For Blood and Beast: Tomas, For Blood (Garko Book 1) Read online

"The wicked lady wants your teeth to rot from the gums." She frowns but her forehead never wrinkles, I think to my two-year-old self. Early pattern recognition, labeling me as a clever child should have made mama smile.

  "I want candy!" I held my breath, until my father intervened, giving it back.

  At four years old, I became my father's party trick, as detailed knowledge of my favorite subject, fire, astonished his U.N. Diplomat coworkers. I recited at great speed information on temperature, color, and physical constants of burned materials. My parents decided the next school year; I would follow my sister Vilia to The Daughters of Saint Anne's Institute. A boarding school in Rome, where all females of Ponti lineage had attended since 1856, their motto— Teach Them Diligently— well suited my personal and serious academic pursuits ... to learn more about Fire and discover the Anime Princess ~ current whereabouts. Certainly, all I had heard about the Institute pointed directly to a place Princess Katara would visit if not live. Both time and knowledge of just what the Institute wanted with us, would greatly disappoint me later. Even more so than learning Katara was not a real princess. Slightly less so than the broken bones I incurred conducting air bending experiments off the Institute's terrace.

  And yes, my eight-year-old sister Vilia, just loved having me, her five-year-old sibling tagging along, by the way.

  Not!

  I started passing out from forgetting to breathe.

  Fast forward to age thirteen, a Mensa prodigy with IQ in the 140's I gained another label, the Big Brain, but not by the oldest high-IQ society in the world. It was, a moniker granted by cruel older girls in the academy who taunted my sister and me, "Big brain, Big ass, Bassos," they chanted incessantly in the halls. Tragically, right after we returned one fall semester, the Pre College program building became inhabitable, splitting everyone up and they granted ten of us girls, the nicer ones, ready to matriculate an opportunity to finish at a private liberal arts college in the United States, Wellesley. Encouraged to cross-register at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, which lit a fire to my obsession in forensics and progressed then onto explosives, and electrical systems. I was fourteen.

  I perfected holding my breath, by joining the swim team who encouraged the skill for the swimmers' competitive edge.

  A child with military-level knowledge of how to destroy shit, matched with the singular focus in which I attacked the MIT engineering curriculum not only marveled at the university but, unfortunately, conjured new emotions from some of the adults—apprehension. Rumors say it was during this time right after my fifteenth birthday, the Government placed me on their person to watch list. I don't believe it. Clearly, they knew about me from age eight when they forced my dad, to have me fingerprinted because of a snitch at one of his parties.

  Other instructors, however, pushed my boarding school classmates and me forward delighting in our quirky capabilities. I was not our youngest graduate but at fifteen,

  kicked ass on the LSAT

  entered a prestigious law school and had

  gained a coveted internship, unofficially.

  Why law?

  It married the forensics itch I could not shake. In addition, it added extra years to my hiatus from Mother Dearest.

  My personal life at home was in shambles. My older sister, Romi, my mother figure, had left me only to return from her two-year abroad studies, married. While my middle sister, Vilia, whose departure was lifesaving, literally… disappeared. We knew mother as gamemaster, now both girls were pieces on the board she moved along at will. Father's resentment of mothers meddling left him sullen and unapproachable. I felt abandoned during summer although she and my baby brother Roberto were about.

  Increasingly, father conducted his parenting from afar, never forgetting birthdays or graduations, sending elaborate gifts through special courier. Our holiday dinners and two-week summer vacations were special, he never missed those, although he spent a considerable amount of time complaining.

  There was the new family, Vilia, my absent now unearthed sister, had married into. Father believed were all monsters.

  The many ailments Romi's husband suffered, father thought too overwhelming for a young girl. My oldest sister had become the sole caretaker to her youthful but sickly childhood friend, eventually becoming his wife.

  I felt father's rage because you see, in my mind, an unfortunate or untimely marriage was the only way Basso girls left our gilded cage. A jail my formidable mother held the key to. Unknowingly to my father and me for a short while, there were others— women —guiding her hand, homing in on our 'special abilities' towards purpose, their purpose.

