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Instead of the salty air outside, my nose twitched at the foul stench of cigars that forced me to choke the bile back down. My body rocked back and forth as the car pushed forward. The uncomfortable silence which followed for the next ten minutes scared me to death.
They were going to kill me.
I would never see my blue-eyed boy again.
After what seemed like an hour, the car came to a stop. Strong hands gripped my wrists, and I was thrown into something hard.
“She’s moving too much. Hand it over,” the man next to me said to the driver.
He released my left wrist long enough to grab something from the man. Then, he jammed a needle into my neck. I’d been here before, and I was getting sick of it. My eyes grew heavy from the drugs rushing through my bloodstream before sleep washed over me.
Chapter Five
Angelo
I sat in the chair in the corner of the living room of the house I shared with Sonny, with my gun on my lap and a beer in my hand. Sonny would sit in this chair for hours. Most of the time he was watching the kind of porn only twisted fucks like Pete and him could appreciate. He had interests that were nothing compared to the kink I did with Gia. That sick fucker was still my best friend. I couldn’t shake him, same as how I couldn’t get Gia out of my system.
My mind raced at the thought of Sonny kidnapping my girl, trying out that nasty shit with her. Nothing made sense anymore.
Why would he go against the family?
Why would he steal my fiancé?
Sonny had been in love with Gia for as long as I could remember. But I never thought he’d stoop so low to have her.
I took a sip of my beer, pushed the curtain back, and peeked out the front window. Gia was taken almost a week ago, and I had no idea where to begin. Sonny seemed the most likely source. I checked all of his usual hiding places. He hadn’t packed a single gun or taken a cent, all of it still tucked safely away.
He wouldn’t have made it far without money.
Samuel Bonfiglio was the first friend I’d ever had. I was the one who gave him the nickname Sonny. He always stayed the course, did what he was told, and watched my back. The first time I met Sonny we were maybe four or five years old. We were young, the memory so faint in my mind. But the day we’d met wasn’t important. My first good memory was of the time I found him behind the bakery. The day I knew Sonny would be my friend for life.
After being awake for close to sixty hours, my eyelids grew heavy. I tried to fight the exhaustion that rocked through my body, hitting me all at once. Sleep was imminent. But Gia needed me. I pried my eyes open with my fingers, doing my best to stay awake.
Nothing worked. My tired body won, as I dozen off in the chair.
Ma pulled me through the front door when I got home from school and took the backpack from my shoulder. She dropped it on the floor and held me at arm’s length. “How was school, cucciolo?”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
She pinched my cheek and smiled. “Such a good boy, my Angelo. Can you do your mother a favor?”
I nodded.
She shoved her hand into her pocket and gave me a ten dollar bill. “I didn’t have time to make Pietro the cannoli he wanted for dessert. Run to the bakery for me.”
Ma never called my older brother Pete. She said it wasn’t the name she’d given him, even though Pete was the English translation. I couldn’t stand my brother, even from an early age. He was always selfish and rude, never the older brother I could look up to.
I stuffed the money in my pocket, promising to return within the next twenty minutes, and strolled out the door. On my way to the bakery, I heard a loud crack, followed by a few grunts. I stopped at the corner, looked down the long alleyway, and spotted Samuel Bonfiglio kicking a boy on the ground.
I couldn’t avoid trouble. There was something broken and fucked-up inside me that was drawn to violence. Maybe it was in my blood. Maybe I just liked it.
I cupped my hand around my mouth and walked toward him. “What did he do to you?”
Sonny peeked up at me, a mess of dark hair in his eyes. He looked like a demon, possessed by the hunger that had overtaken him. “He took something that didn’t belong to him.”
I stood at his side, staring down at the blond haired boy on the ground. Upon better inspection, I realized it was Connor O’Shea, the youngest son of the man who ran the Irish Mob. He was five years older than us but much smaller back then. “What did he steal?”
“My PlayStation,” he said.
