Prologue #2
Uncle Tony once said he had this guy “in his pocket.” I didn’t realize Tony’s pockets could hold an entire human being, but hey, who am I to question the physics of the Cosa Nostra?
Piss Teeth shuffled in behind him, lighting another cigarette. "Kid won’t talk. Won’t give up Tony’s shipments." He shrugged. Apparently, torturing a thirteen-year-old was just another Tuesday.
Suit Guy snorted, eyes scanning me. "Why the hell would he? He knows nothing." He stepped closer, circling me before grabbing my chin, tilting my face up to his.
"How dumb are you fuckers?" His accent was thick—not Sicilian, not Russian. Boston, maybe. I could see him worming out of the hell of Southie.
A beat of silence.
Green like your puke after eating way too much Halloween candy.
"No, you idiots. This isn’t Tony’s kid. This is Ricardo's. And if you think Tony’s a psychopath, wait ‘til Ricardo finds out you snatched his son instead of Marco.
" He let go of my chin and turned toward the two morons by the door.
"You grabbed the wrong Bennetti, you dumb fucks, and I’m not gonna be the one to explain it. "
"So... what do we do?" New Guy asked, while Piss Teeth eyed me.
Suit sighed, slow and tired, reaching into the back of his waistband.
In one smooth move, he drew his gun and put a bullet in each of them.
Piss Teeth groaned, a wet gurgle, but Suit just stood over him and fired two more rounds before holstering his gun and yelling into the hallway.
Guess stupidity only takes you so far in life.
Red like my boxing gloves. Red like the color of tomatoes. Red like a cherry slushie that I’m craving right now. Only I'll never want to eat or see red again after this.
Two more guys appeared, eyes flicking from the bodies to Suit to me.
Suit stepped over the corpses, careful not to scuff his shiny shoes.
"Get rid of the boy. Do not kill him. Do not put another scratch on him.
Drop him somewhere he will be found, but not the hospital.
" He glared at them, his tone sharp. "Do.
You. Understand. Me?" They did their best bobblehead impression while nodding.
“If you add one more scratch, even a little, I will personally gut you and wear your intestines as a belt.”
Then he turns to me, his pale skin and green eyes glowing under the dim light. Irish, maybe. The type that burns instead of tans. “Tell your Papa it was a misunderstanding. Tell your uncle…” He smirks. “My apologies.”
Yeah, somehow I don’t think they’ll accept his oopsie.
I meet his gaze, my voice hoarse but steady. “You’re dead.”
He laughs.
Then he walks out as if executing three people in a basement were just another item on his to-do list.
A few hours later, I was back in the van, the stench of wet dog and stale beer making me gag.
My stomach was empty, and my ribs screamed with every pothole we hit.
They finally tossed me out into a filthy alley, the cold asphalt biting into my skin.
Rain pelted down, each drop stinging against my bruised and broken body.
"No hard feelings, kid," one of them said before hopping into the passenger seat and slamming the door. The van rumbled off, leaving me in the trash and darkness.
I lay there, sprawled in the filth of a forgotten alley as rain hammers down in cold, relentless sheets.
Every shallow breath sends a bolt of pain through my ribs, each inhale sharp and jagged, swallowing glass with every gasp.
Blood, warm and sticky, spreads beneath me, merging with the downpour until there's no telling where I stop and the concrete starts.
The world blurs—lights flickering in the distance, the hum of traffic far off, the occasional slam of a car door—but none of it feels real. None of it belongs to me. I don’t belong to me.
The idiot who thought he could take Marco’s place? He’s gone.
The boy they dragged into that basement? He’s dead.
Something darker took his place. Something hollow. Something that understands what pain really is now.
They beat me. Cut me. Burned me. Left me to rot in the gutter like garbage, but that wasn’t what broke me. It wasn’t the pain or the blood or the suffocating knowledge that, for a while, I was sure I wasn’t getting out of there alive. It was this—this. The silence.
No one’s coming.
No one knows where I am.
No one will find me unless I crawl out of here myself.
A laugh tears out of me, raw and broken, swallowed instantly by the storm. The only person who can save me is me, and that realization burns hotter than any cigarette pressed to my skin.
I press my forehead against the cold, wet pavement, my mind looping the same thought over and over again.
Words are useless.
Words get you hurt.
Words betray you.
The people who speak the most? They’re the easiest to break. The easiest to manipulate.
I should’ve never spoken up for Marco. I should’ve never taken his place. I should’ve stayed silent.
And I will.
From now on, words belong to the weak. They belong to people who believe in second chances, in rescue, in salvation.
But I know the truth.
No one is coming.
No one saves you.
You either survive, or you don’t.