Page 21

And then Staph says something that makes my blood freeze and my brain short-circuit.
“Yes, target is still—tomorrow. We—take her out—wedding.”
I’m so shocked by this revelation that I don’t realize she’s stopped walking until it’s too late. I walk right into her. She turns around and her mouth drops open. It’s as though I’m seeing Staph—the real Staph—for the first time ever. Without the layer of professionalism or friendship masking her, she looks different. More sharp-edged, more dangerous. For a second, neither one of us moves, then she slowly lifts the phone to her ear and says, “I’ll call you back.” She places the phone back in her bag without breaking eye contact. “What are you doing here, Meddy?”
“I—uh, I came back because I forgot to give you this—” I raise my hand and realize with a start that I’ve squeezed the gift box so hard that it is now the shape of the perfume bottle nestled inside. My breath comes out in a small laugh. “Sorry, I kinda crushed it while listening to you talk about taking someone out at my wedding. What theshit, Staph?” I will her to deny it, to tell me I’ve drunk too much, that I’ve somehow mistakenly taken some of Ma’s pot, but she does none of these things.
She blinks, her eyes wide.
“Are you seriously going to kill someone tomorrow?” My voice comes out shrill and unrecognizable.
And then her hand shoots out, quick as a viper, and grabs my arm. I startle, jumping back—or trying to, at least. Her grip is shockingly strong. I pride myself on being strong too, but that’s me at the best of times, not me after seven shots of hard liquor and a full night of dancing. Every instinct of mine is off. I try to pull my arm out of her grip, but she yanks me along like a toddler into a nearby alley. Fear crashes through the alcohol-induced fog and suddenly I’m back in the car with Ah Guan,realizing that I’m about to die. I open my mouth to scream—why didn’t I scream earlier, fuck, just how wasted am I—but Staph’s hand is over it. I try to bite her and she removes it from my face. I take a quick inhale, but her hand darts back, and before I know it, the breath is knocked out of me.
Jesus. She’s broken my neck. Each breath I take is immediately coughed up. I fall forward. Oh god, air. Air!
“Stay calm,” Staphanie hisses. “I sort of punched you in the throat. You’ll be able to breathe in a few seconds. I think. I hope? Meddy, are you okay?”
No, I’m not fucking okay, you broke my neck, I try to say, but end up coughing again. A few excruciating moments pass and I realize that she probably hasn’t broken my neck, because then I’d probably be dead.
“I had to do it, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t have you shouting for help. Look, argh, shit, Meddy.”
I draw in a shaky breath and don’t immediately cough it out. Another gulp of air. Gasp, gasp, breathe. “What”—I gasp, then swallow and try again—“the hell is going on?”
Staph blinks hard. “I—ugh—yes, I’m sorry, wearegoing to take someone out tomorrow?”
The words are clear, but they’re also unclear. I mean, I hear each one perfectly fine and know what each single word means on its own, but strung together in a sentence, the words Staphanie is saying might as well be German. Which I don’t speak, to be clear. I snort, straightening up, my eyes tearing with mirth. “Because what, you guys are yakuza? Cartel? Mafia?”
There’s a moment of uncertainty, and then Staph’s face hardens, and she lifts her chin. “Yes, Meddy, we are. We’re mafia.”
“Ha.” The laugh coughs out weakly and dies immediately. Because it’s obvious from her face that Staph isn’t shitting around. She really does mean it. “But—wait, what? But wewent to dim sum together,” I say weakly, as though that somehow means something, as though mafia can’t go to Top Island Dim Sum on a nice Sunday morning. But really, they seem so normal. “No tattoos,” I blurt out.
Staph shrugs. “Ama doesn’t approve of tats. She’s our matriarch, in case you haven’t figured that out.”
“Did you—are you armed?” I whisper. Oh god, am I going to be shot?
She shakes her head. “How the hell would I have smuggled a gun on the plane, Meddy?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know how you mafia people... mafia!” I need to stop saying the word “mafia.” “But—why us? Why at our wedding? Who are you taking out?”
Staph’s eyes soften. “I can’t tell you that, but trust me, the person we’re taking out is evil. They deserve whatever’s coming to them, okay?”
“No. NO! Not okay. What the fuck?”
“Come on, Meddy, be reasonable—”
“And let you kill someone at my wedding?” I snort. “You’re crazy. I’m calling the cops.”
“You don’t want to do that.” Her voice is steel.
Shit, I probably shouldn’t have said that last part out loud, but in my defense, I am lacking oxygen due to my windpipe being crushed—okay, not crushed but definitely bruised—and also the aforementioned alcohol.
“I’ll tell you why you don’t want to do that,” Staph says.
I steel myself, expecting her to tell me that she’ll kill me or Ma or any of my aunties or Nathan. But then she says something that’s somehow even worse. “Because we’ll tell the police you killed some dude at Santa Lucia, and then you and your whole family, Nathan included, will go to prison for a long, long time.”
8
I don’t remember the walk back to the Randolph. I don’t remember walking up the beautiful staircase, nor passing by the numerous centuries-old paintings, nor making my way down the hallway to the bedrooms. I don’t remember passing by my room, not giving the door a second glance, and ending up instead outside Ma’s room. I don’t remember raising my hand and knocking, but all of a sudden she’s at the door, her hair up in rollers, blinking with confusion at me.