Ride (Bayonet Scars) (3 page)

"Get out of the way, girl!" Junior yells, his gun trained on my forehead. I shake my head from side to side and clutch to Tony even tighter. He’s paling, his body growing cold. "Or do you want me to shoot you, too?" Tears stream down my face as the fear finally kicks in. I take several shaky breaths to calm myself down, trying to remember the lessons my father taught me. A guy knows whether or not he's going to shoot you before he even gives you warning, my father says.

"You would shoot the principessa, to what, make a point?" Leo asked. Junior's eyes are wide with a new fear. He didn't recognize me—that was his first mistake. From behind me a gun fires, so loud it makes my ears ring. The shot hits Junior right between the eyes. His body crumples to the ground. I’m not sure what he’s lost his life for—shooting Tony, or for pointing a gun at me.

Shots ring out in all directions. I hold tight to Tony, whose body has gone completely limp, and feel the protective arms of my brother wrap around me, shielding me from the gunfire. It’s only a matter of seconds
, but it feels like an hour has passed. The women scream and run away as quickly as they can. Their men mostly stay behind, draw their own guns, and fire. I squeeze my eyes shut and sob into Tony's neck. This is too much, all of it. I don't want to be a part of the Mancuso family anymore, let alone
this
family. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be seeing this. But I am, and it’s one of those things you never forget.

Michael screams in my ear,
and warm liquid trails down my shoulder. I try to turn to identify what it is, but I’m unable to. He grunts and holds me tighter. The sobs come harder, more violently, when realization strikes—Michael’s been shot. My throat burns from the exhaustion. I’m screaming, crying, putting on a display of emotions that might almost match how I feel inside.

I can’t live like this
. It’s too much—the guns, the screams, the blood. It’s not the first time I've seen a gunshot wound. But it is the first time I've had a gun pointed at me. No matter how hard I try, I can’t force the sobs to stop; they keep coming, assaulting my body in uncontrollable tremors of panic.

Michael pulls away
, and a sharp gust of humid air hits my back. It’s not quite chilly, but not quite warm, either. I open my eyes, seeing the crowd has parted, people running in all directions. It’s now that I hear the sirens and see the flashing lights. Panicked, I look around for Michael, finding him rushing to grab a discarded gold gun from the pavement. I cry out at the sight—Leo is lying on the pavement on his side, a bullet wound in his abdomen—and bury my face in Tony's neck as I rock myself back and forth, holding Tony to me tightly.

"Listen to me, Alex," Michael says
, crouching down in front of me. I nod to signal that I’m listening. I just can't stop the rocking. Stopping means sitting in stillness, and stillness means death. Tony can't be dead. Leo can't be dead, either. And Michael can't be shot.

But they are, or likely are, I don't really know.

"The cops are on their way. Take care of this, okay? And do not talk to anybody. Not anybody, you hear me? I'm heading to Fortino's," Michael says, kissing my forehead. I don't want him going to Angelo Fortino's place—I know what that means. I know the guy's name, but can't remember what he looks like. I don't give a crap about Angelo Fortino. I care about what Michael’s about to do. But I have to focus on what I’m going to tell the cops right now.

Michael’s about to start earning his bones and then there’s no going back. There’s no way to stop him from becoming one of them. That is, if he doesn't get himself killed first. The thought is unimaginable. I nod again, unable to do much else, and rock harder, my hands clinging to Tony as best I can. The blood is everywhere, making him slippery, but I can't let him go. I could never let him go. I have to focus on Tony right now. Michael is okay enough to stand and walk, I tell myself. As he runs off into the darkness, I
try to convince myself that he can't be that bad off. Michael’s okay. He has to be.

The flashing lights descend, the sirens squealing in my ears. Officers step out of their cars
; a few have their guns drawn and pointing to the pavement. The very sight of more guns sends me into a deeper panic. I start screaming again. They approach, putting their guns away. One officer bends down before me, and I recognize him as a man who has come to the house a few times. He’s always walked in looking nervous and left looking relieved.

"Ms. Mancuso," he says gently, "I’m Officer Adam Davis." Davis—I know that name from somewhere. And then it comes to me
: I'd met his wife at the wake. Rebecca Davis, formerly Rebecca Scavo. I just stare at him, wanting to speak. One of the reasons Leo got his button so quickly is because he was able to provide one of the most important assets a man in my father's position could have: a meat eater—which was just their way of saying he was a dirty cop.

