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
Alex
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.