The guards plopped that man down on a chair in the cage. “You got ten minutes, Barberi,” one said. “And any outbursts like before, you lose visiting privileges for a year.”
Outbursts?
“Thank you, officer,” his grandfather said in a flat voice, looking straight at Ben. His hair was gray, his skin tan, his body almost as tall as Uncle Grant’s. His grandpa waited for the officers to back out of the cage and lock it before he spoke another word.
Ben’s mouth popped open with a sudden need to inhale, and he realized he’d forgotten to breathe.
The man studied him. “You have Karita’s eyes.”
Karita? Who was that? Oh, right—his grandma. His grandpa had beaten her too.
“Mullens treated you okay?”
Ben hesitated. “Who’s Mullens?”
“The German who brought you here.”
“Hans?”
“That’s what he’s calling himself on the outside?” His grandfather smirked.
“What’s his real name?”
“None of your business.” The smirk was gone, and the man leaned forward, speaking in a low, menacing tone. “All you need to know is to follow his directions, or your mother dies.”
“So you’re behind the threat to my mom’s life.”
“But nothing will happen to you, Grandson. You’re family.”
“Cool.” Ben shrugged, attempting to look relaxed. “We’re BFFs now.”
“You little shit.”
Ben watched a bead of spit hit the metal of the cage between them. The man leaned forward more, and he leaned back in return.
“You are Logan’s son, aren’t you? Testing my every move…” His grandfather shook his head. “You want to end up like him, in a box buried under six feet of earth?”
A weight pressed on Ben’s chest, and he wasn’t sure if it was fear or grief. He couldn’t unlock his eyes from his grandpa’s. “No.”
“Then you fucking answer my questions and do what you’re told.”
Trembling started in his shoulders and seeped down to his hands, which he squeezed together in his lap. Please don’t kill my mom.
His grandfather seemed pleased he didn’t talk back. “Are you close with Grant?”
Ben hesitated. Why did that matter?
“It’s okay. You can tell me.”
He nodded.
“Good. That’s good you’re with family,” the man said.
He exhaled.
“So what do you do with Grant?”
He chewed the inside of his cheek. What were these questions about? “He buys me pizza.”
His grandfather actually smiled upon hearing that. “He does…He’s not in prison, then.”
“Um, no?” Why would Uncle Grant be in prison?
“But he’s on parole?”
Ben searched his mind…yes, he remembered his uncle was supposed to be on parole still, even though he’d been granted a pardon. “Yeah.”
“Did Grant tell you what happened back in November when he went for a ride with Anthony and Mario?”
“No.” He realized he’d answered the question way too fast.
His grandfather smiled, but he looked far from happy. It was a cruel smile. “You’re a bad liar, Benjamin. You’ll have to work on that if you want to get anywhere in life.”
He tried to swallow, but his throat felt parched.
“Let’s try that again, and tell the truth if you value your mother’s life. Did Grant tell you what happened in November?”
The trembling returned. “All I know…is he didn’t go to back to prison.”
“And why is that, Benjamin?”
“My name is Ben.”
The man leaned forward and snarled, “It’ll be Little Orphan Benny if you don’t start talking, fuckhead. Why didn’t Grant return to prison?” When Ben didn’t answer, he added, “Was he working with the feds?”
Ben felt his eyes double in size. Shit! He blinked like crazy to try to hide his reaction, but the damage was already done.
“Thank you,” his grandfather said. “Thank you for confirming what I already knew.”
“No, he wasn’t working with the FBI—it just…they just decided he didn’t violate parole!”
“Save it, Grandson. Save your lies for someone who doesn’t live with liars every fucking day. Were you in on it, too, Benjamin? Were you working with the feds?”
He gasped. “No!”
The man nodded, allowing Ben to breathe again. Technically he had been in on it by helping to rescue Sophie, but his grandpa hadn’t asked about Sophie.
“Is Grant still working with the feds?”