  I knew marriage, my marriage to be exact, would come. I was smart enough to understand why we were shuffled into the many homemaking and social science of humanity courses. They all held a common theme, Man vs Woman, Woman subservient to Man, Man conquered by Woman using her feminine wiles. Then lastly, Women in History, Making Difficult Decisions for the Good of Mankind. My strategy— hold it off for as long as possible.

  Then, I met President-Elect Clinton and had an epiphany. This was some years after she had lost the 2016 election, at a closed mic seminar on the campus, of our shared alma mater. She remained angry, disappointed, and still trying to pacify her supporters with justifications... why she had not become the first woman U.S. President. Nor, was not the current President. She had one message for us bright girls, we could do what she failed to do because she had stomped down barriers and kicked ass when it was time. This way we did not need to come to the throne, making all kinds of concessions, head bowed, "I want you to tear down that fucking door." At least that is what I heard her say.

  How did one go about tearing down a door? In Jiujitsu we kicked, I guess I could kick it down and become the youngest and first Italian borne, U.S. female President, no one told Hilary what to do, not even Bill. This my brain told me would release me from the hold, the Ponti family held on us girls and any other stupid rules trying to tell me what to do, what not to expect so on and so on. I'd work on or fix being born in Italy, as it came up.

  So, I began my journey to what I believed might lead to a successful political career. However, at age sixteen, although atop notch second-year law student, with a sketchy Internship at the DA office, my coworkers never quite understood. I was unpopular. My very existence pissed everyone off, especially my unofficial misogynistic boss. "Interns just dot eyes and cross tees, girly. And you're even lower than that, all I want to hear from you is one or two sugars?" My day supervisor said, adding under his breath, "especially ones still sucking on their mother's tits," he meant me.

  My unofficial night supervisor acted slightly better, watching me work made him uncomfortable. His failed attempts to detect mistakes I must be making left him frustrated. So that his passive aggression reminded me of my father. It made me sad. Besides, what was I doing here anyway, my political career was never going to jump off if I couldn't even get people who needed me, to like me.

  One night I couldn't breathe more than normal. The basement file room walls began to waver. I decided to take a walk, click snap, click ... right, when I began to wonder what other sixteen-year-old girls might be doing on a night like this, bam.

  A lucky me ran into Thee, Mister Jengo Edwards.

  At the bureau, we had only a name, on 8 x 10 sheet of paper which should have contained a photo, pinned up on our who's who street gang, diagram. While going through case files, to check known affiliates, verify names, and supply faces, photos ... paperwork only, one name kept showing up in transcripts, but never a photo. I naturally checked for any online presence, but came away with nothing, not Facebook, no Twitter, or high school yearbook pics; he was a ghost, a low-level lackey for the Bloods. It was odd someone well-liked, yet, unimportant in the hierarchy of the organization would tread, vigilantly to hide his footprint. With no photo, the address of last seen whereabouts, and only one distinctive characteristic noted, he was an enigma.

  At least to me, one who coveted the life of
young people on Facebook and Instagram. Hacking into them because no one was friending me, I changed random facts and photoshopped my little touch-ups to their pictures, sometimes adding myself.

  My failed searches for Jengo became an obsession. And I didn't do failure, so I hit the pavement with suspected addresses in my Maps App, or like I told everyone later, I took a walk and ran into him. We had more than enough incriminating evidence for a formal accusation, against his boss Savior Herman, but at that time, Savior was aware and hiding out with members of his top crew, which didn't include Jengo for some reason.

  Either they did not offer Jengo to come along, or he refused to hide. The night we met after he educated me on safety, I made a deal with a devil. White girls even badass ones like me didn't walk into the Bronx public housing, without gang escort, unless they were looking for drugs or to disappear. "The police don't come here, jailbait," and if not for him seeing me as a business opportunity I'd be dead or and I quote, "your young ass used and sold off."

  Jengo had this business opportunity— a phrase he used often and in and out of context— or a ruse he thought might work out to benefit us both… turned out in the end, it was all for his.

