Chapter 34
DIANGELO
Past
Miracles do happen. After resetting the breakers to the abandoned factory, I was able to get power flowing. And on top of that, I was able to power up the industrial meat grinder to dispose of the dead kidnapper.
God hasn’t completely abandoned me.
Though he might after all of this.
I start five small fires strategically placed throughout the building, using whatever flammable objects I can find, and douse them with oil meant to lubricate the machinery. I watch the fires build from inside, at first. When the smoke is too intense, I head outside, but I don’t leave.
I think it’s the guilt that keeps me there.
Not my guilt about the fires or the murder.
It’s guilt over the loss of my brother that roots me to the spot.
I sit cross-legged in the middle of the parking lot with his necklace in my fist while angry flames lick the outside of the building.
That’s where the authorities find me when the wailing fire trucks arrive.
Watching.
Waiting.
I go with them peacefully. I don’t admit my guilt, but I don’t deny it either.
The hardest part is seeing my parents at the police station.
They demand to stay at my side at all times.
They’re sitting next to me when I admit on the record that I burned down the old factory.
I never mention the man I killed, and they never ask.
Dad tries to explain about Elio’s kidnapping.
Mom sees the grief in my eyes and recognizes that Elio’s never coming home.
It’s her heart-wrenching cry that I’ll never forget.
It’ll haunt me until the day I die.
I almost wish my parents would forsake me, but they never do. They fight for me. They love me. But they don’t understand that I’m not me anymore.
It’s an unexpected relief when I finally sign the paperwork agreeing to a no-contest plea deal for two years in prison for arson.
Despite being a minor, the crime was severe enough, and my age old enough, that I’m considered an adult with adult consequences.
I’m glad. I don’t want any part of my old world. It’ll only remind me of what I’ve lost.
To that end, I begin a frigid December day walking into my new home at Queensboro Correctional Facility.
“Y’er big, but y’er nothin’ but a baby, ain’tcha?” A middle-aged man with a scraggly red beard and a heavy Southern accent sits down at the table across from me. My first dinner in my new home.
I continue to eat the so-called food on my tray.
The chatter in the room around us softens, and I know this isn’t a friendly chat.
I expected something like this to happen upon my arrival.
I’ve seen prison shows and heard rumors about what it’s like.
While this is a minimum-security state facility rather than a federal penitentiary, it’s still a prison.
This man is testing me to see where I fit in the hierarchy.
His test should terrify me.
If I’m honest, there’s a sliver of fear somewhere down deep, but it’s been buried by a mountain of grief and self-loathing so heavy, it has no hope of surfacing. This guy wants to taunt me? Make me fear for my life? I have news for him.
My life’s already forfeit. Killing me would be a mercy.
He swipes his finger through what I think is supposed to be mashed potatoes and sucks his finger in and out of his mouth with a pop.
“Don’t suppose you’d mind sharin’? We could be friends, you and me.
It’s good to have friends in a place like this.
” He sounds country in a way that his mama might have also been his sister.
Not ideal friend material.
“Hey!” He flicks my tray, irritated at my lack of reaction to him. “I’m talkin’ to you.”
When his hand comes toward my tray again, I quickly shift my fork to a fist hold and stab it into the back of his hand with lightning speed.
Before he can react, I stand and yank my tray up, sending food flying everywhere, then use both hands to slam the lightweight metal across his head.
It’s too flimsy to cause real damage, but it sends the proper message.
Don’t. Fuck. With. Me.
The entire mess hall erupts into chaos. Some people take trays and scurry to the far walls.
Some abandon their food to get a closer look at the scene, and a guard over the intercom issues a warning.
The man across from me stumbles backward off the bench seat, his hand held tight to his chest, and a savage snarl on his face.
“You fuckin’ cunt. You’ll pay for that,” he spits at me.
I glare back at him unmoving, keeping my senses open to detect movement at my back. I don’t expect a bully like him to admit defeat easily. As if on cue, two men sidle up to the redneck across from me so that all three can attack on a unified front.
My hands ball into fists.
The chatter all around us swells then swiftly recedes, allowing a single cackling laughter to rise to the surface.
Before long, the entire room is silent, save for an old white-haired man sitting in a corner.
If I’d thought the redhead’s beard was scraggly, I’d been mistaken.
Not compared to the leathery-faced geezer who is now the central focus of every pair of eyes in the room.
What the hell is going on here, and why are they all staring at him?
I watch warily as inmates scatter to get out of the way when the old man stands and crosses the room toward me. Once he reaches me, he pauses, his eyes sweeping the room.
“Eat your fucking food. Show’s over.” His grizzled voice lilts with a heavy Eastern European accent.
