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this is a story i'd worked on last summer and am looking to brush up on. it's relatively short, but depending on response, i may continue the tale. for now, it'll have about six chapters.





Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


She was a mother. She had no business being here.

But it was a mother’s job to protect her children. And Cyrus had no idea who he was stealing from. All he knew was that she was hungry and she had no money to feed them both. Being the mother she was, Vera always made him eat first and eat well. Most times that meant she’d sip tea while reading the free paper over again, trying to ignore the growling in her belly and the tantalizing smells from her son’s plate. He was a growing boy of nine who had just lost his father, her husband, their heart.

All they had was each other.

So when she walked in the door after a twelve hour shift to the oven on and their apartment filled with the warmth of a meal too big for her budget, Vera immediately panicked.

~~~

Everyone in the old neighbourhood knew about the Santoro Family, knew why that F was capitalized and knew not to mess with any of their business unless they wanted to get fucked. And not in the good way.

But Vera and her husband were the ones to make it out by nearly any means necessary. William was a good man with a good heart. He kept his head down in school and encouraged Vera to do the same. They graduated both high school and college together and set out into the great wide world with their heads held high. But the employment bubble had burst and it was hard to find jobs. Then Vera got pregnant and none of it was easy. She was prescribed to immediate and confined bed rest within her first trimester. It was then she and William agreed to have her stay home for the first couple years. He had a good job as a salesman; being charming and good-looking helped keep the commission checks high enough to move them downtown, away from the element that claimed too many Black lives by the day.

Everything was perfect. Too perfect.

And people noticed.

Vera remembered Cyrus sitting at the kitchen table when she got the call. He was eating macaroni and cheese and happily humming to himself while she bit her bottom lip and tried to keep the panic from her voice.

But Cyrus was an observant child.

It was her old friend from the neighbourhood that called, twenty minutes before the uniforms arrived to tell her William, her husband had been shot and robbed. And, no, he didn’t make it.

She’d been prepared. But she hadn’t been prepared for this.

 

~~~

“But, Mom, where are you going? The food’s gonna get cold!” Cyrus pleaded.

She wanted to scold him, wanted to give him a stern lecture about the wrong he did and why he couldn’t just steal, though it was what he considered a good cause. But she couldn’t bring herself to break his heart. “It won’t, I promise,” she said, brushing invisible dirt of his shoulder. “Just stay with Keda for a bit. I’ll be back as soon as I can. You eat?” The boy nodded. Her heart cracked. “Good. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mommy.”

***

Nicholas Santoro was tired. His body burned for rest, but his father was sick so until the old man was back up to par, Nicholas was responsible for business.

Mostly that meant a lot of walks and a lot of talks.

Right now was the talking. The asking. The crying and outstretched hands and favours on top of favours on top of blood oaths. Nicholas cared; these were people he grew up around, people he’d admired at one point or another. But to see them fall so hard and far was exhausting. He had no idea how his father did this, day-in and day-out.

“I know that fucking nigger, Nick, and he tried to rip me off!”

Then there were pieces of undeniable, constipated shit like this, like Eddie Falcone with pea-brain ideologies and the whole world to blame. Nicholas’ father tended to show mercy; the Falcone family was slightly inbred and hadn’t seen the atmosphere outside of Bayonne, New Jersey in five generations.

But Nicholas was in charge now. And he had no tolerance for ignorance.

“Shut up, Eddie,” Nicholas said, the surprising baritone of his voice hushed by his whisper. No one ignored Nicholas’ voice. As soft as it was powerful, only four people heard him yell. Two were dead, the others were Family. No one wanted to hear Nicholas Santoro yell.

But Eddie was on a rampage, hands flailing, eyes wide. “No, fuck that nigger and his nigger family!”

Nicholas bristled and the room turned cold. Eddie’s ramblings stopped. Nicholas leaned forward on the metal desk. “I am my father’s son, Eddie, but don’t mistake me for him. I have no interest in your squabbles, no interest in you. Until my father is back in this seat, you are not welcome here. Is that understood?”