Oh God, how do I answer? Ben looked away, teeth clenched. A lump of terror pulsated in his gut. When he turned back, coal-black hatred seeped from his grandpa’s eyes.
“That motherfucking traitor.” His grandfather’s face reddened as he muttered in Italian. His quiet tone scared him more than if he’d screamed the words. “How dare he interfere with my life. This is my life!”
He’s going to kill Uncle Grant, he realized. And it’s all my fault. To his horror, tears pooled in his eyes. His breath came in quick pants. I’ve just signed Uncle Grant’s death sentence.
A noise of disgust drew his attention back to the prisoner. “Unbelievable. You’re just like Grant, aren’t you? My family needs me out there, Benjamin. They need my toughness, my leadership, or they turn into little crying babies, like you. Yet Grant thwarted me from getting out. And now he’ll pay for that mistake.”
“Please don’t hurt him,” he cried. His hand swiped at his nose. “Please, Grandpa. He’s s-s-sorry for what he did.”
“He’ll be sorry. And you don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, got it? If I find out you tell the cops or your mother or Grant or that whore girlfriend of his—if I discover you tell anyone about this visit—Ashley dies.”
Now sobbing, Ben brought a hand to cover his mouth. Dread washed over him in crashing waves, and as the waves receded, guilt clung to him like foam on the sand.
A jangle of keys rang from behind the cage. The COs barged in. “Visit’s over. You’re upsetting the kid.”
“Well, boo-fucking-hoo,” his grandfather said. He looked at Ben as the officers yanked him to his feet. “We have an understanding, Grandson?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
As the COs wrestled his grandpa out of the cage, he closed his eyes. Stop crying. Don’t barf. You’ve gotta get out of here—Hans is waiting. Don’t barf.
He flinched when a hand rested on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw a CO with a kind face. “You okay?”
“Um…” He swallowed. “Yeah. Can I leave?”
“Sure. Come with me.”
He stood on wobbly legs and followed the officer, who guided him back through the metal detector. Another CO handed him his ID, and then he was outside, squinting in the late afternoon sun. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. Then he covered his mouth as a vision of his father’s funeral swam before his eyes. The mournful music, the bullshit Bible verses—he’d have to relive it all once they killed Grant. Taking away his father wasn’t good enough for them. They wanted to take away the only man who ever loved him too.
Realizing he was almost to the parking lot, he paused. He could turn around and tell the officers about the extortion. He could run and hide inside while they called the cops—maybe they could call that cop Jerry, maybe that detective with the red hair…
His teeth chattered. But what if Hans had a man on his mom? What if the cops couldn’t get to her fast enough? What if they couldn’t get to Uncle Grant fast enough, either? Then he’d have even more blood on his hands, just because he wimped out on protecting his mother.
Ben straightened his back. He had no choice. Everyone would hate him for keeping this quiet—his mom, Dr. Hunter, Gruncle Joe, and most of all Sophie—but he had to go through with it. Forgive me.
When he forced himself back in the car, Hans finished sending a text and chuckled. “Aww.
The boy looks upset. Need me to kiss away your tears, yah?”
“Fuck you, Mullens.”
He hesitated. “You tell anyone my real name and your mother is—”
“Dead,” he finished. “Yeah, yeah, I know—you told me already.”
The smack upside his head didn’t come as a surprise, nor did the resulting ringing in his ear and throbbing in his temple. But for the entire drive back to the city, the physical pain was nothing compared to the horror oozing up his throat. He would be responsible for the death of Uncle Grant. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
It was dark by the time Hans pulled up to his apartment building. Before he scrambled the hell out of the car, Hans grabbed his elbow. “Keep your trap shut, boy. Not a word to anyone.”
“Okay!”
“If you say anything, I’ll shred your mother to pieces. Right before I filet that piece of shit dog.”
Dot! He leaned away from him, desperate. After a few seconds of his fingers digging into his elbow, Hans let him go.
He shuddered. As the black car eased back into traffic, he memorized its license plate. Not that the information would do him any good.
He wondered if Uncle Grant would live through the night.
