20 years ago
Devil's Dice; downtown Chicago.

I meet the devil on my eighth birthday.

It's a blank, starless night. One of those nights where my head feels heavy and Papa has to remind me where I am every once in a while. I recently started having what he calls seizures. The feeling afterwards is like I'm floating above everyone's heads. They can't see me, or everything I'm seeing. The world doesn't make sense up here, and eventually I'll float out of existence, become lost forever.

Papa says he used to have these seizures too, that people like us do. He understands this feeling and is showing me how to deal with it.

He treats me differently now, in a way that shows me everything before this was pretending. He doesn't shield me from things, including himself.

It's better this way. If I am to take over his business one day, that makes us business partners. And business partners don't pretend to care about each other the way Papa was pretending to care about me.  

But I still like going to therapy. Even though Papa doesn't care what I do anymore, I think I got addicted to having someone there to listen. 

The smell of sweat and alcohol stinks up the street outside Devil's Dice. It's an important night, one where Papa and I will finally see everything we've been working for the last several months. This casino will allow him to expand even further into a new market—that's what he tells me. But most importantly, it will be mine after he is gone. And even though Papa says that won't be anytime soon, I've been feeling like something is coming.

Papa has been unusually happy to involve me in everything leading up to this night. Opening night. Strategically set to overlap with my birthday, because, he says, "this is all for you, Massimo. It's a gift."

He let me sit in on important meetings, meet all his contacts, even help make major decisions. It meant I was away more, that I couldn't be there all the time for my brothers. But I feel proud tonight, too. What we're doing here matters.

Although it matters to me for a different reason than it matters to Papa. 

At one of the first business meetings I attended, Papa found out one of his men had been stealing from him. He had grabbed the offender by the collar and dragged him to me, declaring with dark glee that it would be up to me what happened to him.

Knowing that Papa wanted me to order his death, I had instead chosen that the man be stripped of his title and sent to scrub plates in the kitchen. Working for the very man he'd tried to steal from seemed a better punishment than being flayed alive.

But Papa hadn't thought so. He'd been angry that night. I'd failed the test.

"I need to know I'll be able to rely on you," he'd snarled in my face, shoving me against one of the bookshelves in his office. The rough spines dug painfully into my back. "When the time comes, you need to make the right decisions. The ones that challenge your weaknesses."

I had only stared at his face, confused as it darkened into a shade of purple. Papa could be violent, yes, but not excessively. This wasn't about the money.

"I thought it w—"

My words ended on a startled choke, jumbled into dust by Papa's fist bruising my jaw. I'd blinked at him, surprised. He never really hit me, only Mamma.

"You can't let this weakness rule over you any longer," he said. "Let go of this part of you that refuses to spill blood. Men like us, men in this business? We have to make decisions like that every day. You've done far worse, anyway..."

I calmly waited, listening while he spent all his outrage, and quietly regained my breath once he released me. It was then I could finally acknowledge the squirmy feeling in my stomach at the thought of having to take another life.

Papa thought the sicker I became, the more I'd love the blood and the power. But I know that I will never gain pleasure or satisfaction from watching men die. The knowledge that I've spilled blood in the past, however unaware I was, only makes me want to spill my own.

There has to be a way to have all of this—the power, the influential contacts, the whores and the money—without becoming a monster.

If there is, it certainly won't be present tonight. One of the guards, an oversized brute posted at the entrance to the casino, bursts into rough laughter when he sees us.

"Isn't your son a bit young for this scene, Tony?"

I straighten my shoulders. I know I'm young, but everyone has always told me I look older than I am. At one of our meetings, a woman even offered me a drink. An alcoholic one.

Papa smiles and claps him on the shoulder. "It's not just a scene. This is my business. My empire." He looks down at me. "Soon to be his. When you think about it like that, they're never too young."

The guard laughs again. Not like it's funny, but like he wants Papa to like him. He makes some joke to me about not letting the devils get their hands on me when we go in. Papa doesn't find that funny.

I don't know what the guard means until we go inside. The whores Papa hired wear very little clothing and red devil horns. I have never seen anything like them. Curiosity and confusion fill me as I watch them doing things with the men and women, right in the middle of the crowded room. 

