Book II – Chapter 29: Ciambelline

Posted On August 29, 2020

Illustration by Eyugho

Generally, dive bars were not known for being bastions of cleanliness. Men’s bathrooms were exponentially worse. The men’s bathroom in a dive bar was an unholy duet of the most revolting environment Demos could think of. Yet, somehow, he was spending time in one.

His small frame was pinned against the wall beside a urinal, the arms of his date caging him in. The man’s face was pressed to Demos’ neck, nipping at his poltergeist-toned excuse for a complexion.

Demos hissed in discomfort. “No marks.”

“You won’t even let me kiss you out there,” his date said. “It’s like you don’t want anyone to know about us.”

“I don’t want anyone to know about us. I told you a hundred times.”

The taller man didn’t stop his incursion on Demos’ throat. “What, are you ashamed of me?”

Demos shifted his weight, prying his date away from his neck with a strategically placed elbow.  Visible marks meant questions — questions he wasn’t prepared to answer. It had happened before, his uncle or his cousin asking about an innocuous spot, asking if he had a girlfriend, asking if he was hiding something. He’d seen Ferris’ eyes fall on a reddened bruise, pause, then look away without a word. Demos hated that pause.

“Yes, I’m ashamed of you,” Demos said. “What grown-ass adult gives hickeys, anyway?”

The man laughed. “Sorry. Let me make it up to you.”

Arms dropped, followed by the clink of a belt. His date had slid to his knees and Demos tried not to think about whatever repulsive stains must have been on the floor. He rolled his head back against the wall, focusing on the ceiling. Somehow, the stains up there were worse. There was the fussing of a button, then a zipper. Demos closed his eyes, ready to be somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

His phone rang. The chime echoed off of the tiny room’s walls, jolting the two out of the moment. Only one person on Demos’ contact list had been assigned that ringtone. Skinny fingers rooted through a pocket before Demos brought the phone to his ear.

“Hey, Fish.”

“Hi, uh— you busy?”

Demos’ eyes fell to the man kneeling at his waist, fingers slipped halfway beneath elastic. His date was staring up at him, lips brushing the skin just below his navel.

“No.”

“Okay,” Ferris said. “Do you know a good place to get like, two dozen cookies?”

Demos’ brow tightened. “Why?”

“I’m supposed to bring something for the office Christmas party tomorrow.”

“You can’t be serious.” Demos’ lifted a hand, a ‘stop’ gesture to no one present. “Meet me at the compound, okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. See you there.”

Demos stuffed the phone back into his pocket, then proceeded to re-zip his pants.

“I have to go,” Demos said. Leather rasped through belt loops as he fastened the buckle.

“Oh, shit.” His date faltered, eyes wide with concern. “Is it an emergency?”

Demos looked back down at him, finally making eye contact. It wasn’t much of a choice. He could either get blown in the men’s restroom of a grimy bar whose name he couldn’t remember, or he could spend an hour or two teaching Ferris how to bake a proper cookie.

Was this an emergency? Was anyone going to die if his friend brought a pre-packaged box of baked goods from the grocery store to a workplace gathering? In the end, it didn’t really matter.

“No,” Demos said. “It’s not.”

The bathroom door slammed shut behind him.

#

The recipe book in Demos’ hands was at least a half-century old, easily. It had been bound in the old-fashioned way, the letters ‘Ricette di Famiglia’ embroidered on the linen cover. The pages were aged, with additional slips of paper and notes tucked in between sheets. Demos flopped the book open onto the counter and, surprisingly, it didn’t crumble into dust. He flipped through it, passing a dozen pages of Gino’s handwriting before settling on one written in script.

Demos ran a single finger down the page, then smiled.

“This one,” he said.

Ferris leaned back onto the counter. “I still don’t see why I can’t just buy something.”

Demos tore his eyes from the book to look back at his friend with a half-scowl. “You can’t buy something, you have to make it. You want to impress your boss, right?”

Ferris couldn’t help but laugh. It was incredible, at times, how out of touch his friend was with normal life.

“I work in an office building, not a— a pastry shop. Nobody is going to care. And now people are going to think I can bake. I can’t bake.”

Demos held up a finger. “We can bake. You like science, right? It’s kind of like chemistry.”

“Kind of like chemistry.”

“Could you stop whining and get me the leftover Bonarda from the fridge?” Demos returned his attention to the recipe book, making a lazy gesture in the general direction of the refrigerator.

“Wine?”

“We’re making ciambelline.” Demos’ smile was soft — somewhere far away. “They’re easy.”

Now Ferris could understand why Demos had asked to meet at the compound. The little kitchen in his apartment paled in comparison to Gino’s. Sure, it had a stove, but it certainly didn’t have miles of Italian marble countertops, two ovens, a range with six gas burners, and a pantry that held things like star anise. Pots and pans in copper and cast iron hung from a rack beneath the ceiling, surfaces glinting under the dim yellow lighting. At least it was clear where Gino’s priorities lay — family and food.

Demos was on autopilot, moving from the oven to the pantry and snapping out idiot-proof instructions to his friend.

