Chapter 2 - The Floor and the Ceiling
Amelia’s vision came back in fragments.
First, the chrome base of the napkin dispenser. Then the smell of raw bleach. Then the dry, warm hand that had slipped under her neck to support her head.
“Steady, child,” a woman’s voice muttered. “Keep your chin down. You’ve got a knot the size of an apricot back there.”
“Angela?” Amelia tried to speak, but the left side of her jaw felt locked behind an iron clamp.
“Don’t talk. Doctor’s coming through the alley. Just lie still.”
Through the gaps between the booth legs, Amelia could see trousers. Two pairs of black trousers standing still as pillars near the door. Further down, near the corner where the jukebox sat silent, there was a wet, choking sound, followed by the dull thud of someone being dropped to their knees.
“Stand him up,” Vincent’s voice ordered.
Two men who had entered from the street—men with thick necks and dark overcoats Amelia had seen sitting quietly in the back booths on Sunday mornings—lifted Derek Lawson by his armpits. Derek’s feet dragged along the linoleum. His shirt was torn down the center, exposing pale, hairless skin already blotched with dark bruises.
Vincent was wiping his knuckles with a white linen handkerchief he had drawn from his breast pocket.
“Look at her,” Vincent told Derek.
Derek’s head hung low. One of the men jerked his hair back, forcing his eyes toward the counter where Amelia lay with Angela hovering over her.
“Look at her face,” Vincent repeated. “That is an honest face. That woman has been in this kitchen since five this morning making soup for working men. She cleans the grease traps. She carries the trash to the curb. She has hurt nobody in this city.”
Derek whimpered. A string of bloody saliva dangled from his lower lip onto his collar. “I’m sorry, Mr. Castellano. I swear to God, I didn't mean to—”
“You did mean to,” Vincent corrected him, his tone clinical. “You meant to demonstrate power because you have none of your own. You have your father’s money, your uncle’s name, and a car you haven't finished paying for. You hit a woman who could not strike back because you thought her vulnerability belonged to you.”
Vincent folded the handkerchief into a neat square and returned it to his pocket.
The back door opened with a metallic groan. Dr. Rossi entered, carrying a worn leather satchel. He was an elderly man who smelled of menthol cigarettes and iodine, with thick silver spectacles perched on his nose. He didn't spare a glance for the broken boy hanging between the two bodyguards; he had served this neighborhood for forty years and knew which rooms required questions and which required silence.
“Over here, Doctor,” Angela waved.
Rossi knelt beside Amelia. His fingers were cold but remarkably gentle as they palpated her cheekbone and the base of her skull.
“No fracture to the zygomatic arch,” Rossi murmured, shining a small penlight into Amelia’s left pupil, then her right. “Mild concussion. Split flesh beneath the temple. She needs six stitches and seventy-two hours of quiet.”
“She will have whatever she needs,” Vincent said from behind them.
Amelia tried to turn her head toward his voice, but the doctor held her firm. “Keep still, Miss Amelia.”
“Mr. Castellano,” Amelia whispered, her throat dry. “The... the table. The mess.”
Vincent stood above her. For the first time, his expression softened, the hard lines around his mouth relaxing into something resembling paternal sadness.
“The mess is being handled, Amelia. You do not worry about plates.”
He turned back toward Derek Lawson.
“Take him to the basement of the meat plant on Fourth,” Vincent said to the two men holding Derek. “Do not break his hands yet. I want his father to see him whole before we discuss the price of this afternoon.”
May you like
Derek began to scream, thrashing his legs against the floor, but a heavy leather glove clamped over his mouth, cutting the sound down to a muffled wheeze. They dragged him through the front door, the brass bell ringing one final, ironic chime as they vanished into the rain.
***