"See all this?" Papa's hand is weighing down my shoulder as we survey the massive crowd already enjoying themselves at the slot machines and poker tables. "Magnificent. Isn't it incredible to think this will all be yours soon?"

Soon. He keeps saying that.

It really is a sight. But the lavish colors and glittering lights of Devil's Dice do nothing to erase the darkness. Because everywhere I look, I see them. Rotting people.

It's even harder for me now to be around them. With their decaying flesh and stinking souls. Recently I have started smelling festering flesh, sometimes even seeing it peel from their bones in deadened, gray strips. Part of me knows it can't be real, but the bigger part knows nothing except the way I can hardly stand to be around people.

They are all just so... pathetic.

Papa has given up on trying to convince me otherwise. He likes to tell me I am too arrogant for my age.

Passing through the mass of men, women, and whores, we're stopped every few steps by people wanting to congratulate Papa. Some notice me, others do not. But those that do all have the same secretive grin that begins to grate on me by the time we reach the back of the casino.

A man with dark hair and glittering eyes who looks vaguely familiar sidles up to Papa, and they embrace. Their conversation drags and I become bored, glancing aimlessly around the room. I pause as I make eye contact with one of the whores nearby. She was already looking at me, and smirks when I notice her. 

The next thing I know she's walking up to me, saying something I don't hear over all the noise and placing a hand on my chest. A moment later, she is ripped away. Whimpering as Papa grips the back of her neck like a dog.

"That's my son, you useless fucking bitch," he growls. "He's eight years old."

Her eyes fill with tears, and she can't run away fast enough once Papa releases her. But the man who was talking with Papa is waiting. He grins as he grabs her, turning her body so his chest is glued to her back.

The whore's eyes go vacant as he nuzzles her hair, grinning the whole time. He makes eye contact with me, and his smile widens as his eyes go hooded. I don't know how to decipher that look on his face.

Papa tenses. "Luciano, that's enough. That bitch is working for me and she's on the clock."

Luciano lets go, slapping her ass as she scuttles away. "I'll come find you later, pretty girl," he calls after her.

Papa shakes his head at me as if all that was my fault. Luciano laughs. And I decide right then that I don't like him. I can tell by his eyes that he's hiding something and doing a poor job of it. He covers up the rottenness with jokes, whores, and his supposed friendship with Papa.

After Hope Valley, I became good at that. Seeing people. And that's what Papa doesn't understand. I'm no better than the rest of them, but I don't think I will ever be able to lie about who I am.

We're all drained and rotting on the inside, baby. Isn't it just so lovely to have someone who understands?

"Anybody ever told you you're too pretty for your age?" Luciano's voice rips through the one echoing in my head. The one I have been trying to get rid of for so long but can't because I have no idea where it came from. "The devils are looking at you. They have been since you walked in here." With a firm hand on my chin, he swivels my head around the room.

Papa swears, and Luciano immediately pastes a smile onto his lips. "Relax, my friend. If he's going to inherit this, don't you think it's best he knows exactly what he's getting into?" Luciano's smile becomes sharper. "Oddly hypocritical of you to be so uncomfortable with the idea just because he's your son."

"I know how to prepare Massimo for his role, Luciano," Papa says in a clean, detached voice. They share a meaningful look, Luciano's eyes glinting in unspoken triumph.

It's strange. Almost like Luciano is holding something over Papa. Papa never relinquishes the upper hand.

"I can't convince you to join us?" Papa says with a firm grip on my shoulder, beginning to steer me away. He doesn't sound like he wants Luciano to come and the smile on his face is plastic.

Irritation slithers beneath my skin. I wish they would stop hiding things and speak plainly. I'm smarter than I look. I notice things all the time that adults think I'm too young to notice.

Luciano shakes his head. "That is not my particular taste, if you know what I mean." He turns to me again, his expression twisting into something else I can't read. "To each their own. Right, Massimo?" He leans down until our eyes meet. "Your Papa has a lot depending on tonight. Do you like that kind of shit? Does it make you—"

"That's enough," Papa interjects, his tone containing a hint of venom. "Massimo will be fine. We have been preparing for this, haven't we?"

When I don't respond he jostles me, and I hurry to nod. At that, we pass through what I first thought was just a normal exit, but it takes us down a hallway to another door. Papa knocks in a specific pattern and it opens for us slowly.