He unlocked his front door and walked in to the warm, lit apartment. He wriggled out of his backpack, confused.
“Oh my God, is that you?” his mother called from her bedroom as she zoomed out to the living room, her cell phone in hand. Dot galloped behind her and barked when she saw him. “Where the hell have you been?”
He took a step back. “Why aren’t you at work?” Dot circled his feet, begging to be picked up.
“Because your swim coach called me!” she shrieked. “He said you weren’t at practice, and they were worried!” She shook her phone. “I was just about to call the cops.”
“I’m fine.”
“Where were you?” Yip, yip! Dot danced at his feet.
“Uh…”
“I was so scared something happened to you. I called Sophie—I even called Grant.” She extended her arm, offering him the phone. Dot wouldn’t shut up. “I want you to call Grant and Sophie and tell them you’re okay.”
Shit. He couldn’t risk calling either. Ignoring Dot, Ben picked up his backpack and headed to his bedroom, but his mother blocked him. “Hey—where’re you going? Call them right now.”
“No! I’m perfectly fine, okay? You call them.”
He tried to get around her, but she stepped over to block him again. “Wait a minute. Where’d you get that bruise?” Her hand touched his left cheek, but he shied away from her.
“Nowhere. Just get off my back.”
“Ben, what’s wrong with you?” She threw her hands in the air. “You’ve been such a good boy the past couple of months, then you disobey me right before your grounding is over? Are you taking drugs again?”
“No!”
“I want you to call Grant and Sophie. They’re so worried about you.”
“I’ll see Sophie tomorrow at the meet.”
“No you won’t. Your coach said you’re suspended from the meet for missing practice.”
“What? He can’t do that!”
“But he still wants you there to cheer for your teammates.”
“Then fuck him!” he roared. He felt his whole body shake.
“Benjamin!” She leaned back, her face a mask of disgust, and he took the opportunity to dart around her and race to his room. He made it inside and locked himself in before she got to the door, where she now pounded. “Are you using drugs again?”
“No!” The tears had started for real, and he couldn’t breathe.
“I want a urine sample from you right now, mister.”
Ben huddled up in a ball on his bed, tears streaming down his face. “Go away,” he cried. “Just…go away.”
Dot whined and scratched at his door, and Ben did his best to ignore her.
“Way to throw it all away,” his mother said in a familiar sarcastic tone. “Way to turn into your father.”
He closed his eyes and wept. His father sure couldn’t save him now.
20. Confiscate
IN TWENTY-THREE YEARS of imprisonment, he’d never experienced such silence in the cellblock. He’d never had insomnia this bad either.
Enzo grunted as he scrubbed his eyes and flopped over to his other side on the thin, worn mattress. His hand twitched with the desire to suffocate Jewels, who offered a steady, snoring stream of breaths from above, with his own damn pillow. Why could everyone else in this hellhole sleep? Goddammit. He’d heard insomnia increased with age, but he hadn’t expected to grow old in Gurnee.
Just like he hadn’t expected his own fucking son to betray him.
This is my life! he’d screamed at Benjamin, who’d shrunk away from the cage with the force of his words. The boy had tried to protect Grant, and the boy had failed. Fucking informant. Enzo clutched his scalp as he willed the image of the boy’s frightened eyes out of his mind. Just let me sleep. But the thoughts kept coming—the conversation about Grant’s betrayal playing in an endless loop. Get out of my head, Grant.
But tonight there was no peace. Actually, there’d been a lot of nights without peace…
“This is my life!” Enzo had stared down his brother. “How could you let this happen? How could you let that son of a bitch slip through our fingers?”
Angelo had swallowed. “Fanocelli beat us, Enz.” He clutched his glass tighter. “He made it to the feds before we could get to him.”
“Fucking informant.” Bile rose in his throat, and he knocked back a swig of whiskey to push it down. The whiskey didn’t even burn at this point, and it still didn’t make him feel any better. The FBI had Fanocelli, witness to bad things he’d done. No way that fat fuck would take him down.