“But-”

Three of Nicholas’ bodyguards stepped forward, but Nicholas held up a hand. “Is that understood?”

Eddie’s face reddened, but he nodded and stood, leaving in a hurry, clearly before he said something he’d pay for later.

“Is that it?” Nicholas asked with a sigh.

“One more, capo.”

“Hurry up.” Eddie had successfully pissed on the very last operating nerve Nicholas had, putting Nicholas in a bad place to have heart.

Until she walked in.

It’d been years, eleven at least since he’d last seen her, but she looked good. Really good.

Nicholas stood from behind the desk, his gaze hard. “Vera Cooke.”

She stepped forward hesitantly, her eyes everywhere but on him, her hands full of bags. Bags of food. Finally she looked at him with a pair of the saddest eyes he’d ever seen. She smiled, miserable and sweet. “Hiya, Nicky.”

She was every bit of beautiful as he’d remembered, in spite of her overwhelming sadness. His heart thudded in his chest as she approached, the bags up as if in offering. Nicholas bristled. She had to know he’d never accept anything of monetary value from her.

“I, uh,” she cleared her throat as she came to a stop. Nicholas became unreasonably angry. She was too far. He wanted to embrace her, wanted to feel that chocolate skin melt in the palms of his hands just once more. But the fucking desk was in the way. He made his way around it, but Vera began to retreat. “I want to apologize.” Nicholas frowned as she fidgeted, her eyes tracing the floor. “My, uh . . . this!” She rushed forward, the bags of cooked food swinging and nearly hitting him in the face. He ducked in time, his bodyguards stepping out of the shadows again.

“Don’t!” he said forcefully and they retreated. Nicholas turned back to Vera. “What is this, Vera?”

She gaped at him, a smattering of emotions flitting across her face. “Food.”

Nicholas smirked. “I see that.”

“My son, he didn’t know what he was doing-”

“Your son,” he cut in.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. It was the first one from her heart. “He’s nine.”

Nicholas nodded, knowing full well how old her son was. “Go on. What did he do that he didn’t know he was doing?”

“He, uh, he stole from one of your restaurants,” she said, her voice cracking. “Things have been tough, ya know? So he thought he’d help me out-”

“By stealing a pan of ziti?”

Her eyes flickered up, anger setting them ablaze. “Yeah, by stealing a pan of fucking ziti.”

Nicholas heard his boys shift at her tone, her blatant disrespect echoing in the room. He smirked, still watching her. “What do you want me to do about it, Vera?”

She blew out a breath, but she was still pissed. He could tell by the lowered left eyelid, a snarky squint, one that was surprisingly intimidating. “I know it’s stupid to take this back, but I just want to apologize for my boy’s behavior. He was just trying to help. I’ll work off what’s owed, but you have to give me notice so I can tell my job.”

Nicholas sighed and backed away from her, returning to his seat behind the desk. “Where do you work, Vera?” He’d missed saying her name. And by the loosening of her body language, so did she.

“At the bank in Journal Square.”

“Since when?”

She shifted. “Since . . . for the last six months.”

Nicholas hesitated, a fist at his lips. “Did they find out who shot him?”

“No,” she whispered, her anger flaring up again. Her eyes were in his, those gorgeous dark brown eyes that told on her soul.

“I am sorry, Vera,” he whispered back. She nodded and looked away, but refused to wipe away the tears that had fallen. Nicholas’ fingers twitched. “Look, you said it yourself: there’s no point in returning this. You keep it. And you owe me and the Family nothing. We’ll look past this. Just talk to the kid, maybe he can work-”

“No, Nicky,” she growled, her chin high in the air. “You will go nowhere near my son. And I will pay you back, if it’s the last thing I do, but you stay away from my kid.”

He held her defiant gaze for a few moments longer, then when he realized she would not bend, he said, “As you see fit, Vera.”

 

She turned on her heel and walked away without another word.












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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.