  He said he wanted to 'submit peacefully.' The bureau only wanted him for questioning making his statement come off a bit dramatic. However, Jengo explained his subterfuge was all for his fellow gang members, the brothers, he called them, could never know.

  Watching Jengo bullshit his way through an explanation of why he'd gone missing for a few days was entertaining. He met a young girl he thought was 'fat' and hung at her place 'hittin' twenty-four-hour 'trim'. Translated he'd fell in lust with a girl, visited her house where they had sex continuously until he got enough, and came back home. He'd turn himself in, answer questions then lay low for a couple of days. Why he showed up in disguise, I suspected the hardened street gangster was having more fun than the current situation warranted. His wealth of disguises rivaled the circus clown. Baffled, I chucked it off as; he probably watched a lot of television. Something I was jealous of even though I didn't know if it was true. Which is maybe why I moved on with the rest of his plan. He needed me to eventually show my face around 'da hood.'

  To the neighborhood, and his brothers, I was a white girl under Jengo's protection who came around for a week or so, showing myself as a hanger-on. While he announced to the right people, mainly Cynthia— "She can't hold water for shit" he said about her— we were leaving for my place for a couple of days—all this to mask suspicions he was a rat to his crew. When he 'surrendered peacefully'— don't forget no one was actively looking for Jengo besides myself— he told every detective he met for four days, "I don't know shit." We learned nothing from him. And no one was the wiser what he and I had done or not done.

  But he educated me all right. Only now, three years later, our relationship evolved, Savior in prison, and Jengo in his spot, King of three more Blood sects, do I understand that it was I who was set up.

  "One day ya come fa me, yea," Not sorry I had you on hold forever, Evee. Sometimes, Jengo slips into a Caribbean accent. Strange cause the United Bloods to keep membership tight, only pledged American born, Black and Hispanic.

  "You scared Jengo, of a lil' white girl. Un pequeno blanca Nina." He laughs at my broken translation.

  "Funny white girl, with Latina girl ass, what you want, jailbait?"

  "I'm looking for Cynthia. I'm trying to send her a ticket, that's all. We are setting up a free legal service clinic. I know how the law turns her on." Cynthia is Jengo's sister.

  "No shit, Cynthia leaving the Burroughs and working with white peoples." While he ponders this notion, it hits me how unclear my next steps are, but she made me, promise no matter where I ended up I'd send for her, a girl who has comfort, jewelry, cars, a big house, but is afraid to step out, separate from her hood. She won't need to go far cause I ended up right back in New York City.

  'With you Chica, I could be more, Do important shit. I'm too smart for these dingos." And she was, super scary smart with no papers. I was working on fixing her situation.

  "Okay, I tell her to call you, on this number?"

  "Yeah, this number's always okay. Gracias."

  "Es nada",

  "Hey",

  "Yea,"

  "If I ever have to come for you, I'll call first."

  "That's solid." Click.

  CHAPTER 5

  A Picnic

  Tomas

  Ever since I was a young boy, all I wanted in life was to walk, talk and one day emit fear in men's hearts like the image of Ernesto Luciano Massimo Garko— not even my father, the Wolf, had more swag and presence than my Nonno.

  Today Ernesto's pristine apparel, body garnered with jewelry set against the backdrop of the prison courtyard is nothing less than stellar, even if it causes a prison yard to appear irregular. As if prison should be anything other than what it is, sad and fit for peasants, but that's just it. Nonno’s presence does that thing, where just as things are supposed to be, he shows up and not him, but your shit is out of place. I look at him, dressed as if he expects a fucking ordination upon arrival.

  My Nonno, Ernesto has his own inimitable way of 'wearing it", he never does anything halfway. Always in an Italian suit, a pinky ring, a silk pocket square, gold cufflinks, and any other trimmings, the weather would permit.

