Kingpin (An Italian Mafia Romance) (11 page)

“I’m so sorry, Dominic,” I whisper as we lean against the car and sob together.

The truth eventually sets in. After all this time, we’re finally together, but we know it won’t last, and it’s the hardest thing either of us has ever had to accept.

Dominic

“W
hy ain’t you been returning my calls?”

I close the door to the Cadillac as I sit, but I don’t buckle my seat belt. The way I’ve been feeling the past few days, I wouldn’t care if we crashed into a brick wall and I flew through the windshield.

“You hear me talking to you?” my father snaps. He sounds pissed, and that’s all I have to go on because I haven’t looked at him yet. “I said, why ain’t you been returning my calls, Dominic? You missed out on two scores last week. That’s the kind of thing you need to be around for. What’s the matter with you?”

“I was with Alannah,” I reply, finally glancing at him for a second before staring out the window again. Dad steps on the gas and aims for the highway, back to River City.

“You were with Alannah? That’s all you have to say for yourself right now?”

“She’s moving soon, Dad. To Alaska, okay? It fucking sucks, and I’ve been trying to spend as much time with her as I can before she leaves. Cut me some slack here.”

“Cut you some slack?” he snaps, repeating me again. “So, you’re all depressed over some girl? You think you’ve got it bad right now, do ya’? Your personal life becoming too much for you to handle? Well, let me fill you in on what’s been going on this past week with The Family while you were sulking in your fucking bedroom. The FBI has been all over us. They claim they have store clerks and truck drivers coming forward, saying we’re extorting them. How about that? We got guys out there ready to rat. That make you feel better?”

“What? Of course not,” I reply with a furrowed brow.

“Nah? Well, how about this? The cops found Alfonse Cestone’s body in the river two days ago.”

“What?”

“That’s right. That fucking guy who tried to slit your throat in the garage at River City, fucking guy floated back to the top, and some family saw him and called the cops. Feds are trying to pin that on us too, claiming they know it was a mob hit. Feel better yet?”

“Why would that make me feel better?”

“You think you’ve got it so bad, Dom, and you have no fucking idea. How about this? Frankie got arrested yesterday. He’s in jail as we speak. The Feds say they got him on credit card fraud and money laundering, and if they got him, then that means I’m next.”

I don’t even have a response to that one. I can’t imagine what it’d be like if my dad got put away. I couldn’t manage. I had no clue any of this was going on because I haven’t been around. I’ve been trying to spend all my time with Alannah before she leaves, and The Family’s been taking a hit, and Frankie’s in jail. This is too much on one kid’s plate.

“The point I’m trying to make, Dominic, is that if you’re gonna be a part of Our Thing, you’re gonna have to get your priorities straight. If there ever comes a time that you get to be a made guy, you’re gonna have to take an oath, and pledge to put this family above everything else. Above
everybody
else. The Giordano Family isn’t one of these huge families in New York. We’re small out here in St. Louis, so we need loyal guys who know and follow the rules put in place by Anthony Giordano way back in the day. We have to keep the tradition going, and if Leo ends up making you the way he made me, you’re gonna carry the burden of keeping this family alive. Nothing comes before La Cosa Nostra. Nothing. We’re too small of a family to be getting heat from the Feds that can put guys away like this. The Commission is gonna open the books one day, and when they do, I want you there, Dominic. But you gotta earn it, and you’re not gonna do that if you’re stressing out over some girl. You understand?”

I pause so I can really think about my answer. Do I really understand? Do I understand that I’m going to have to put La Cosa Nostra before important people in my life? Do I accept that The Family has to come first? Am I willing to put The Family before Alannah? I’m not really sure, but I need to reassure my dad. Me being a part of This Thing of Ours is really important to him, which means it’s important to me. So, even though I’m figuring out how I feel about certain things, there’s no question about how I feel about my father. I’m loyal to him, no matter what.

“Yeah, Dad, I understand. I’m sorry,” I reply. “I’ll do better.”

Dad takes his eyes off the road to make eye contact with me, his jaw tight and his eyes narrow. “Good.”

It’s been a fucking struggle. Everything going on with Alannah has taken the wind out of my sails. She’s all I think about. Well, the fact that she’s leaving is all I think about. After all we’ve been through, right from the moment we met on the playground at Barry Elementary, after all of the feelings, after all the friendship, after giving our virginity to one another, it’s going to come to an end. The truth is, I’m struggling. Between what I need to be doing with my father and what I want to do with Alannah, I feel stuck between a rock and a hard place. I want to be just like my dad, but I want to be with Alannah, too. Regardless of what I want, though, Alannah’s leaving, so I guess the decision is being made for me. I just hate the fucking decision.

Dad drives slow, like always. He’s never in a rush to get anywhere. Business at River City isn’t going anywhere, and now that Frankie has been arrested, The Family is going to be losing money. Frankie was a good earner and sure to be getting upped soon, so his being arrested will definitely have an impact on us, and just like Dad said, the last thing we need is for the FBI to start coming after Dad, too. Looks like a change is coming.

We turn onto River City Casino Boulevard and approach the last stoplight on the road leading to the casino. As we drive, Dad looks to me.

“Listen, we’re only gonna stay here a couple of minutes, alright,” he says. “I’m gonna go make sure everything is good to go, then we’re out. With all this heat getting started, I don’t wanna push my luck by being seen in too many places where our business is being conducted. How about when we’re done here, I take you to go get some ice cream? Sound good?”

