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“This is how shit gets done,” Mustache says. “You’ve been poking around a lot lately and that’s not smart.”
“I’m investigating.”
“We do the investigating. And don’t tell me you’re working for that fucking lawyer girl. She’s not stupid enough to employ someone like you, not officially at least, so there’s no trail linking you back. Once you’re gone, you’re just gone. Poof, just like that. Nobody’s going to come looking. You think anyone’s going to give a fuck about a guy like you? A worthless fucking criminal?”
“Sara cares. You must’ve realized that by now. She’ll search for me, and she’ll find me, and then she’ll find you. That girl’s like a fucking cannonball blasting everything out of her way. You really think Carmine Scavo’s going to hire someone incompetent? She’s young, but she’s good. You’re fucked.”
“Maybe,” Mustache concedes with a shrug. “But lucky for you, that’s not what’s happening here.”
Before I can speak, Vance’s partner kicks me hard in the back of the knee. I grunt, crumple down, and he hits me again, this time in the side of the skull. I topple and slam into the ground hard, try to roll away, manage to avoid a sharp kick to the ribs. I scramble to my feet, swing wildly, and catch Vance’s partner in the guts with a lucky glancing blow, but Mustache is there before I can follow up. I want to kill them, I want to murder them with my bare hands, but my ears are ringing and my legs are on fire—
The butt of a gun hits me right above the eye. Skin breaks and blood oozes down from the wound. I’m dizzy, losing strength now. I try to fight back, but I’m blinded and in excruciating pain and outnumbered, and it doesn’t take long for them to get me back on the ground, their boots pummeling my side, my back, my head, over and over again. Pain flares, hot and fresh and horrible, and I feel something crack in my chest. Each breath is a struggle, and this is how I die, on a random road beside some empty fucking fields, getting my shit kicked in by two dirty cops.
But as I’m ready for the end to come, they stop. The night goes quiet. There’s only the sound of my ragged breathing. Mustache looms over me and he’s a shadow in the headlights, haloed by distant stars.
“Stop looking,” he says and wipes sweat from his face. “You hear me, Angelo? Stop looking. You won’t like what you find.”
“Nicolas didn’t kill them,” I croak at him.
“We know that, you stupid prick,” Vance’s partner says. “But someone’s going down and it might as well be your lowlife friend. Stop trying to save him. Someone’s gotta pay.”
Mustache bends over, hands on his knees, and stares into my face. “Tell you what. If you’re smart and you back off, we’ll go easy on the kid. Maybe he doesn’t get death row. Maybe he only gets life. How’s that sound?”
“Fuck you,” I say and show him my teeth. “You’re going to have to kill me.”
“We can do that,” Mustache says, head tilted. “This is your last chance.”
“Stop looking,” Vance’s partner says again.
“Good luck getting home.” Mustache walks off with Vance’s partner in tow. They get into my rental and pull out into the darkness, barely missing me as they drive past, spraying my face with dirt. I spit blood and grit onto the cold grass.
I’m left alone. But fuck, at least I’m alive.
I wipe the blood way with my shirt. I have at least one broken rib, maybe more, and the cut over my forehead is going to be a bitch to stitch up. Breathing isn’t easy, but I’m not dead at least.
I slowly get to a sitting position and lean back on my hands, staring up at the beautiful sky.
There are so many fucking stars without any light pollution around.
I grin and start laughing.
Fucking dirty cops had me going for a second there.
I pull my phone from my pocket. My fingers feel heavy and numb, but I manage to dial Sara’s number. It rings and rings and no answer. I call again, and again, and I curse her parents straight to hell but finally she picks up.
“Angelo?” she says. “What do you need?”
“A ride would be good,” I say with a sigh and squeeze my eyes shut. “Maybe a doctor too. I know who’s trying to cover up what happened to Nicolas.”
Chapter 18
Sara
Angelo sits in bed looking like he got hit by a bus.
Which isn’t too far from the truth.
His eyes are both bruised and black. The cut above his eye isn’t terrible, but it takes a while to stop bleeding. He’s hunched over and cradling his side, and I’m pretty sure he needs to see a freaking doctor to make sure there’s nothing ruined internally. I fret over him, cleaning the little cuts and scrapes, desperate to do something to help.