“Here.” Demos guided Ferris’ hands to the pile of flour, wine, and oil. “Combine it, slowly.”

Ferris made a face as the dough welled between his fingers. “It’s sticky.”

“Then add some flour. Just a little— don’t dry it out.”

Demos had always made cooking look so easy. This was not easy.

“These are best dipped in wine,” Demos said as he spread baking parchment on a sheet pan. “Can office parties have wine?”

“Ours does. Would have been nice if you could come, but— I don’t think that’s really your crowd.”

Demos looked away. “Yeah.”

There was nothing else to say. It was a world Demos didn’t belong in — spreadsheets, reports, and paychecks. It was normal. Ferris’ day job was the light side of his life, and his time with Demos was the dark. The Ghost’s hands went still on the sheet pan. He looked down at his fingers with a flat gaze, silent.

“Hey, that reminds me,” Ferris said. “I wanted to ask if— I don’t know if you remember Jake’s wedding. It’s next month.”

Demos looked back up. It had been a while since his cousin’s wedding had been mentioned — at the restaurant, with Alex. She and Ferris were supposed to go to New York together in January. Demos had pushed that piece of information somewhere in the back of his mind where it couldn’t bother him. But, now—

Now, Alex was gone.

“Yeah?”

Ferris paused in his struggle with the wine-drenched cookie dough. “I already sent in a plus one. You don’t have to, obviously, but if you wanted, would—“

Ferris cursed under his breath. Why were his ears warm? Why did it look like he was asking a girl to go to a middle school dance with him?

“Would you want to go with me?” Ferris said.

In an instant, Demos forgot he was supposed to be feeling sorry for himself. He tapped his lips in thought, as if giving the invitation serious consideration. A wry smile broke beneath his finger.

“You want me to be your date?”

“If you’ll have me.”

This was not the answer Demos expected. His attack had been countered, the teasing remark flipped tight and hurled back at him with lighting speed.  It hit him hard, a flush striking across his face and forcing him to lock his attention back on the sheet pan.

“Okay.” Demos re-flattened the already flat parchment. “But— but you have to dance with me.”

“Mm, never mind. I’ll just ask Seamus to go.”

Demos scoffed. “Just one dance.”

“I’ll think about it,” Ferris said. “No promises.”

Demos stifled a smile, only partly succeeding. Maybe Ferris’ life wasn’t so light and dark, after all. Maybe there was more to it than that.

Ferris sighed down at the pile of dough. “I think I ruined this.”

“No,” Demos said. “It’s perfect.”

They had just finishing dusting the cookies with powdered sugar when they heard the sound of tires on gravel. Through the wide window behind the breakfast table, headlights cut through the dark. Two cars had pulled up in front of the house. The first was one Demos would recognize anywhere — the Lincoln. The voices outside were muffled, two men grousing in the cold night air.

“Oh, Uncle Vic is here.”

Ferris dusted his hands, resisting the urge to wipe them off on his slacks. “Hey, maybe we can impress your boss. Want me to put these in?”

“Not yet, it’s not hot enough.”

“But it says it’s preheated. It made a noise.”

“Ovens lie,” Demos said. “Give it ten more minutes.”

There were places that Ferris could challenge his friend’s judgment, but this kitchen was not one of them. If Demos said a household appliance was capable of deceit, then it was certainly capable of deceit. If Demos claimed that a cake recipe required newt eyes and frog toes, in this kitchen, then that was probably true, too.

Ferris dared a look at the recipe book, still laid open on the page for ciambelline. The script was more graceful than Gino’s longhand, black ink in rhythmic Italian.

“Whose handwriting is this?”

Demos was drying his hands with a tea towel and glanced backward at the question.

“Mamma,” was all he said. A great deal of Demos’ vocabulary had been Americanized — aunt, uncle, cousin. Yet, he had never had the chance to use ‘mom.’

His phone buzzed on the counter. Demos reached for it, ready to switch it to silent when he noticed the initials on the screen. HM.

Hassan Masri.

“Hello?” Demos’ expression held for only a moment, hardening as he listened to the man talk on the other end of the line. Ferris could see tension lining his eyes. Demos replied in brief, single word responses before muttering his thanks and hanging up.

“What’s wrong?” Ferris said. “What did he say?”

Demos took in a slow breath before speaking. “They’re hitting Six Pines tonight. In a few hours.”

“Shit.” Ferris stole the discarded tea towel, rubbing sugar from his palms. “Gina said she was going to be up there.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Demos’ attention returned to his phone. He rarely called Gina, and when he did, she often failed to answer. It was fair— he did the same thing to her.

There were four rings before she picked up.

“Why are you bothering me?”

Demos fought the urge to just hang up and let her die. He closed his eyes.

“Are you at Six Pines?” he said.

There was a pause.

“Yes,” Gina said. “With Nadia. Why?”

It took Demos a moment to remember what Ferris had reported back just the other day. He and Gina had somehow persuaded Nadia into signing on with them. What the doctor was doing with her at an upstate casino was beyond Demos’ processing power.

“You need to—“

There were voices in the background— faint, but just loud enough for Demos to gain context.

