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“I’m sure there were other options.”
My father’s not a dumb man, and he’s right. I could have found someone else. I could have got a teenage son of another man, someone, anyone other than her. But I’m a selfish prick. I wanted her. I wanted her forced to be there with me.
“She wants to leave me.” I tell him.
He purses his lips for a minute, probably mad I changed the topic, before he becomes more sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”
“I have to let her go.” I scrub a hand down my face. “So, if she doesn’t want to stay after Doc patches her up we have to let her go, okay?”
“She might not want to leave.” He shrugs. “She seemed worried.”
Hope sparks in my chest. Was she worried for me?
“She’s probably worried about her brother, I’m paying for his rehab.” I shake off the comment.
“Maybe.” He agrees. “Or maybe she’s worried about you, hmm?”
I don’t sleep at all. They moved me to a tiny cell in the police station that was already crowded with other men. There's a shared toilet, sink, and benches. I’m wide awake, waiting, until Monday morning when they come to take me to court.
I change into a fresh suit my father brings me. It doesn’t help much. My eyes are bloodshot, I’m unshowered, and I feel like shit. Even a suit can’t hide that.
I’m led into the courtroom wearing cuffs, anything to dehumanize me further.
“Gian?” I whisper to my father once we’re seated in the courtroom.
“He’s coming.” He answers.
All at once the door of the courtroom behind us swings open and in walks my brother followed by Annie. I don’t expect to see her. Honestly, I didn’t expect to ever see her again.
She looks paler as she enters, hobbling down the aisle. Her hair is twisted back into a bun and she wears a black sheath dress with a single converse shoe on her one good foot. She looks like she’s attending our funeral, and I can’t help but think she is. Only this is the funeral of our relationship.
“All rise.” The bailiff announces and the entire courtroom obliges.
I feel tra
pped beneath a fog as I stand and the judge enters. Ricky will do all of the talking, I imagine my father spent all day yesterday prepping him.
“He’s not a friend.” Giuseppe whispers to me as the judge enters the courtroom. It’s a code meaning he’s not a friend of la famiglia.
Judge Baronni is an older Italian man with graying hair and a slight gut to him. He’s the type of Italian with no connection to the Mafia that hates other Italians for giving his ethnicity “bad name”.
These types of guys are stuck up do gooders.
Baronni sits down at the bench, a look of distaste shows on his wrinkly face when his eyes land on me. “Giovanni DelGado?”
I straighten my blazer. “Yes, sir.”
He licks the tip of his finger and flips through the file in front of him, leaving me sweating under the fluorescent lights.
“You’re being charged with a felony breaking and entering and forced robbery. How do you plead?”
“We plead not guilty.” Ricky answers him this time. For his lack of experience with criminal cases he holds his composure well.
“On to the matter of bail…” Baronni continues.
“Your honor,” The prosecutor, also known as the Assistant District Attorney interrupts. “We’re asking for bail to be denied as Mr. DelGado has several priors and is a known associate of the Providence Mafia.”
“That’s speculation,” Ricky cuts in. “You can’t prove that.”
