Indebted to the Mafia King
Checking Her Work

Dante

I wake up in a third-string guest bedroom already pissed. The sun is coming in at an angle that tells me I've already slept later than I meant to, but my alarm clock is in my fucking room, which was too covered in crap to sleep in. Today is the day Eleni's leaving. She made it very clear she doesn't want anything else to do with me, and I'm inclined to give her that. The woman who marched out of my bedroom last night was someone I'd never seen before. I thought, for a split second, that I could still find Eleni underneath, but I think she died with Luca at that warehouse.

Domino's wife told me I should still spend most of my days resting, but if I lay around anymore, I'm going to get bedsores. I shuffle out of bed, gritting my teeth against the nearly overwhelming pain in my chest, and head down the hall toward my bedroom. I couldn't carry more than one set of clothes last night, and like an idiot, I picked pajamas.

I pass the door to Eleni's bedroom. Slightly ajar. A little of my frustration burns off as I consider that she might already be gone. That I might have had my last conversation with her and not even known it. I still can't imagine a future without her.

I hobble a couple steps forward and push open the door, smiling at the memory of her arguing my door was open on that first night I found her in my room. At least, if she is here, I'll have a good argument.

Inside, the room has been transformed. The bed that used to cover most of the floor was removed, leaving a wide-open space that Eleni seems to have immediately begun making use of.

A desk I don't recognize dominates the space now, a beautiful, light-wood one with a rolling top, behind which sits one of the dining room chairs. Guns hang in neat rows on one wall, and a massive array of sticky notes spirals across the other.

I drift over to the sticky notes first. The logic takes some time to figure out, but soon, I realize I'm looking at a map of all of New York City's organized crime.

Names, relationships, years of history, all splattered across the tan I never repainted because I doubted anyone would care.

I trace the lines, looking for the Saints, and finally find us off to the side. It's offensive until I realize it's a literal map as well as a figurative one. She's painted the city on my walls in vivid color, and I study it like it's the inside of her brain, holding all the secrets I've been trying to pry out.

One of the notes has a circle on it in red. I pluck it off the wall, and my eyebrows shoot up. This one holds a brief, scribbled history of Cal Duncan, leader of the Irish Kings. What the hell is Eleni thinking? The Kings are almost as insane as the Russians. I wouldn't fuck with them without a gun to my head, and if the circle's anything to go by, they're her next target.

I put the note back where I found it. She's not my Eleni anymore. She's someone I don't know, someone who wouldn't flinch from the fucking Irish Kings. She's better off leaving. I'm at fault for creating this monster. I turn to go. Her laptop sits open on the desktop, like she was in here not long ago. I can see her email client, and one message open with a blinking cursor in the response line. Curiosity gets the better of me. I walk over and scan the screen. Dear Ms. Calimeris,

Since you weren't in class when grades were given out, I'm taking the liberty of emailing you to let you know you not only scored 100% on the final, but that I found your work exemplary. Your transcript says this is your first year formal schooling, and that you'd done a little coding at home before joining us. Frankly, that's astounding. Your code shows an intuition most IT professionals have to work for years to develop. I don't know what's caused your prolonged absence, but it's a waste of your talent and skill to return to community college, as much as I'll miss you. In that vein, I've taken the liberty of forwarding a small portfolio of class projects to a friend of mine at NYU's Tandon School of Engineering. I think you'd make a brilliant software engineer, and I'd be honored to say it was I who discovered you. Please reply whenever you get a chance. I look forward to seeing where your career goes, whatever you choose.

Best,

Professor Calhoun

My tattered chest aches with pride. She was so worried about failing, and she's good enough that her professor contacted someone at NYU? I always knew Eleni was smart.

And if she's looking at this email, if she's thinking about it, maybe she's thinking about staying. Maybe if she gets out of this life, she can find her old self again.

Someone clears their throat in the doorway. I jerk my head up to see Eleni, clutching a mug and wearing a crisp gray suit.

"What are you doing?" she asks. Her dark, thick hair is pulled back away from her face and she's wearing makeup. She looks different. Beautiful, but different.

I open my mouth with no idea what I'm about to say, and nothing comes out. If I say I was proud, she'll kill me on the spot. If I say I was curious, she'll accuse me of not believing her. If I tell her I still love her and miss her- "Why did you step up?" I ask.

She clenches her jaw. Wrong question.

"I just mean... Tony and I talked about this." I circle around the desk, trying to hide how heavily I'm leaning on it. "He was ready."

"No, he wasn't," she says quickly.

I raise an eyebrow, and she shakes her head.

"I guess I just didn't know what else to do," she says finally. "Dante, I needed something to do while you were...I'll get this packed up before I leave tonight." She bites her lip.

The words hit like a punch to the gut. I hobble out a little quicker. She steps in behind me, and I can sense her about to close the door. I can't just leave like this, if it really is our last conversation.

I turn back. She is visible only through the remaining crack in the door.

"You should go to Tandon," I say.

Her smile twists under the weight of emotion. "Why? There's nothing left for me in New York."