A noise by the stairs drew his attention.
Angelo stood and flipped the hallway light. “Carlo! You should be in bed.”
“But I’m not tired.” The nine-year-old’s whine grated on Enzo’s last nerve. His hand moved to his belt buckle.
“Anna Maria!” Angelo boomed. His wife materialized in seconds. “Take him to bed.”
Without a word, she ushered the boy upstairs.
As Angelo slumped back down on the sofa, Enzo’s jaw clenched, listening to his nephew’s fading complaints from above. He would never tolerate that bullshit. “You know what Dad would’ve done if he’d found us out of bed in the middle of the night?”
Angelo’s eyes held a hint of sadness before he looked away.
They both knew Angelo had raised a sniveling pansy, but for some reason he refused to hit Carlo. His brother’s weakness disgusted him.
Thirty minutes later, Enzo entered his own home, the very home Fanocelli’s eventual testimony threatened to take away. He cursed as he stumbled in the hallway and looked down to find a fucking toy on the floor. He scooped up the red action figure and continued into the family room, where Karita had fallen asleep on the sofa. The bitch hadn’t even waited up for him.
Soft, blond waves framed her face, and her steady breaths made him aware of his own fatigue. Tired. So tired of running the damn family. He swayed a bit on his feet before he shook his head to snap out of it. “Thanks for waiting up for me.”
Her eyes flew open, and she sat up, searching his face for a moment before noticing the toy in his hand.
“I almost broke my fucking neck on this!” He shook the action figure for emphasis.
Karita shrank back into the cushion. “Sorry, baby.”
She’s so pathetic.
“Did you, um, have a nice time at Angelo’s?” Her voice wavered.
“A nice time? I don’t think that’s what you’d call it. I try to keep the family alive, and you try to kill me when I walk in the door.” He waved the toy in front of her face. “Is that what you’re doing with this? Trying to kill me?”
Her eyes widened. “No! I didn’t see it—”
The toy whipping across her f
ace shut her up. She lurched to the side as she cradled her cheek and wailed.
“You’ll wake up the boys. Silenzio.”
She quieted immediately.
He stormed off to the stairs and ignored her whimpered plea to leave the boys alone. Once he yanked open their bedroom door, he saw Logan splayed out on his bed, mouth open, drooling in his sleep. He swore the boy had grown an inch since he last saw him. As he watched his son’s even breaths, he felt his anger fade into fatigue. Logan would be a strong leader one day.
He was about to leave the bedroom when he heard a small gasp. He turned to see his younger son huddled against his headboard, eyes shining in the darkness. Grant had always been a light sleeper.
As he stepped closer, he noticed a red action figure clutched in Grant’s hand: a companion to the one he’d found downstairs. “Clean up your fucking toys!” he hissed.
Grant blinked like crazy, and the sound of his rapid breathing filled the room.
“It’s your fault I had to hit your mother with this.”
Tears fell from those big eyes as the boy retreated farther from him.
When Enzo raised his hand, Grant’s arms covered his head, and he curled into a ball on his pillow. He shook with fear.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Don’t hurt me, Daddy.”…
Don’t hurt me, Daddy. Enzo shifted in the prison bed and covered his ears. Mullens was out there somewhere, ready to exact revenge…ready to hurt his son.
What had he done?
***
Grant clutched his cell phone as he paced Kirsten’s apartment. “So everything’s in place for tonight, then?”
“Looks like it,” Agent Bounter replied. “The only unknown is how many men Vladimir will bring on his team and how many will be left to track down after we arrest the bastards.”
Grant mentally rehearsed the planned robbery of the hotel’s safe, a robbery in which he’d be the point man, sneaking Vladimir and his men into security strongholds—where Bounter and his men would be waiting.
“There’re still a thousand things that could go wrong with this op,” Bounter added, “which is what makes it so fun.”
Garnt shook his head but found himself smiling. “You’re a sick man, sir.”
On Best Behavior (C3) Page 25