“Wait.” Demos narrowed his eyes. “Are you in the spa?”

“Fatti i cazzi tuoi.” Gina’s response hit him like a slap in the face. This, too, he ignored.

“Never mind,” he said under his breath. “The Marianis will be there in three hours. About a dozen of them. You need to tell Don to clear the place out— that includes you.”

“And how do you know this?”

“I know,” Demos said. His voice softened. “Per favore, Gina. Fidati di me.”

He could hear her through the phone— a long breath in through her nose before releasing it in an exasperated sigh.

“Fine.”

The line went dead— she’d hung up without another word. Typical.

“Clear what out?” It was his uncle’s voice.

Demos turned toward the kitchen’s entrance to see Victor and Sal walk in. The edges of their features were tinged with red from the cold. It had been a while since Demos had seen Salvatore. He was a short-tempered Brooklynite with a face like a vulture’s— a long, straight nose drawing the eye up to a receding hairline. What he lacked in charisma, he compensated for with wrath. He was an asset to Victor’s crew and a veteran of the Giorgetti’s operations.

“The Marianis are on their way to Six Pines,” Demos said. “I’m going.”

Victor slipped off his gloves, one at a time. “No, you’re not.”

“I wasn’t—“

“We don’t have any business being up there,” Victor said. “This is their fight, not yours.”

Behind the counter, Demos’ hands tightened into fists.

“I started this deal with the Hills. If they get destroyed, it’ll all have been for nothing— I’m not going to let it end like this.”

Demos held in the rest of his appeal. Hassan had made it very clear— Aldo would be there. Aldo DeSimone, who’d killed their family doctor, who’d jumped Ferris in the street outside the gala. There was a single twitch in Demos’ trigger finger.

Victor wasn’t moved. “No, it’s not worth the risk.”

“I’ll go with him, Ash,” Sal said.

Every eye in the kitchen turned to the man. Sal was known for many things, but sticking his neck out for others was not one of them.

“You too, Sal?” Victor said. Some of the chill outside had found its way into his voice.

“You know how long it’s been since I did anything but bust-outs?” Sal made a campy hand gesture. “I feel like a fucking accountant.”

Ferris’ terse eye roll went unnoticed by the man.

Victor’s face had a moment— starting with a scowl before veering into something more weary. His attention went from Sal to his nephew, then back once more for good measure.

“Fine,” he said. “Look out for each other.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Sal said to Demos with a jangle of his keys. There was something wicked about his grin. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Demos tried not to look too pleased. He hadn’t expected a savior in Salvatore Viggiano, but he would take what he could get. He grabbed his coat from the back of a chair.

“Uncle Vic, could you get the oven?”

Victor eyed the mess they’d left on the countertop with disdain. “What were you making?”

“Ciambelline.”

With that, the two were gone, leaving Victor alone in his father’s kitchen. With even steps, he approached the counter. His hand came to rest on the recipe book, coarse fingertips grazing the ink of his sister’s handwriting.

“Oh.”

#

For once, Demos was driving. He had made a beeline for the driver’s seat, startling Ferris into a momentary stupor. There wasn’t any time for Ferris’ ‘proper old woman’ approach to operating a vehicle. This was life or death.

Even so, Ferris had feedback to share.

“The highway is that way,” he said. “Where are we going?”

Demos didn’t take his eyes off the road, only tightening his hold on the wheel.

“I’m taking you home.”

Demos could have sworn he could hear his friend’s brain snap into two pieces from the passenger seat.

“Like hell you are.”

“You don’t need to be there,” Demos said. “I only have one rifle in the trunk, anyway.”

Ferris’ next breath came through his teeth. “We already talked about this, Ghost. You said you wouldn’t do this again.”

“This is different.”

“No, it’s fucking not.”

“What, you’re hardly back for two years and I’m supposed to just lose you again? Just watch you get beaten or tortured or— fuck. It was my fault.” Demos swallowed and his voice dropped to a bare mutter. “Everything that happened to you was my fault.”

Demos wasn’t watching his friend, but could hear the ache in his voice.

“If I can’t be by your side, then what did I come back for?”

The car was silent for a while. He was right— Demos knew he was right, and he hated it. He’d made the wrong choice back then. He’d said goodbye— he’d said it, and spent every second of the next three years regretting it.

He didn’t want to regret this, too.

“Demos, the highway.”

Demos didn’t reply, only merging left to make the on-ramp.

They were going together. He knew Ferris would never forgive him otherwise. He had no choice but to take the wheel, to drive willingly, knowingly into certain danger— to take his friend by the hand into what could be his last night alive. Demos was the dark side of his life— of all of it.

He was poison that destroyed everything it touched.

“Hey,” Ferris said. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah,” was all Demos could think of saying. It was a hollow word, meaningless, neither confirming nor denying Ferris’ claim. Everything that had happened, the blood, the radio, the boiling water— there was no one to blame but himself.

Anything that happened at the casino— that would be on him, too.

Demos said nothing else, his eyes set on the white lines of the highway. He couldn’t think about it, not right now.

They still had a long drive ahead of them.