This room is darker. Not in lighting, but something else. I immediately like it better for how much quieter it is. And how there are no whores walking around. There are no slots or casino games. Only tables with chairs and silk coverings, and what looks like a stage on one side of the room.

"Come," Papa ushers me forward. "The show is starting soon."

♛

As the room fills and the anticipation escalates, something shifts.

Not that I care too much to notice it. I keep thinking back to our interaction with Luciano, all the things lurking beneath the look on his face, his words, and Papa's unusual submission.

Something bad is going to happen tonight.

As soon as we sit down, I notice a woman a few tables away. And for some reason, I can't look away. Maybe because of the color of her dress—so red that she almost glows compared to everyone else. She is unlike any of the other women I've seen tonight. Her blonde hair is shiny even in the dim light, her movements calm and graceful as she converses with a man next to her.

It randomly crosses my mind that Santo and Tommaso have been home with Mamma for a while, and I turn to Papa. "When will we get back? Santo and Tom—"

"She's going to be fine," he soothes. "They're going to be fine."

I nod, turning back to the stage right as the lights dim and a hush falls over the crowd. A man in a suit strides out with a bright smile. He starts talking, but I don't hear him. Because all of a sudden, I feel something.

Two pinpricks on the back of my neck, twin jabs of awareness. Someone is watching me.

I turn and immediately freeze. Goosebumps spread all over my body and my next breath stays lodged in my chest. The woman—the blonde—is staring at me. And she does not look happy. Confused, I cock my head, asking her a silent question. Her glare hardens to my left and I realize her anger is directed at Papa.

I turn to him but he's too preoccupied with the man on stage to notice. When I look back at the woman, a foreign feeling washes over me. She looks so sad. Sad... for me. It's normally difficult for me to pick up the subtle shifts of people's emotions, but I can read her clear as day. Her emotions practically pour out of her, like she can't control them. It leaves me feeling raw. 

She turns away from me, back to the stage. And I immediately miss it. Not her attention, but that feeling. The fact that for the first time in my life, I felt normal for just a second. It makes no sense but somehow I know that she isn't rotten. She isn't empty like the rest of them. I experience the shocking urge to ask her to take me away from this place. To drop me off at home where I can make sure my brothers are okay and apologize for being absent these last months.

I've been doing this for them. Once I take control of all this, they will benefit too. We'll be side by side, the three of us, and nothing will touch us then.

I realize I've been staring vacantly at the woman, and something coming from the front of the room captures my attention. I've missed the entire introduction, and now there are several people filling the stage. I quickly remind myself of all the things Papa has told me, getting rid of that silly desire to leave.

That woman may not belong here, but I do.

With that, the night commences. The stage becomes illuminated in soft, colorful lights that make the people occupying it glow like they're not from this world as they take off their clothes. They become a writhing mass of limbs and skin, their movements and noises scraping together a disgusting ball of abhorrence in my gut.

Repulsed, I glance at Papa, but he's engrossed in the performance. Looking around at everybody else, I see no signs of disgust. My own escalates, until I feel like I'm choking. 

Counting. One, two, three, four... I just need to get rid of this hot, spiky ball of something inside me that's suddenly begging me to tear apart my own skin to extract it.

Many times, I hear a noise that tempts my morbid curiosity. But I never look up. Not until they're done. Afterwards, my chest hurts as if there's been a physical assault. Counting almost didn't help the way it usually does, but I feel the calm slowly returning now. My fingers ache when I unclench them, and the rest of my body feels similar.

Watching. That woman from before is watching me again.

I look between her and the stage for the next two hours. There's no more of that first act, which makes me glad. Instead there are children who walk across the stage, timid and with big, scared eyes. They stand up there as the crowd starts shouting things and then they go sit with some of the audience members.

I meet the eyes of a little girl perched on the knee of a big, burly man one table over. She looks like a doll, so still and silent. The expression on her face is frozen wax.

After that, there is a man who lets a woman whip him until he bleeds out. He lies there afterwards in a pool of his blood, but I don't know if he's dead because the whole time he was making sounds like he enjoyed it. Another man gets his arm sawed off. The blood bothers me more than the smell of burning flesh that wafts through the room as they cook it. But my mouth salivates as I watch Papa have some, like I'm about to throw up, so I politely decline to try it.

