My father hammers the knife he’s holding into the chopping board without looking, the sound like machine gun fire. Perfectly even, sliced tomato stacks up while I start to sweat almost as badly as Sammy. “I saw your little circus performance shortly after my phone call ended. Can you guess what was going through my head at the time, Theo?”
“That your son really knows how to roll the fuck out of a car?”
Roberto points the knife at me and growls. “Shut your smart mouth.”
I do, because my father doesn’t tell you twice. He turns around and clears his throat, leaning against the counter, studying a now very, very anxious Sammy. My father tosses more tomato into his mouth, chewing thoroughly before saying, “My friend tells me that Sammy Preston, the bookie I use to run my own fucking gambling ring, is the guy who’s informing on my son. I thought to myself, now how can that be? That makes no sense. But sure enough, when I look into it, I find out that it’s true. That you have been giving the police information for the past six months.”
“No! No, I would never—” Sammy, poor bastard, doesn’t get to finish denying that this is true. My father nods to one of the men, Alfie, who then grabs Sammy by the back of the neck and shoves him down. It all happens so quickly. One minute the guy’s standing there with a look of horror on his face, then the next his fucking head is in the deep fryer and his body is shaking so violently that the other two men have to hold him up.
My father folds his arms across his chest and watches as Sammy the bookie becomes Sammy the late bookie. I can hear my blood roaring in my ears. I’ve seen some pretty gnarly stuff before, especially at the hands of my father, but when Sammy stops moving and they let go of his body I know shit’s hit a new level of fucked up. Sammy’s entire head looks like it’s been melted. His mouth gapes open, his eyelids, his actual eyeballs just fucking gone, and I turn around and throw up onto the polished tiles of the kitchen.
My ears are ringing.
I feel contact on my back—my father’s hand. When I straighten up, he’s watching me with a look of disappointment on his face that I should be used to by now. “Did you call the specialist like I asked you to?”
“We did. He wasn’t interested,” I say. “He didn’t want to speak to us.”
Roberto grunts. “And where is your brother, Theo?” This is the third time he’s asked me that question. He obviously hasn’t liked my response the first two times. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, gasping for breath. I know the only response that will please Roberto is, he’s right here, waiting for you. “I’ll get him. I’ll bring him here,” I say. Roberto nods, smiling sadly, like I’ve finally just understood and, boy, is it hard work being my father. He casually lifts the knife from the countertop and holds it against my throat. I can feel its cruel edge biting into my skin. For a second I think he’s going to do it; I think he’s actually going to cut my throat.
“I want you back in an hour,” he tells me quietly. “I want both my children standing in front of me where I can see them. And I want that Irish bitch on her knees in front of me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Off you go.”
I back away from the knife; my blood marks the steel, bright red as I step away from him. I try not to look at dead Sammy’s mangled head but macabre fascination draws my eyes to the floor against my will. My stomach rolls again, ready to purge whatever’s left inside it. I have got to get the fuck out of here before that happens again. The last thing I need is to disgust Roberto even further. Have him change his mind about the pressure he wants to apply with that knife of his.
As soon as I’m out of the kitchen, I pull out my phone and call Sal. Motherfucker had better pick up this time. I cannot fucking handle our father on my own. I have to know if he’s even fucking found—
“What?!” Sal’s voice on the other end of the phone sounds seriously pissed off. I’ll give him fucking what.
“Where the fuck have you been?”
There’s a long pause before my brother exhales and says, “I’ve been busy.” He sounds like he’s kicking back, relaxing, not a worry in the world. I could kill the motherfucker. My anger levels spike when I hear something in the background. Something very, very bad. I pause a second, listening hard, making sure my ears aren’t playing tricks on me. But nope. I can hear moaning.
“Are you … are you screwing someone right now? Are you screwing Kaitlin?”
“No. I am not.”
“I’m coming again!” a female voice moans in the background. This is ridiculous. Absolutely fucked. I’ve just been subjected to someone getting their head fucking deep fried and my brother is out somewhere sticking his dick inside our hostage. I’m going to castrate him.
“Sal—”
“Hang on.” The line goes dead. Not dead, but silent, like I’m on hold. Now is not a good time to be putting me on hold. I am about to seriously lose my shit. I hang up the call and dial him again, cursing him out under my breath. When he picks up I scream at him.
He sounds pissed that I’m pissed, and I want to reach down the goddamn phone and strangle him. “Have you got Kaitlin?” I snap.