The game played on. None of the men in the room phased by the dead body leaning over on Gypsy. No one cared that her face is splattered with the remnant of brain matter. In her head, she screamed for mercy, for help, but those words would never pass her lips. All she knew is women are to be seen, not heard. That was imprinted into her even when she was a child.
“Frank, we about finished here? You’ve taken the last three hands, and my wife is gonna be pissed if I’m late for dinner,” was called out from three seats to the left of her. That man was none other than a member of one of the five original families. Gypsy knew him from reputation alone. He was not to be crossed. That was a given.
Pulling his money forward, the look on Franks’s face was complete satisfaction. His lips curling to a smirk, he was satisfied with the outcome of the evening. Oddly enough, no one seemed to notice Gypsy sitting there covered in blood until the clean crew walked in.
“You want this gone?” one asked
“Clean that shit up, and make sure to take this dumb bitch to her room and get all the clothing from her. Seal that shit in the plastic bag, and have it vaulted,” Frank ordered.
Before the second cleaner could reach Gypsy, Frank had knotted his hand in the back of her blood matted hair, yanking her head back, not caring if he hurt her.
“You seen nothing here, got it? Shower, change into your clothing and go to bed for the night. In the morning a car will be here to drive you back to Los Angeles. I know you remember what happened in the room earlier,” his words spat in her face, saliva along with them. “You don’t know any of these men here, and if you decide to chirp little bird, the clothing you have on and the gun will be delivered the Clark County police station,” grunting each word into her ear, when he was done, he leaned in, kissing her hard on the lips. In mafia terms, they would call that “The kiss of death.”
“Get this bitch out of her, now,” said Frank, his attention turning back to the other men in the room the moment he released her.
In a state of shock, Gypsy was lifted from the chair, carried out of the room in a fetal position. Her eyes sealed shut, the blood drying on her face would act as almost a glue that she would have to force open. She never knew how she got into the hotel room ten minutes later, but when her clothing was pulled from her body, every part of her turned to jello and she collapsed on the floor of the elegant hotel room.
In a plastic ziplock, the male who brought her into the room place her dress, undergarments, shoes, and jewelry. She didn’t remind him the jewels were her own. He would have taken them anyway, so why speak up?
“Get up, shower, eat the food under the metal lid, and go to bed. Mr. Paloma will have your car waiting at 9 am. Do not fuck up. You’re being watched,” his words stern, he was out the door before she could reply to him. She wouldn’t have anyway.
A slam of the door jolted her back to life. For the first time in hours, she was alone and allowed to process what had just happened to her. Sitting, she looked down at her hands, all she could see was blood. Not her own, but the man who was killed. Did he have a wife? Kids? Family? Did he even deserve to die?” all of this ran through her head as she rocked back and forth, tears rushing down her face. Never had she watched someone die so brutally, such an act of violence shocked her to the point of hysteria.
Crawling, the carpet burning her knees with the fibers, the drops of tears and blood made a perfect pathway to the bathroom. The trail was reminiscent of Hansel and Gretel. As she reached for the knob to turn on the tub, it was then that she saw it. A fragment of skin on her hand. Screaming, her other hand brushing it off, Gypsy had to use her hand to silence herself. Screaming into her palm, the pain was worse than any she had ever felt. Remorse, anger, and last of all, fear. She’s scared of what would happen to her if they all decided to come back. What if she wasn’t trusted and the men called for her demise? It was then that she knew she would need to prove to them that she could be trusted. She would have to go on without the memory of the killing.
Lifting herself into the scalding hot water, her ivory flesh a bright shade of red, she snapped her fingers repeatedly in front of her face.
“As though it never happened,” she repeated until her body sunk into the bubbly water. Fragments of blood and flesh rising to the surface, her eyes remained closed until she needed that life-giving breath of air. Everyone processes shock differently. She would find selective amnesia her haven tonight.
Pt-4 Dinner at Capo’s