And there's more men and more little girls and blood and other things, and we are all rotting and broken.

Except for her.

All the blood and limbs are less than ideal. But I'm okay as long as I don't have to touch any of it. It's... whatever that first act was that truly disturbs something underneath my skin. Even just the memory of it causes a black shadow to begin a slow, scratching crawl up my throat.

So I look at her. It's just nicer to, sometimes. She smiles at me reassuringly and I let her.

When the show is over, the crowd breathes an appreciative gust of awe and all surge to their feet, clapping. I follow suit, looking up at Papa. His eyes are shining as he gazes down at me.

Pride puffs my chest as I stare calculatingly at the stage. I'm ready for this. I knew I was. I want this to all be mine now. I don't want to wait any longer.

Papa pulls me through the crowd, this time not stopping for anybody. All the stretching smiles and laughter become a loud blur. I float back to the surface of awareness sitting on a couch in an unfamiliar room.

My muscles reflexively lock but I hear Papa's voice, faint. Coming from behind a door. I let myself slowly come back, and the aching numbness dissipates back to my usual. It's then I realize I can fully hear Papa's conversation, and he's talking to Luciano.

I feel the urge to scowl. I don't think I would mind ordering that man's blood to be spilled. 

"Well, he seems sufficiently shaken up," Luciano chuckles. "I'm sorry your test failed, my friend. Should we reconsider the terms of my favor?"

"Massimo is a lot of things, but he wasn't a failure tonight. He just goes absent sometimes—his brain has gaps in it now. Holes, or something, where they poked him. Otherwise, he's sound. He can handle this. And Santo," Papa breaks off, laughing, "he exceeded all my expectations. He's ready for Serpentine."

Pain explodes in my chest. So it happened. I always knew it would, but that doesn't stop the knowledge from ripping through me. My little brother killed. And it won't be long before Tommaso follows in those footsteps.

Deep down, I know my concern is futile. If there was anybody ready for all this, it would be Santo. Sometimes I wonder why Papa insists I inherit all of this when Santo is so clearly the better choice. Mamma even thinks so, on her better days when she isn't lost to her own head. "Santo didn't have to get his brain all shredded to be okay with any of this," she likes to tell Papa.

And she's right, is she not? 

"Santo, I have less doubt about," Luciano chuckles. "That little fucker is—well, I was going to say he'd make some woman very unhappy one day, but I think he's more likely to make her his prisoner."

They share more words I can't hear. Luciano's voice becomes clear to me again when I hear my name. "It's Massimo I worry about. He's weak still. They're still children, Antonio. I'm not going to step in if things get bad. After I help you disappear, you and your family will be invisible to me until I decide otherwise. Understand?"

I hear something out in the hallway, and my attention is split for a moment. Soft, rhythmic clicking getting gradually closer.

"... Don't care what happens to them," I catch the tail end of Papa's response. "If they don't survive this, you think they'll survive their mother? Or whatever the fuck is going on in Massimo's head? He'll kill them all one day..."

Their laughter brands itself into my skull as the door on the other end of the room swings wide open.

"You know, you do look like you belong here. Perfect little suit. Your hair all styled—God, look at you. Carbon copy of your daddy." A woman—the woman stands there staring at me. This close I can see how the dark red of her lips perfectly matches her dress and heels. Everything is red. "But you don't belong here. What was he thinking, bringing you tonight?"

My pulse matches the firm thud of her strides as she comes closer, kneeling before me. "You poor thing," she breathes, her flowery scent wrapping around me. She observes my face closely, her own pinching in sadness. "You really shouldn't be here."

"Who are you?"

She smiles at my question, leaning forward as if she's about to share a secret. "Someone who wants to help you, Massimo."

"Do you know my father?"

"Somewhat. But not for any reason you may think." Very suddenly, her face becomes serious. "Massimo, I need you to trust me. I know that's a lot to ask. But your father is about to do something very selfish. When that happens..." she presses something between my palms and closes my fingers around it, "you're going to have a lot to deal with. Call this number when you need help. You got it?"

She tightens her hands over mine when I don't respond. "Tell me you understand. We don't have any time for me to explain further."