"Listen, you know me, right?" I nod. "You need to tell me where Michael went so I can protect him. Shit's happening and if he's going where I think he is
, it might be too late." I think about what he’s saying. He wants me to tell him—an outsider—family business. I can't do that. I just left the wake of a man who had done that very thing. But then, I've seen Officer Davis in and out of my father's house a few times, going into his office with him alone. I can trust him, right? Am I willing to risk Michael's life? Am I willing not to? It’s never a question. My father has his family and I have mine." Angelo Fortino's warehouse on Dock 47," I whisper. The tears come again, less violently, still powerful. I'll never be able to take it back. I’ve just shot everything I have ever known to hell. It’s this moment my life comes crumbling down—the moment I become a rat.

Chapter 3

Nobody ever did, or ever will, escape the consequences of his choices.

- Alfred A. Montapert

SEATED IN THE
emergency room at Lutheran Medical Center, cold and covered in dried blood, I wait. My eyes are sore; pained from all of the tears I've shed. We arrived at the hospital what felt like hours ago, and still I haven't heard anything. I wrap my arms around myself and scan the E.R., relieved when they fall on a familiar face.

Aunt Gloria and Uncle Emilio stand at the entrance, glancing around the room. They both wear emotionless masks. When Gloria's eyes meet mine, her stone face softens and contorts in ways that look
s painful and tears rush out. I run to her, unable to stand the distance, and throw my arms around her midsection. We cry together there, at the entrance of the emergency room. It all feels so surreal. We shouldn't have to pick up the pieces of our lives every time something goes wrong. We shouldn't have to live this way.

Uncle Emilio reaches over and lightly pats my back before walking to the nurse's station. I break away from Gloria, who’s calmed her tears much faster than I have mine. Emilio speaks with one of the nurses for a minute before ushering us toward him. To my surprise, a nurse escorts the three of us through the intake area and down a long, sterile hallway past several rooms.

"Upon arrival, Anthony was unresponsive and had lost a lot of blood. He's stabilized now, but before he arrived, he had stopped breathing and we're not yet sure what effect, if any, the loss of oxygen has had on his brain. We have him sedated so his body can heal without interruption
. He may be groggy and appear confused. Try not to push him to interact just yet." The nurse, whose name I don't get, walks away and leaves us in front of an open door. Inside are a standard-issue hospital bed and a few machines with tubes going all over the place. I look at the patient file—handwritten on the information sheet is ANTHONY VESCOVI.

Emilio enters first, followed by Gloria, and then myself. I keep to the corner, out of their way, and the pair of them tentatively approach and reached their hands out toward their son. Sure, he’s full grown, over six feet tall and built like a boxer, but to his parents, he’ll always be their little boy. And for me, no matter how big and mean and bossy he's gotten over the years, I still see Tony as the boy who would sit beside me during Sunday school and fill in his coloring book so neatly in the lines. I never could keep such great control of my crayon, the colors shooting out all over the place.

I choke back a sob at the sight before me. The man lying in this hospital bed doesn’t look like
my
Tony. My Tony always has a tan, but this man's face is so ashen it’s frightening. His fingers twitch at his side as he slowly moves his head from side to side to look at his parents. Gloria bends down and places a gentle, lingering kiss to Tony's forehead as he has done to her many times over the years. As a man, especially a Made Man who’s sworn his life to the organization, he’s to protect the women in his life. But this is his mother and, as mothers do, she’ll always stand in for him in the face of danger, whether he likes it or not.

At that thought I let the tears fall down my cheeks. I miss my own mother so much. And though she wasn't like Gloria in her bravery and commitment to her family, she was my mother.
Esmeralda Mancuso had her own way of going about things. When Tony started to earn his bones, Gloria threw a fit. She wasn't just upset, she was enraged. She didn't want her boy to be a murderer. My own mother would have just distracted Michael as best she could, but she never,
not ever
, got in the way of my father's business.

"Emilio Vescovi," a hard voice says from the doorway, breaking me from my thoughts. A short, round man in a suit holds up a badge identifying him as F.B.I. Uncle Emilio turns around, keeping his annoyance at bay as best he can, and nods his head at the door.

