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I looked down at Connor. “Anyone ever tell you to keep your hands off other people’s shit?”
Connor spat blood at me, the loogie landing on my brand new basketball sneakers. “Fuck you, Morelli.”
That was all it took for the rage that was always there to bubble up in my chest. I looked at Sonny and shook my head. “Can you believe this kid?”
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An evil smirk tugged at the corner of Sonny’s mouth. Then, he refocused his gaze on Connor, his leg already mid-air, raised to kick Connor in the face. “Think you can steal from me, O’Shea? Think again, motherfucker.”
Following Sonny’s lead, my foot collided with Connor’s stomach, drawing a loud groan from him. He covered his face with one hand and his balls with the other. We kept kicking until he was gasping for air and our energy was spent. Connor rolled on his side and sobbed with his hand over his face.
Out of breath, Sonny bent over and laughed. He howled with each cry that escaped Connor’s chest. “If you ever touch my shit again, I will put a bullet between your eyes, O’Shea.”
We were thirteen years old and already polluted by our father’s lifestyles. Sonny’s dad was in and out of prison. He was a loyal soldier, one of the men who took the fall for a big job that had gone wrong. My father kept his hands clean. He always had a fall guy in place.
“Where’s your PlayStation?” I asked him.
Sonny looked at me confused. “What do you mean?”
“Isn’t that why we just beat the shit out of O’Shea?”
Sonny laughed. “Nah, I got that back last week.” He stared down at Connor and growled, “O’Shea needed another reminder not to fuck with me.”
“I like your style,” I admitted. “You could work for us someday.”
He knew that meant my father’s organization. His wicked smirk told me he understood.
We left Connor in the alley to lick his wounds and nurture his bruised ego. Sonny walked with me to the bakery and held the door open for me.
“Thanks for helping me out,” he said.
I shrugged. “Nothing to it, Sammy.”
Everyone in the neighborhood called him Sammy back then, but it was meant as more of a dig.
His face scrunched in disgust. “I hate that name. Don’t call me that.”
“It sounds like a girl’s name,” I told him. “You need a new one. How about a nickname?”
Sonny contemplated my idea. “Yeah, okay. How about something cool like Viper?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Did you just use the word cool and Viper in the same sentence? Fuck no. No friend of mine is going to be named Viper.”
He laughed. “We’re friends now?”
We were always cool, hung out together at family functions and school, but we were never as close until that day.
“Yeah, why not?” I stepped up to the counter, ordered cannoli from the baker, and angled my body to finish talking to Sonny. “You don’t annoy me.”
Sonny patted me on the shoulder. “You’re okay, Morelli.”
I shrugged him off and took a step back. “What should we call you? It needs to fit. How about your last name?”
“Bonfiglio?” He rolled his eyes at me. “You try saying that three times fast.”
“Good point. What does your last name mean?”
“Good son,” he told me.