Slowly, I nod. She sighs in relief, standing right as Papa and Luciano enter the room. With her in front of me, I shove the small piece of paper into my pocket.

"Who are you?" Papa goes rigid at the sight of her. Luciano just smirks, his eyes lighting up as he looks up and down her body.

"A friend." Her voice is cool and smooth, betraying nothing. "I just wanted to make sure your son was okay. Not exactly a kid-friendly evening, is it?"

"Massimo," Papa orders, "come here. We're leaving."

"What are you doing to him?" The woman persists. She's angry now. "I couldn't help but notice how young he is, despite the fact that you tried to make him seem older. Do you think this is okay? Making him sit through all of that? It's cruel. It's borderline insanity."

Papa pushes past her, grabbing me. On our way out the door, I can't resist looking back, but eventually her sad face disappears from my sight.

"Don't ever entertain women like that," Papa mutters. "Might look nice on the outside but it's all a lie. Women like that will only bring you trouble."

♛

When I get home, I can finally verify that my brothers are fine. Any weight that was beginning to press in on my chest is lifted.

My baby brother sits drooling in my lap, making mindless noises as he tries to fit his entire fist in his mouth. Santo presents me with a cupcake he says he made today. It looks pathetic, the icing slipping off and taking half the cake with it. He sings me happy birthday and we eat bits of the half raw dessert as I tell him about what I saw tonight. 

I tell him how all of it will be mine soon. How that means it will be his, too. Now that he's gotten my birthday out of the way, Santo is sullen and angry at me for abandoning him these past months. Even so, he can't hide his interest in the things I'm promising him. I, on the other hand, successfully lock up my deep regret over the extra cuts and bruises he wears on his skin just because I wasn't there.

It was necessary in order for us to have a fighting chance, but it still makes me sick to see him hurt. If she ever hurt Tommaso... my vision nearly goes blurry at the thought.

I make sure my brothers are sound asleep before I let myself slip into an easy and peaceful slumber. 

The next day, my father is dead. Gone.

They tell me he shot himself in the head.

And after Santo cries himself to sleep, after Mamma is passed out in the kitchen next to her bottle, I hold that paper in my hands and stare down at it. At the number that woman wrote.

And it's easy to call her, to hear her voice. Her relief shifting into warm compassion as she realizes it's me. Her confident assurance that she can get me everything I need.

It's easy to sneak out because there's nobody awake to care as I slip into her car when it pulls up outside. And it's easier still to walk with her through the casino, dousing every inch of Devil's Dice with gasoline before I take a match to it and watch the place burn in her rearview mirror.

It's all ash before anyone can do anything to save it.

It's not his empire I want. I'm going to build my own. I know I won't be able to take ahold of the power that is owed me for a long time, but the safety of my brothers depends on it.

It's only once I'm back in bed with visions of purifying fire swirling in my head that I realize I still don't know the woman's name. She barely said a word to me tonight, just did everything I asked without question. She seemed to know exactly what I needed. Before dropping me off, she even stopped to buy enough food to feed me and my brothers for at least a week.

Then she gave me a hug. It's the first time I can remember experiencing one of those. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, even though she smelled like smoke. 

I threw that piece of paper she gave me into the fire, but only after I was sure I'd memorized her number for good.

I met the devil on my eighth birthday. And I didn't see her again for a very long time.

♛

Present day.

"Fine. I'll just Google it."

I press my thumb and forefinger into the corners of my eyes, willing away the sluggish headache. It's taking everything in me to remember where and who I am—yet somehow I'm still sitting here, arguing with Vivienne.

"Don't do that."

But she's tapping away at her phone, lips pursed in deep concentration. Unfortunately, that doesn't mean she graces me with her silence. "Massimo, there's no way you can just casually stand up and get back to your day after that. You should go to the doc—"

"No." A wave numbs my chest. In its cold and tingling wake, I do something I've never done. "Please," I beg, "just sit down and stop that."

It isn't until she obeys me—overly cautious to leave excessive space between us—that my vision finally clears. She's already tried plying me with questions, although they were all about my health. She didn't once mention the texts I know she saw.

"No doctors," I say, refusing to look at her. "And no Google. Don't be silly."

"Fine. But only if you agree not to do work right now. That's ridiculous. And by the way," she huffs, "Google can be very reputable. I use it to diagnose myself all the time."