"Agent Wilks, why don't we take this into the hallway? These ladies have had a tough enough night," Emilio instructs on their way through the door. Agent Wilks casts a suspicious glance over his shoulder as he steps out of the room.

Slowly, I approach Tony's bed and brush his hair back from his face. It’s short
, but stuck to his damp skin.

"Dav," he says in a gritty, pained voice. His eyes bore into mine. It’s like he’s trying to tell me something that’s gone over my head. What is he trying to say? I ask him just that, trying to understand
, but his voice gains strength in his anger. He repeats "Dav" again and again. Nothing makes sense. Gloria looks at me with worry.

"Maybe I should get the nurse," she says and reaches for the button
. Tony's arm shoots out and stops her. He shakes his head from side to side, telling her not to get the nurse in broken breaths. Gloria pulls her arm back and wrings her hands with worry.

"Come here," Tony says in barely a whisper. He’s sweating now from the exertion of attempting to interact. I lean in close to his mouth so that I can hear him. Then, I think, maybe his words will make sense. With his lips at my ear, Tony says the one thing I hadn't expected: "You stupid little girl. Sei morto per me"

I pull away, shocked and confused. I take a step back and shake my head again and again.
Davis
. Tony must have heard me tell Officer Davis where Michael was going. But why would that make Tony so angry? Officer Davis is on our side. I'd overheard his conversations with my father numerous times. Officer Adam Davis was on the take.

Take care of this, okay? And do not talk to anybody. Not anybody, you hear me?

Michael told me not to talk to anybody, and I did it anyway. Had I done something wrong? It didn't feel all that wrong in the moment, but the way Tony is glaring at me I think I made a mistake. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything to Officer Davis.

I back away into the corner of the room, tears falling down my face. Gloria catches onto the sudden change in my demeanor. Standing before me, concern lacing her aging features, she asks me what’s wrong. I don't want to tell her, but I have to figure a few things out and she likely had more answers than I did in that moment.

"Who is Angelo Fortino?" I ask in hushed tones. Her eyes go wide and she leans in. My father and Emilio have had several conversations in his office about Fortino’s warehouse and the money they’ve been making. He must be important.

"How do you know that name?" she says.

"I hear stuff," I say, about to leave it at that. But there’s something in Gloria's face that tells me I can trust her with this. "Michael said he was going to Angelo Fortino's place. He was shot and I…" I can't finish the sentence.

"Oh God, Alex. No," she pleads, her hand on her mouth. All I can do is nod my head. I did. Whatever she’s formulating in her brain is likely right. What other reason would Tony have for telling me I’m dead to him? For what other reason would he disown me?

"Angelo Fortino oversees the meth lab, Alex, as part of your father's newly-acquired business." My blood runs cold with her words.
Meth lab?
I thought that the rumors about my dad getting into the drug business were all talk. I didn't know that he had really gotten mixed up in that junk. I never could have imagined it. So why is Michael fighting with this meth guy?

But that doesn't matter now. What matters is that I gave an outsider the location of the meth lab. Even if I hadn't known what information I was handing over, I talked. Images of Sal, lying in his coffin with the bullet hole in his throat flood my mind. I reach up and place my hand over my throat protectively. They can't kill me for this, can they? I’m the principessa—mafia royalty. Surely, my father won't allow it.

I stumble out of the room, sick to my stomach. Gloria hovers behind me. In the hallway, Agent Wilks has Uncle Emilio in handcuffs and is handing him off to another agent. I scream loudly and run forward, but am held back by Gloria.

"Fighting them won't do any good. Just don't say a word. We'll figure this out as soon as he leaves." I nod at her instructions. Agent Wilks says a few words to the other agent and then turns Emilio and walks toward us.

"Mrs. Vescovi, Miss Mancuso," he greets us, looking a bit too eager. "Emilio Vescovi is being held by the F.B.I. in an investigation relating to the cooking and distribution of methamphetamine, along with Carlo Mancuso and Angelo Fortino, and Michael Mancuso is being held as an accomplice."

"What, how?" I yell.
My hands shake in fear as I fight back the frustrated tears that threaten fall. Beneath the fear and frustration is the realization of the consequences of my choice.