I roll my eyes, but I smile too.

“Dad, I’m fifteen, not five,” I snip in jest. “But I’m not gonna turn down ice cream.”

“Ah, that’s what I thought,” he replies behind a laugh. “Wise guy or not, everybody loves ice cream.”

“Fuhgeddaboutit.” Both of laugh just as the light ahead of us turns red and Dad stops the car.

While we laugh, a white Honda pulls up to the light next to us. There’s two men inside, staring straight ahead, but I’m not an idiot. Something about them seems off, like they’re trying
too
hard to look straight ahead. I feel my brow furrow all on its own as I look past my dad at the two guys next to us. I don’t recognize the driver at all, but the passenger looks familiar.

It takes a second, but eventually my mind finishes flipping through the images of faces I’ve seen recently, and recognizes the guy. Those facial features are what catch my attention: sharp chin, pointy nose, strong jaw clenched tight. It’s the guy who had the balls to try to tax my father a few weeks ago. It’s Sammy Cestone.

As my memory grasps the name, the stoplight turns green. Dad sees the change in lighting and directs his attention to the road, pressing his foot on the gas just as Sammy’s arm comes out the window holding a black nine millimeter pistol.

“Fuck! Dad watch . . .”

Before I can finish the sentence, the nine millimeter explodes into a flurry of gunfire. I immediately duck down and cover my head with my hands as the bullets come flying through the car. There’s glass shattering and I can hear the distinct sound of bullets piercing the metal of the car. The sound is so loud I can’t hear myself think. Panic sets in and tears fill my eyes as I try to dig myself lower and lower into my seat. I can’t seem to get low enough though, and suddenly, a hot stinging sensation rips across the back of my neck, and I feel warm liquid rolling down the back of my shirt. It hurts like hell, but I know better than to move. The shots seem like they last forever, but eventually they stop, and tires squeal as the Honda rushes away.

Now, there’s silence. Nothing but the terrifying scream of silence and the ringing of my ears. I know I heard the car drive away, but I’m scared to move.

I open my eyes first. There’s broken glass on the floor beneath me, and a white smoke is hovering through the car as it floats off the bullets and shell casings. I see drops of blood next to my feet just as I rub the back of my neck and wince at the pain. Sure enough, there’s blood all over my fingers when I inspect them. It’s not a hole, so I assume a bullet grazed me as I ducked. It hurts, but I think I’ll be okay. Now, I need to get up.

“Dad, you good? I saw who it was,” I hear myself say, but my voice sounds muffled and my ears ring louder when I speak. “Dad, I saw them. Dad?” I force myself to sit up and look over at my father, but the second I do, I wish I wouldn’t have.

My father’s slumped down in his seat, his neck bent down and to the right so much that his head is resting on his own shoulder like a pillow. His entire torso is covered in blood.

“Oh fuck! Dad!” I scream as I lean over and try to lift his head up, but when I grab his face, my fingers sink into a hole on the left side of his head. I scream when I feel it and let go of him, and his head falls back down to the position it was in. “Oh my god. Oh my fucking god! Dad!”

I muster up the courage to lean over and look at the other side of his face, because I have to see it. I have to know. When I do, I crumble. There’s two, maybe even three holes—there’s too much blood to tell for sure—in the left side of my dad’s face, and I know there’s no chance he could possibly have survived what I’m seeing.

I let out an uncontrollable scream that burns the back of my throat. My tears have a mind of their own and come rushing out of my eyes faster than I ever thought possible, as I stare at my hands covered in my father’s blood. I hear police sirens approaching, and there’s bystanders on the sidewalks staring into the car. None of them are doing anything to help, they’re just staring at us. At me. At my dead father. I don’t even bother asking for help, either. They’re obviously too stupid to recognize I need it. Fuck them.
Fuck them!

I look at my father again as I sob uncontrollably. My stomach heaves up and down from the crying, and my heart hurts from the sight of him slumped over, unmoving, breathless, lifeless. I can’t think, I can’t see straight, I can’t move, I can’t live. My thoughts collide and jumble together to form an incoherent mess of words and emotions that multiply over and over again, and produce a hatred and anger I can’t understand. I don’t know if I’m in shock or if I’m just scared and mad. I don’t know anything.

The sirens get closer and I still can’t move. Soon, the cops will be here and they’ll ask me questions about what happened, and if I saw anything. The same fucking cops who arrested Frankie yesterday, and the same ones who would’ve been coming after my father tomorrow.

I won’t tell them anything. I won’t tell them about Our Thing, or River City, or my father, or Alfonse Cestone’s death, and I won’t tell them about Sammy Cestone either.

I won’t tell them it was Sammy.

It was Sammy.

Sammy . . .

My world closes in around me. Alannah’s leaving. My father’s dead. There’s nothing left, and I have no reason to think of anything positive. Everything positive is gone.

As the cops arrive with their sirens blaring, I look at my father one last time. I think about how his heart is no longer beating, and I realize mine isn’t either. It has gone too cold. Or, maybe it just left my body altogether. I don’t know. I don’t care. Either way, I’ll never be the same. I don’t even want to be.

Everything good in me has died with my father.

Alannah

Dear Dominic,

Another eight days has gone by, and I haven’t seen or heard from you, so I’m writing you now because I don’t have any other options at this point.

I’ve called you a bunch of times, but your mom doesn’t answer the phone much, and when she does, I can tell she’s barely even listening to me, and I know she won’t give you the message. I understand why, though.