I ignore her, gazing longingly at my phone and computer tucked away on the kitchen counter. In a few minutes, my limbs should cooperate enough for me to get them. Unless Vivienne delivers on her threat to throw them out my window the second I try and get up. 

There is much to be done and no time to rest. Cora's texts prompted an epiphany. She isn't the one posing the threats—she would never do such a thing to me. But she used to be tied up in dark and twisted circles, like the ones at Devil's Dice that night. And the people in those circles most definitely have a bone to pick with me.

I have given little thought to them over the years. All of that was behind me. And I've given even less thought to Cora.

She reaches out occasionally, once or twice a year, but never goes any further. I let it happen only because I know her, and how she has trouble letting things go. It's always just a text, and she never expects a response.  

She used to be a reminder of everything good and pure when there was only corruption and uncleanliness in my life. She made me feel for the very first time. I was a young boy growing into the disturbing changes happening in my head, and she pushed aside the numbness. She made it all go away, showed me an ounce of the consideration I was craving at that time. Consideration from any adult to just notice me in a way that wasn't so clinical.

Cora really saw me that night at Devil's Dice. 

But none of that is important anymore. The texts are just her way of keeping a useless tether between us, and she doesn't care that it means nothing to me.

Nothing has changed; she isn't coming back. But it looks like someone else is. The use of body parts, the obsession with blood, it's like a flashback to everything my father once wanted for me. He was expecting me to grow to love it, not burn it down the night he left. 

"There's no time to waste," I tell Vivienne, my voice hoarse. "I know who's been threatening us."

That does the trick. Her eyes snap to mine, violently interested. Satisfaction builds in my chest as I watch the fire on her face ignite, that desperate need to run straight into a problem and wrangle out a solution. 

But then she surprises me. 

"You can fill me in after you rest."

She's calm, perfectly content to just sit here instead of demanding I tell her everything so we can form a plan. Her confident demeanor spreads an unexpected blanket over my nerves, and I can't look away from her. 

"I don't need you to tell me how to deal with what just happened. I mastered that a long time ago," I feel the need to tell her. I don't want her thinking she knows how to deal with my own head better than I do. 

She nods, and I lean my head back against the couch in confusion. Again, I was expecting more of an incensed response. What is her game?

At some point my eyes drift shut. The urge to sleep is stronger than ever. I'm clawing through a soggy wilderness of memories, confusion, and darkness. Often after my seizures is when I have the best sleep of my life.

Movement causes me to jerk back awake. So fragmented are my faculties, I'd forgotten Vivienne was there. I seek her out, relaxing when I see her still on her end of the couch. "Just getting comfortable," she mumbles, curling up into a ridiculous ball.

I continue to stare at her, and her mouth pops open. "Um, do you need anything? Food? Coffee? Weed? I can—"

"Sleep, Vivienne. I need sleep. And silence."

She snaps her mouth shut, nodding. Then she stands. My muscles bunch in response, and black spots dance in my vision when I sit up.

"What are you doing?"

"Letting you sleep," she explains slowly. "I'm just gonna go t—"

"No."

"No?" She waits, then sighs. "I know you like to speak in one syllable declaratives, but I need a little more than that, big guy."

"Stay right there," I nod towards her end of the couch.

Slowly, casting me a cautious look, Vivienne sits back down. She must understand something then—something even I fail to—because she gets comfortable with a satisfied sigh, pulling out her phone to mindlessly scroll through something.

It's exactly what I need.

I lose all thoughts about Cora. About all the things I need to do, and how close I am to figuring out this whole bloody mess. I forget everything. 

I just stare at Vivienne—the soft image of her in the middle of my lifeless, gray living room—until a deep, sweeping sleep pulls me under.

And somehow, all the reasons I would never do this matter little when I know she's content to be right there. Even if I'm falling prey to old demons, even if I'm reliving all my worst mistakes, I can't help but think that Vivienne Lee would be the most perfect cause of death.

She simply outshines everyone else, and there's no more running from that. 

But I still dream of red lips, the stench of cigarettes, and the feeling of a raging fire at my back.

♛

Fuck, this chapter was a monster but I needed to add something after that tough flashback. Can you say capital T Trauma for little Simo?

You guys might like the next chapter...

- G