My father was arrested once, but that was before my mother died, years ago, and I didn't really understand what was going on then. The arresting officers were very professional and didn’t even handcuff him in the house. It wasn’t until I sneaked a peek out of the living room window that I saw them put handcuffs on him and load him into the back of an unmarked police car. Until then they had told me he had a business meeting to attend. And I had believed it.

"Mr. Fortino has found himself in a bit of trouble and so have his associates—Mr. Mancuso and Mr. Vescovi. The kid was on site when we pulled up." Agent Wilks smirks. He leans forward and claps his hand on my shoulder. "Tough break, kid," he says and walks off.

My knees give way and I crash to the floor. The sudden impact sends a throbbing pain through my legs up to my hips. Sobs rack my body,
making it hard to breathe. In and out, it’s that simple, and yet my lungs can't manage it. My breaths come in short, hyper pants, my lungs strain to keep up. I’m not prone to panic attacks, but I imagine this is what one would feel like—my chest constricts, my lungs burn, and I feel like I’m going to come out of my skin. Or just stop breathing entirely.

Gloria peels me off the floor and uses her body as a prop to keep me upright. It can't have been easy; my frame feels like Jell-O.

"Oh Alex," Gloria whispers into my ear, "What have you done?"
What have I done
? Through the pounding in my ears and the caustic screams that die in my throat, I can barely make sense of the world around me. Then it hits me—
I did this
.
I brought this on the family
.
I’m the reason that Gloria's husband is being arrested
.

I focus on my breathing, forcing it into even patterns
, and steady myself on my feet, pulling away from Gloria. I scrub my face with my hands and wipe away the remaining tears. I have to pull it together. I can't keep acting like this. Gloria grabs me by my arm and drags me down the hallway. We round a corner and continue down another long, sterile hallway. I do my best to keep up with her long strides, but she’s steadfast in her determination. I just let myself get pulled along, realizing my Aunt Gloria might be the only person I can trust to get me out of this mess alive.

Suddenly, Gloria pulls me into a small room that appears to be an informal office with a heavy wooden desk, two tall filing cabinets, and a chair on either side. With a quick look around, Gloria closes the door and takes several deep breaths to calm herself. Her hands are shaking just slightly, her breaths coming in strained pants. She leans back and rests against the desk. When she’s calmed herself down sufficiently, she speaks quietly and in Italian.

"What did you do, Alex?"

"I don't know," I say. I have to be honest with her, but when my brain tries to extract the words from my lungs, it all comes out as a lie. I cover my mouth with my hands as if I can wipe away the lies, the truth, and everything that has happened in the last six hours.

"We can't have this conversation in English, Alex. It's too dangerous," Gloria says in Italian. Right,
dangerous
, I think. But who makes the conversation itself dangerous— the police or the family? Because as I see it, considering most everybody who matters is fluent in Italian, it doesn't matter what language I speak in. But it needs to be said, and I’m not about to argue with the one person I think will help me.

"Officer Davis," I squeak out in hushed tones, my Italian fluid despite the tremor in my voice. Gloria keeps her face stern as I do my best to relive the events from earlier. I tell her about overhearing my father talking to Leo about me, but purposefully omit how I'd overheard it. I tell her how I thought Michael had been hurt or worse and how I r
an to save him, despite having no way of doing so.

I tell her everything right down to the most awful truth of all—when I told Officer Davis where he could find Michael, and how Tony had obviously overheard. I may not have known what giving Officer Davis Angelo Fortino's name would do, but it doesn't matter. My father and Uncle Emilio are in custody. My brother has to
have been treated for his gunshot wound, but he’s in custody, too, I guess. My biggest problem, however, is Tony. He isn't just angry with me; he's disowned me. Tony having overheard me talking to Officer Davis is beyond bad.

Gloria takes a few moments to let it all settle in. She looks half set to strangle me and half set to walk out of the room as though she’s never heard anything. There’s nothing more I can hope for—that much I know.

"Oh, God," Gloria finally says. She shakes her head and wraps her arms around her torso. A minute or two passes before she speaks again. "Some things have to happen, Alex. None of it is going to make any sense, and I can't explain." She’s imploring me with her eyes, willing me to understand. But I don't.