“Carmine, please,” he begs
“Don’t call me that, you pathetic swine.” I spit at him once more. “Do you think the death of my mother is forgivable? Then, threatening me that if I didn’t go comply to your twisted demands, you would killherinstead?”
He interrupts me, “Sienna was nothing to you.”
“Seriously? That’s all you took away from what I just said. No remorse for ending your former love’s life? Or ruining mine? No, the only thing you focus on, yet once again, is this foolish feud with the Riccis.”
“You shouldn’t speak of things you know nothing of, Carmine,” he insists.
“I told you to stop calling me that,” I order.
“Carmine is your God-given name.” he says.
“Don’t bring God into this, he isn’t going to save you from my wrath.”
I lift the spiked bat up and quickly scan the number of nails on it. “Shit,” I exclaim with a false look of concern on my face, which gives my father a brief glimmer of hope, as if I’d let him out of this.
“What, Son?” he pleads.
“Oh, nothing, it’s just that I suddenly realize I don’t have enough nails on this damn bat,” I say with increased sarcasm. I look to my father, who is finally realizing that he is responsible for this monster he sees before him.
His fat face turns a ghostly white as I retreat once more to my tool bag to add just a few more nails to my bat. He watches in stunned silence as I retrieve some long, extra sharp nails that I carefully hammer into the wood.
I continue hammering the extra nails as I address him again. “I know that you feud because you are weak, and it is in your rash bouts of weakness that you actually did yourself a grave disservice.”
“How’s that?” he whimpers.
“In your endless moments of weakness, you gave me the ammo I need to take everything from you, as you have done to me. An eye for an eye, so to speak. I can sit here and rattle off the endless grievances against you. You have stolen from me, killed parts of me, and now, just when I thought you couldn’t disappointment me more, I find out that you are talking to the cops.” I crouch so that my eyes are in line with his. “It couldn’t be that Mr. Armando Moretti, the strong and ruthless mobster, is in fact, a rat, is he?” I ask, coyly.
He tries once more to lift from his restraints, but instead, the nails cut at his flesh more, causing him to yelp in pain as his blood begins to drip right where I want it to: the tarp, so that clean-up will be easier.
He takes a deep breath, trying as hard as he can to work through the pain coursing through his pathetic body. “Son, it’s not what you think.” He doesn’t sound convincing.
“Ah, is that so? And why should I believe you?”
“I am many things, as you so obnoxiously pointed out”—he scoffs briefly before refocusing on his words—“but a rat I am not. If anything, it has been in my stepping back from the company and observing with fresh eyes, if you will, that I see the possibility of not one, but two potential rats in our midst.”
Perhaps it’s the adrenaline coursing through my veins as I stand the one in control, with a bat of death in my hand, but my father seems to almost be telling me the truth. Not that it would change the outcome of what I have planned for him today, but I’d be lying if I said my interest isn’t piqued.
Before I press him further on his so-called observations, I decide to have a little fun with the bat in hand. Satisfied with the number of nails I have in the bat, I rise and approach my father, swinging the bat once more. Except this time, it is not a practice round.
Raising the bat with a vengeful fury, I channel all the rage I have inside as I crash down on his right thigh. He lets out an inaudible screech, which sounds like music to my ears, just as drips of crimson immediately begin to spew out of his leg, dripping onto the tarp.
Before I remove the bat from his flesh, I dig it in deeper, causing him to wince.
“I’ll help you in a minute, Father,” I say with a sadistic grin. “Now, what is this about not one, but two potential rats?”
Grimacing in undeniable pain, he moves his head slightly, nodding in agreement. I press the bat in just a tad deeper, as he yelps in pain.
“Fucking Christ!” he roars.
“You are going to have to do better than that if you want this bat out of your leg.” I click my tongue sarcastically. “I’m having a hard time believing this, coming from a man who has been seen talking to the cops.”
He hangs his head, and I’m not sure if it’s in defeat or in pure exhaustion. I’m about to shake him to speak when he finally opens his trap.
“Let me guess, your fucking cousin told you that.” He tries to roll his eyes, but the swelling prevents them from giving the dramatic effect he was going for. “He doesn’t know what he is talking about.”
Pressing down once more, I dig the nails into his thigh before removing it. The sound of screaming and ripping flesh penetrate my eardrum, echoing amongst the cold concrete of the warehouse. Blood drips from the bat, as particles of torn skin adorn it. I admire the carnage before addressing his stupidity.
