Zaccaro by Amarie Avant

Author:Amarie Avant [Avant, Amarie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-04-01T05:00:00+00:00

22

Reese

“You lookin’ at my wife?” Spittle flew from Milo’s mouth as his knees sunk into the man’s fleshy gut. The guy still had the Little Bambino’s napkin tucked in his shirt, but the tomato sauce on his mouth began to blend with his own blood. Half the white linen from the table the big, fat Italian guy sat at was on the floor with him, along with an abundance of spilled spaghetti and meatballs.

My stomach had been growling when we stepped inside of Little Bambino’s a few minutes ago. The café was old school even when I was a kid, red-and-white checkered linen table-tops. Dusty memorabilia, mock ancient stone walls, and the token flag. The place was on West Jefferson in Los Angeles, and Milo always swore it rivaled his favorite restaurants in New York, Napoli even. Guess that’s why I liked it so much, since dad allowed us to visit all over the world except for these two places…

Anyway, the moment we stepped inside, dad had bragged about me to everyone who looked our way. He was always a puffed up man, short but with a stocky-build. His muscular chest was elevated as he told all the patrons that his first-grader had just won the spelling bee at school.

The patrons had happily agreed; they’d said I looked sweet as a button. I wore a princess dress, bubble skirt, puffy linebacker shoulder pads, and a third-world fortune on my head in the form of a glitzy tiara. My dad’s eyes were only for me as he bragged. Now, that light, airy happiness which drew people to Milo had been suffocated to death. Like a kid blowing out a candle atop a cupcake, it took a nanosecond for him to transform from pure goodness to evil.

My father only stood at five foot seven, yet his quick hands had this unnatural power. Blood sprinkled on Milo’s sneering face, making him appear as the devil himself. Fingers in the shape of scissors he said, “I’d clip a motherfucker before I let ‘em eye-fuck my wife, capiche!”

The pound for pound against flesh made me heart skip a beat. The guy didn’t even standup for himself… or maybe he was unconscious, brain dead even.

My mom pulled me to her chest, my face hidden in her stomach. Her voice had gone raw from yelling at Milo to stop. Now Lolita encouraged, “Don't look, Reese.”

She'd gotten tired of trying to pull Milo off the customer. Lolita's chest heaved. Suppose I was lucky that her heart thumped a symphony in my ears and took away the sound of pounded meat as I clung to her.

The waiter who had gotten a broken nose for trying to stop dad, had just returned with the manager.

“We're gonna call the fucking cops if you don't stop!”

Just like that, Milo arose. Those seemed to be the magic words for him, the loyal customer. The guy everybody thought was so fucking cool. He’d given that very waiter a hundred-dollar tip on a few occasions.

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