46. ANTONIO
ANTONIO
I stood in front of Vincent’s door, my stomach knotted so tight it felt like I might be sick. The cool morning air did nothing to stop the sweat gathering at the nape of my neck, and my pulse hammered against my ribs. I wasn’t one to usually cry, but my eyes burned anyway.
I’d spent days talking myself up to this moment. Telling myself I could do it. That I would do it. I was going to tell Vincent I was done—I couldn’t do this anymore. But saying it in my head was one thing. Saying it to his face was something else entirely.
Before I could knock, the door swung open. Vincent stood there. “You gonna stand there all day, or are you coming inside?” he snapped.
I flinched, my breath catching in my throat. This was it. No turning back now. Forcing my legs to move, I stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind me, the sound making me cringe.
“Sit down,” Vincent ordered. I obeyed, sinking onto the couch, my fingers digging into my knees as I tried to keep still. He stared me down, waiting, probably enjoying how I squirmed under his gaze. “Well?”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t have anything to report, sir.”
“Nothing to report?” His voice rose in a thunderous roar. “You practically live with the man, and you got nothing?”
My palms slicked with sweat, my mind scrambling for something—anything—that would get me out of this. “He doesn’t do anything,” I stammered. “I would tell you if I had something, but all he does is drive around town and smoke cigarettes with Paul and Marco.”
Vincent’s jaw tensed. “Do you understand what’s at stake here?”
My throat tightened. My mouth went dry. I nodded. My life was at stake.
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t think you do.”
He stood slowly, and I shrank back into the couch. My body went rigid as he loomed over me, his presence suffocating. And then he pulled out the revolver. The barrel leveled straight at my face. My hands shot up instinctively, trembling in the air. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the blow I’d never live to feel.
“At what point were you going to mention that Joey works with the feds?” he shouted.
“I—I don’t know anything about that! I swear!” I choked out. My hands shook as I held them up, desperation seeping into every word. “I’d tell you if I did!”
“You don’t walk until I say so,” he growled. “Matter of fact, when I say jump, you don’t ask how high. You just fucking jump. Or the next time you come here empty-handed, you won’t leave.”
My chest rose and fell in sharp, panicked breaths. Slowly, I cracked one eye open, watching as he lowered the gun.
“Understand?” he asked.
I managed a shaky nod, still unable to find my voice .
“Good.” He jerked his chin toward the door. “Get the hell out of here.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I pushed myself up so fast I nearly tripped, stumbling over my own feet as I bolted for the door. I barely got it open before I was outside, leaping onto my bike. My legs burned as I pedaled, my heart slamming against my ribs.
At this rate, if I didn’t end up a big-time baseball player—or get myself killed by Vincent before I turned fourteen—I’d be a damn professional cyclist with all the pedaling I’d been doing.