, only his face was the same, and the eyes. The body was different. Massimo never had such a well-built frame. Never had any tattoos.
Yes, it probably wasn’t him. I’m only getting these hallucinations again because of the wedding. My doomed mind will latch onto any fantasy to distract me from my shitty life.
Still, I can’t help but dream of what it would be like if he did come back into my world, swooping me off my feet, saving me from my marriage to The Cleaver.
I can only shake my head and laugh softly at my own stupidity. No one’s going to save me, least of all the man who abandoned me all those years ago.
We reach the parking lot. It’s congested, like church on a Sunday, with the cars lining up to leave via the choke point of the only entrance.
We approach the edge of the lot where our jeep awaits. Before we can reach it, gunfire erupts. Blood spurts from one of my bodyguards and he falls to the ground. I drop, too—petrified by the whizzing bullets.
“Leave him!” Maurizio shouts to the other bodyguards. “Get to the jeep!” He turns to me. “Are you hit?”
I don’t answer.
“Are you hit!” Maurizio repeats.
I look at him with my wide eyes and shake my head. I can only whimper in answer.
Maurizio hauls me to my feet and makes me move at a crouch. He shields me from the rest of the parking lot with his body. I’m barely processing what’s going on—events are transpiring in a blur.
Maurizio pauses next to the hood of an Alfa Romeo to return fire, then continues leading me onward. Funny how I notice the small details of a car’s make and model, when I’m barely aware of anything else.
We reach the jeep, a polished white Land Rover Defender. The other bodyguards are already inside and ducked beneath the windows. Maurizio opens the backseat door and shoves me inside.
“Stay low!” he tells me, and I crawl inside.
He follows behind me but then I hear a gunshot followed by an “oof!”
I look behind me and see Maurizio clutching his chest, where blood oozes from a wound. He collapses just outside.
“No!” I reach out, intending to somehow pull him inside. But he shoves my hands away with own bloody palms.
“Go!” he tells the driver, Donato. Maurizio somehow manages to summon the strength to slam the door in my face.
The Land Rover takes off, abandoning him.
Donato heads for the vehicles lined up at the exit and plows into two smaller cars from the side, shoving them apart. The jeep jumps the curb to reach the unblocked road on the other side and speeds away from the Ippodromo.
My remaining bodyguards stay ducked near the windows. They scan the exterior, keeping an eye out as we tear through the streets.
I start to believe we’re going to make it, because I haven’t heard any more gunfire.
But then the traffic ahead forces Donato to come to a stop.
“Keep going!” my other bodyguard, Federico, tells him from the front passenger seat. “Find a way around!”
I hear the roar of an engine coming from somewhere to the left. Brakes squeal and glass breaks as gunshots riddle Federico and Donato.
I scream.
The back window shatters and a gloved hand reaches inside to unlock the door. When it opens, a man dressed all in black towers above me. His face is hidden by a balaclava.
He reaches for me but I lurch away.
Rough fingers latch around my wrist and I feel a prick. I glance down in horror and realize he’s holding a syringe of some kind.
An empty syringe.
“Wha—” I begin, but can’t finish.
A part of me is relieved when darkness takes me away from all of this.
The other part is terrified by what I’ll wake up to.