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Fuck.
The light fixtures that would be installed in one of our hotels were modern in style. Each one resembled a pinwheel of sticks and orbs, and although sticks were simply sticks, orbs could hold a variety of items. Say, a lightbulb.
Or a carefully wrapped bag of heroin.
But the fact that they immediately singled out one of them over the rest—now that was a problem. No matter what that fool said, we’d taken specific precautions so that the weight difference between those with and without heroin would be negligible. Unless it was packaged incorrectly in Colombia, that man shouldn’t be able to tell just from feeling them. A drug-sniffing dog could pick it out if they were all lined up but?—
Wait, they didn’t even bring dogs.
This amount of intel, and they didn’t know it was a drug bust? Or did they know and were so confident that they didn't need the dogs to do the job?
Nothing about this made sense, but lo and behold,when they unscrewed the first orb,heroin fellout.
“Looks like heroin, sir!” One of the officers said while picking up a baggie without any gloves on.
Although I suppose they didn't need to swab for prints as they had already caught us red-handed. “Five baggies, looking like an ounce each. There’s likely more hidden throughout the shipment.”
My mind was already whirling, giving up making sense of the last minute and a half in favor of figuring out what would happen next, and I could see my dad going through potential scenarios as well.
One thing was for sure—we were actually, genuinely in deep shit.
“In that case, we’re going to have to take you in,” the lieutenant told my father, looking smug. “Put your hands behind your head and keep them there—and the rest of you, do not move, my men will react. I can’t take you in for a shipment your names aren’t on, but one wrong move or mouthy word will get you hauled down to the station with your boss. Understood?”
Shit. Shit shit shit?—
“Do you have any weapons on your person?” the lieutenant asked, one officer briskly frisking my dad down. I burned with rage. That was my dad. My dad.
“Yes, sir, a Jericho 941, legally owned and registered. It’s holstered at my right hip.” Said handgun was swiftly pulled from its holster.
“Loaded,” an officer reported.
“An unloaded gun isn’t much help in a fight,” dad smiled. “Don’t worry—you will see that the safety is engaged.” The officer looked and frowned.
“Safety is on,” she confirmed. That didn’t stop the lieutenant from wrenching my dad’s hands down from behind his head with far more force than necessary.
“Hey!” I shouted. Dad shot me a warning look. “He’s not resisting, you don’t need to be so rough!”
“You wanna come with?” the lieutenant asked threateningly. The handcuffs slapped loudly onto dad’s wrists.
“I’m just asking you to be a little gentler with an aging civilian, officer,” I said. At that my dad finally let some emotion through his calm façade—and that emotion was fond exasperation.
“Aging, Rich? Really?”
“Aging well,” I amended, rolling my eyes. Dad scoffed.
It was strange, but something about that familiar banter felt like a lifeline, and I latched onto it with surprising desperation. I guess no kid liked seeing their dad dragged off in handcuffs, even if said kid wasn’t a kid anymore. I’d always known it was a possibility, but seeing it…
I felt unmoored. Lost and young.
I did my best to pull myself together. We were going to get my father out, but in the meanwhile, I was his underboss—in his absence, the whole family would be looking to me for guidance. I wasn’t about to let them down.
Keep a cool head, my dad had said to me once. If there’s one virtue I wish I’d had more of as a young Don, it would be patience.
Well, it was time for me to put that into practice. I’d have to be patient now so that when I got Dad out later, I wouldn’t leave a single loophole for them to pull him back with.
He was a strong man—he’d be able to hold his own for a few days. I hoped.
I was just going to have to trust him to keep himself alive.
