Charlie Stella - Charlie Opera

“It’s going to be hot again tomorrow. One-twenty.”

“We’ll stay inside.”

Samantha petted the dog. “Carol is in California. I hope she’s okay.”

“I’m sure she is. Iandolli, one of the detectives, claims Beau won’t be a problem anymore.”

“Huh?” Samantha said.

“It’s nothing to bank on,” Charlie said. “But I’m sure Carol is safe now anyway. The guy can’t show his face anywhere after what he did.”

Samantha peeled some of the gauze back to air her wound. “Do you really think it’s over now?” she asked. “For you, I mean. For both of us?”

“Not according to Iandolli,” Charlie said. “You decapitated that particular gang, my dear. They’re officially headless. The one I nailed had outstanding warrants besides the new charges.”

Samantha frowned. “I wish I could believe it’s that easy.”

Charlie kissed her. “Maybe this time it is.”

They sat quietly for a while. When the music stopped, Charlie stood up to stretch. Samantha used the empty chair to rest her leg again.

“We’re missing something,” Charlie said.

“What’s that?”

“A nice, light aria.”

Samantha made a face.

“Trust me,” he said, “it’s better than Aerosmith.”

Charlie was at the stereo searching for a CD from the collection he had brought to Las Vegas. He held one up. “‘Una furtiva làgrima,’” he said. “Down her soft cheek, a furtive tear.”

He set the disc in the CD player and pressed PLAY. He adjusted the volume as the first few strings of a harp were plucked. He sat on the couch alongside Samantha and kissed her cheek.

“What happens now?” she whispered in his ear.

Charlie pointed to the dog. “We need a bigger place,” he said.

“He can sleep with me,” Samantha said.

“What about me?”

“We’ll see.”

“You still holding a grudge?”

“I should.”

“I was -”

“Shhh,” she said. “I think I love you.”

Charlie could feel the dog moving on her lap. “You talking to me or the dog?”

Samantha reached for him. Charlie picked the dog up from her lap and set it on the couch. “There,” he said. “My turn.”

Donna Bella was anchored in the shade of the Marine Park Bridge. Anthony Cuccia argued into a cell phone with an associate about a truck seized in a Jersey City warehouse.

“Hey, that’s my nephew’s guy, break his balls,” Cuccia said. “It’s almost a week now I haven’t heard from that one.”

He downed half a glass of white wine as he dropped into a chair. He watched a woman racing on Jet Skis make a third pass by the boat. The woman removed her bikini top this time. She held it in one hand as she passed alongside Donna Bella .

“I don’t care there was DEA there,” Cuccia said into the cell phone. “That’s got nothing to do with me, my friend. I’m on this boat all week. Now you tell me this, I’m not getting off.”

The jet skier had turned around and was on her way back. She slowed alongside Donna Bella, and Cuccia stood up to get a better look at her breasts.

“Can I use bathroom?” she asked with a Russian accent.

Cuccia heard the accent and immediately hesitated. He noticed that a wallet belt was tied to a steering handle and that the woman was wearing sandals. He glanced at her bare breasts and shook his head.

“Can I use?” the woman asked. “Please.”

“I’ll call you back,” Cuccia said into the cell phone. He turned it off and waved at the woman to come aboard.

The woman smiled as her top fell from her neck. She grabbed it off her leg and held it up for Cuccia.

“Nice,” he said and dropped a rope ladder over the back of the boat.

The woman brought her Jet Ski up against the back of Donna Bella as Cuccia leaned over the transom. She revved the Jet Ski engine hard as it touched the back of the boat, and Cuccia lost his balance. He grabbed at the transom to keep from falling.

“What the hell…” he said just before a bullet tore through his neck.

He fell backward onto the floor of the boat and clutched his throat. As he rolled on the deck, he saw the woman level the gun against the top of the transom. He tried to roll away as the next bullet entered his stomach. He coughed up blood before the next bullet pierced his heart.