  As he sits, I notice his curly hair has turned pure white— almost silver, polished by the pomade used to tame it from its unruly natural state. Nothing about grandfather is to be out of control. His bushy eyebrows are another matter. They have only become thicker and wayward with age. I imagine his ire towards them every morning he studies his reflection in the mirror. They appear under submission today. I suspect he has them manicured ... covertly. I smile at this and picture him reclining in a salon chair in the middle of the night, preened over like a woman.

  It begins,

  "You must be out your fuckin mind. I'm disappointed mio figlio e unico erede,"

  His son and sole heir.

  He moves on to speak of my daughter, Elektra, my faked death and move to Bolivia, and a list of various sins I have committed against him.

  Disappointed

  Ernesto's first words to me-- his pseudo risen from the grave grandson-- in over five years. When Ernesto initiates a visit, it is to talk never to listen.

  And I'm sure a piece of him does inside with each acknowledgment of my birthright, as noted by the tick in his jaw when he utters or hears, the phrase unico erede.

  For this visit, while the other prisoners are eating Amway slop in the cafeteria, Ernesto, and I outside in the prison guard lunch court having a fuckin picnic, consisting of wine, and artesian bread and cheeses.

  This and the fact his arsenal of jewelry wasn't confiscated at visitor check-in, is a demonstration to all who he is and by default who I must be... not a motherfucker to be fucked with. As if, they had not known already.

  He looked directly at me for the first time since he sat.

  I say nothing. Time and consequences have taught me patience. He tried to teach me this as a boy; 'Col tempo la foglia di gelso diventa seta', Time, and patience change the mulberry leaf to satin.

  Meaning if you wait long enough it will change direction. It will come to you.

  "The only reason you have not been removed from this pigsty and dealt with by the family is that you sent word to me of your untimely resurrection."

  Untimely resurrection, I know I'm not the Christ, but can anyone you love have an untimely return from the dead. My heart stutters but does not bleed at his callous words.

  "Had you not contacted me we would be having a different conversation." Newsflash gramps, it takes two people talking to have a fuckin conversation. I remain docile, mainly in suspicion of Ernesto's reach, which he boasts, is strong enough to extract me from a Mississippi State Prison. There goes my cushion, thinking it safer to lie low in the dirty south's penal system than showing up back to the East Coast. Given the warden allow
ed this fiasco of a visitation, makes it harder to doubt the old man's threats.

  Finally, he says, "You may speak."

  "Ahem," Only he caused me to pause before speaking. "You look well Nonno. Thank you for your visit and understanding my, uh the need to disappear and ah … reappear." Which was a fucking joke, I knew he had his men looking for me as soon as I sent word, I was alive. I continue. "It was time to reappear when I received a proposition for the family. This will prove beneficial for everyone, very lucrative. Yes, it involves some maneuvering with outside people; however, the benefits will enormously outweigh the unfavorable." My grandfather looked as if he would choke.

  "Are you fuckin crazy, Tomas? Even after this, he looks around, you try to navigate in their world?"

  "Legitimacy."

  At this, he laughs. If I were a punk and twenty years younger, my heart would be bleeding right now. At thirty-one, I don't give a fuck.

  "But you have always been a source of entertainment for me. You, mio figlio e unico erede— he actually choked out a laugh— you are the most." His jaw ticked.

  If it caused involuntary reactions, why claim me at all, one might ask? The answer is simple, at least to a Catholic, Italian mobster who believes in curses. At my birth, his mother, Maria, acting as midwife to my mother, claimed me as Ernesto's heir. This she completed before she returned to her home, never to return to the states again. However, bisnonna Maria was a renowned enchantress, thereby making any claims against her wishes, sacrileges, and worthy of a curse. Yes, Ernesto believes this fully. Now, I needed to uncover why he felt the need to speak, repetitively, the words he hates.

  "Now listen very carefully, as long as I live, the family will not harm you. Your bisnonna— he paused to form the catholic gesture for a cross on his chest, I mirror this motion similarly— was ... calculating. Even to the point, she made definite provisions for a time after death,

  kill you or put a contract on you from the family that must result in ex-communication. Did you know this?"