Zaccaro

evening. My own father used to utter those very words.
Milo would come home with a diamond tiara on his head. Not that fake cubic zirconia shit, but his black, curly head would be a bed of blinding diamonds. He'd pretend to not know he was sporting a princess crown. Then he'd hug me, jokingly using a funny tone since his resonance was too thick, Italian, manly to play dress-up with. But he'd do it all for me. Yes, he made sure his pretty little girl knew she was a princess. Then he'd teach me how to fight, and make sure I knew his blood was thick, strong and soaring in my veins. 
But that last morning I’d see my father alive, Milo had said “C'mere, doll,” all slurred and to the offbeat background of my mother cussing up a storm. Instincts told me something was amiss. Yet, this couldn’t be anything new in our dysfunctional family. Half the time mom talked crap was due to Milo the Magician and how randomly he liked to appear. Yet, this very last time I felt almost an out-of-body-experience.
I didn't care. Lolita could beat my ass later on. It honestly didn't hurt. So at the age of ten, I sat up, slipped into my fuzzy shoes and clambered out of my canopy bed.
“Dad!” I screeched in excitement. I didn’t need the diamonds, nor did I need any of the other frivolous gifts Milo brought home on the rare occasion that he did come home. All I ever needed was the love and attention he bestowed upon me.
Unable to recall the last time I saw my dad, I bounded down the hall, puffy ponytails bouncing on my shoulders. I almost slipped on the shiny marble floor. Just as I righted my footing, I could see my father waving a gun in one hand and pushing my mother’s chest with the other.
“Babe, move. Now,” he ordered. 
“Get the fuck outta here, Milo.” Lolita said, in a silk robe.
“I said move,” his voice held bite, almost enough to blow her away.
“Milo, you trying to get us all murdered!” She slapped him. The tie of her robe was hastily tied and the silk fell over one shoulder with the force of her hard blow.
The smack made me grimace. I’d seen Milo beat men into a bloody pulp for saying the wrong word, or speaking a tad too loudly. None ever touched him, none ever got the chance.
His golden skin was marred pink from the hit. Dad gave her one little shove. Her face was wet with tears as she went shuffling backward. Mom’s heels slipped– one, two, three, and she fell to the floor.
Unable to understand just what was going on, I stood rooted at the bottom step. If there was one thing I knew, even at the tender age of ten, it was that a man did not hit a woman. My mom treated dad like shit. He cherished the ground she walked on. 
“Dad…” I murmured. As I shook my head in disappointment to what he’d just done, he glanced my way.
Milo yanked me up by the waist and spun me around. My eyes brightened as I took in the scenery. The double doors were open. Across our sprawling yard was a sea of SWAT members. Their guns trained on us…
“REESE!” My mother’s horrifying shout always awakens me before dad and I hit the ground...
There’s a crick in my neck, since while I slept I’d burrowed myself into the fluffy pillows on the sofa in the fetal position. Usually thoughts of my real father force me to awaken in a cold sweat. Yesterday it felt like I was submerged in the past. Tony Zaccaro starring as my mother’s sperm donor, the one she couldn't get away from. See, my mother has been running away from the latest, greatest charmer as far as I can remember.
Though I could say, in Lolita's defense, she's getting better. My dad was the best. He was the worse. Milo was the hardest addiction to rid herself of. Like chocolate ganache, the sweetest, creamiest, high calorie. Taste so good, bad for you type of stuff. Each subsequent husband wasn't as sweet... For long. And didn't last much longer.
Fortunately for me, I didn't wake up on the wrong side of the bed. It's where I now live and breathe, metaphorically speaking. I can still hear Milo as if he were beside me, teaching me his latest scheme. How to be tough as I could for a girl who indeed was one-half Napolitano. Clearly not full-blooded but just enough for me to lift my chin as I walked. I was ten years old with a mean frown, shoulders cocked. On the other hand, the steeliness of his eyes after the sniper took him out was just a wakeup call, telling me my own father wasn’t as invincible as he made himself out to be.
My body shakes as an imaginary chill creeps up my spine. To this day, I can feel the steeliness of his arms around me, holding my chest as we fell back.
After arising from the couch, I dig around the soft accent pillows and find my cell phone. It’s barely 4:03 a.m. Though my eyelids weigh a ton, I decide that baking morning pastries with Maria will bring me back to life.
A quick shower awakens me just a tad more, I stuff my feet into black tights and a flowy blouse. In the bathroom mirror, I tussle my tangled tresses as the fog dissipates. When I am able to see myself, I grumble, snatch up a hair tie. A thirty-second messy bun and I’m presentable enough to scamper down the stairs, through the dark alley and to the kitchen door.
Pit Bull is belting out lyrics, the door is open. Maria is trying to rap in Spanish as she steps outside with a trash bag. Before I can say good morning, she jumps out of her skin.
She clutches her chest and peers through the darkness.