Book 2: Shots Fired

Eleni

I stand on the wrecked stage of Piacere and turn in a slow circle. The two bars glisten under thick drifts of broken glass, and puddles of spilled alcohol drool away from them. Not a table stands upright. More than half of them are splintered. Under the brilliant daytime lights of the club, goosebumps pepper my skin. It feels like looking at a ghost.

It feels like looking at The Greek Corner, the day after Baba’s murder and my rescue, when Tony took me back.

Dante storms up the stairs. “They took a good fucking chunk out of the basement, but either they couldn’t find the secret door, or they couldn’t get through.”

His eyes dance with rage. I step over one of the poles, ripped from its mooring to lean against the stage, and close the distance between us. Still, I don’t touch him. There’s an electricity radiating off him that I can’t catch up with yet. My anger feels dull, faraway. It’s too much like that day, the day my whole life change