“You, too, Miller,” he adds with an edge of disgusted irritation.
When he looks back at me, he flashes a wide grin of crooked, yellowing teeth and claps a hand on my back.
“Sit, my new friend. My name is Grisha, and that was the most I’ve laughed in months. ”
The room slowly returns to normal around us.
While he seems agreeable, I’m not about to assume anything. My shields are all still on high alert.
Grisha chuckles. “Good, good. You’re no fool. It’s good to be wary in life. Tell me, what is your name?”
“DiAngelo.”
He nods, bushy white brows drawn in concentration. “A strong name—Italian?”
“Yes, sir.” My upbringing sneaks in before I can catch myself and leave off the sir. It’s a show of respect and, in a way, submission, which is something I’m not sure I’m ready to concede, but what’s done is done.
The old man’s response surprises me. He seems to sober thoughtfully before giving me a single nod. “Yes, you interest me a good deal, DiAngelo. I think you and I could learn much from one another.”
He unleashes an ear-piercing whistle from his lips without using his hands and nods after making eye contact with a man across the room. The next thing I know, a new tray of food is placed before me, and Grisha’s tray is brought to him.
I have no clue if this guy’s interest in me is good or bad, but one thing is certain: he’s royalty among these men.
“Eat.” He nudges me. “It tastes like shit, but it’s better than being hungry. We eat, and you tell me how it is you ended up joining us here, yeah?” He lifts his fork and takes a bite, signaling my turn.
With nothing better to do, I oblige him and quietly recap my life’s rapid descent into hell.
Elio and I were ten when our parents took us to Atlantic City.
They weren’t the gambling sort, but they took us to check out one of the big casinos while we were in town.
I remember being stunned by the flashing lights and constant barrage of sounds.
I also remember being so damn confused. It was impossible to tell your way around in that place, and with no windows, time seemed to disappear.
We went in midafternoon, yet it was dark when we left.
I remember thinking, How on earth has so much time passed so quickly?
Prison is the same way.
Two years fly by faster than I imagined possible.
“In six months, when I’m out, we will drink to freedom.” Grisha grins.
“So long as you don’t fuck it up and do something stupid to prolong your sentence.
” It’s a joke. The man works the system better than the warden himself.
He’ll be out in six months, and I’ll absolutely drink with him to our freedom.
He’s the only reason I’ve survived the past twenty-four months, after all.
I’ve learned some hard lessons from him, but I’ve also learned to let go.
I’ll never fully forgive myself for my carelessness that caused me to lose my brother.
Those actions, no matter how innocent, are unforgivable.
But they are also tools that can be used to refine my purpose in life.
My mistakes have molded me, and I’m ready to carve out a place for myself in the world.
“Go on.” Grisha motions with his head. “Get out of here. Your pretty face is making me sick.”
I chuckle and make my way to processing. It’s time to go home, wherever that is. I’ll stay with my parents at first, but only because I have no other option. I’m dreading that house more than I ever dreaded going to prison.
They were generous with their visits, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell them to stay away, but seeing their faces guts me every single time.
I don’t know how I’ll handle being with them day in and day out.
And on top of that, Elio’s absence will be that much more prominent when I’m sleeping in my childhood bedroom, hearing the phantom calls of a voice that sounds the same as my own.
As expected, they’re both waiting for me when I step outside with my plastic sack of belongings. They grin from ear to ear and envelop me in a crushing group hug. It’s not as uncomfortable as I expected, but that niggling voice won’t allow me to fully enjoy the moment, either.
They probably hate you for what you’ve done. They may not say it, but you know it’s there.
I take a deep breath and force a smile. “Thanks for coming.”
“We’ve been counting down the days.” Mom beams up at me. “And my goodness, you’ve grown, and not just in height. You must lift weights every day.” She’s seen me plenty of times and knows exactly how big I am, but I agree, seeing them beyond the confines of that building feels different.
“Not much else to do in there.” I smirk, trying to keep things light.
“Now, the world is your oyster. Let’s get you home.” Dad claps his hand on my back and leads us toward the car. His sentiment is right, though I doubt he interprets it the same way I do. I have plans for myself. They’re just not the plans he’d likely have wanted for me.
I don’t worry about that now.
Today is about enjoying my family as best as I can and giving them the solace my return allows. Tomorrow, I track down Cosimo Costa and express my desire to pledge myself to the Moretti Family.
I’ve had plenty of time to consider my options.
The straight and narrow doesn’t suit me any longer.
I’ve seen behind the curtain and know the facade of civility in our world is meaningless.
We’re governed by the law of the jungle just as much now as we were thousands of years ago—eat or be eaten—and I was made to devour.