Pocketful of Us: Pocket #4

by Chloe Walsh

  No fucking problem.

  A small part of me wanted to run away like a child, the prospect of facing both Romi's father again, and the man who was apparently mine, scared me half to death, but I couldn’t run away.

  I had to find her.

  I couldn’t go back in time and erase those horrible months after Chris's death that I spent tormenting Romi, but I could help her now.

  I could find my girl and set her free.

  I loved her more than she could know, than anyone could comprehend. The power she wielded over me was something fierce. Knowing that she was out there somewhere in danger and alone, well…that made it hard to function.

  When I lost her the first time, I went through the same stages of grief that I had when I lost Chris.

  This time was much worse.

  She was like the ocean and I was the sand. Always being swept away and torn apart, but relentlessly chasing each other. Touching, seeking, tasting, loving, waiting. It was a painful state of affairs. She was the painful love of my life.

  I just wanted her to know how sorry I was. That I regretted every cruel word and bad look I'd ever given her. I needed her to know that I'd loved her all along. That I'd never stopped loving her and I never would. I just needed her to know these things. I couldn't stand the thought of her never knowing the truth.

  I'd made a lot of mistakes and most I couldn’t take back, but fuck, I loved her. Right down to the core of me, I loved that girl. Now she was gone, I felt like someone had taken a knife to my body and carved out half my heart.

  Pain enveloped me twenty-four-seven, making it hard to breathe. Like a reliable beating drum, my heart continued to thump in my chest, keeping me here, but fuck, I needed to find her or I needed to find an out.

  At least if Cal was dead, we could finally be together.

  She couldn’t hate me for that, right?

  At least, that's what I told myself.

  It was how I eased my conscience.

  Resigned to my fate, I found myself back in my hometown of Pocketful, and back to the beginning of the end.

  It felt weird to be back and normal all at once. It had been so long and not nearly long enough all in one breath.

  Chris was right. Nothing in Pocketful was as it seemed. Nothing about my whole damn life was as it seemed. I got that now. Oh yeah, I got that loud and clear.

  Questions? I had millions of them.

  Anger? I was drowning in it.

  Fuck me, whoever said the past tastes bitter was dead on the money.

  Slumped against the familiar gravestone, I folded my arms behind my head and stretched my legs out in front of me. Imagining that I was lying in the exact same place and position as my brother six feet beneath me, something that had always given me some morbid sense of relief, I cast my gaze up to the storm-ridden, grey sky.

  "Well, Chris, if all of this goes to shit, I'll be joining you soon enough." I thought about what lay ahead for me and released a heavy sigh. "I have to do it, brother. After all the years of wishing I could hurt Romi's dad, I actually have to kill him."

  "Not if he kills you first," a familiar voice answered me. "Something that you will make so easy for him to accomplish if you continue to laze around in the wide open and throw away our advantage of taking him by surprise."

  "Do you mind?" I deadpanned. "I was having a private conversation with my brother."

  "Your dead brother… or should I say your pretend brother?" Seth came to stand over me. "Either way, I'm sure it was wonderfully stimulating."

  "Fuck you." Hackles raised, I rose to my feet and readjusted the beanie cap I had on. "I was saying goodbye."

  "Why bother? If this ends badly, you'll be seeing him," Seth replied, falling into step beside me as we walked towards the parking lot. "Besides, the dead can't hear us, Giacobbe. That's why we bury them. Because they cannot hear us anymore. They cannot speak. They are dead."

  "You don’t believe in heaven or hell, Seth?"

  "A wise man once told me that we need not fear hell, because on earth, we are already living it."

  "For real?" Frowning, I watched him climb into the passenger seat of my truck before climbing in after him. "That's a pretty piss-poor view of life."

  "Perhaps." He rubbed his jaw. "But the man who spoke those words had endured more hell than most."

  "Yeah, well, haven't we all?" I muttered, stabbing the key into the ignition and cranking the engine. Kneading my jean-clad thigh with my fist, I attempted to calm the nerves building up inside of me while I concentrated on the road ahead of me. The road back to hell. "So," I said, trying to distract myself, "who was this man with the incredibly pessimistic view on life?"

  His lips twitched. "Your father."

  My entire body coiled tight with tension.

  My hands gripped the steering wheel so tight, I was surprised the bones of my knuckles didn’t tear through my snow-white skin.

  For my whole life, I'd been on the outside looking in. Watching from a distance as the world moved on around me, never truly fitting in or finding my place in a family of liars.

  The reason was clear now.

  They were never my family.

  But to a five-year-old child who felt insecure and unloved, hindsight was little comfort.

  And Chris knew.

  He knew we weren't twins.

  Cal killed him to keep the truth buried.

  He was my cousin.

  They both were.

  My father and twin brother were distant relatives.

  What the actual fuck?

  My whole fucking life I had been misled and deceived.

  I didn’t even know my real name, dammit.

  It stung.

  My whole life tasted bitter and toxic and I felt like I was bleeding out.

  Screw it, I didn’t want to think about Raffaele Toretto and his Catalinian mob.

  I didn’t want to acknowledge anything I'd learned these past few weeks.

  I just wanted to continue believing that my brother was dead and my parents were cold.

  Hurtful as that existence was, the other prospect, the one where I watched my mother burn to death, was too bitter a pill to swallow.

  But I knew that blaming and shaming wasn't going to help me. It wouldn’t make a damn thing better.

  I needed Romi.

  Just Romi.

  The rest of the world could go to hell. They could all burn in their world of sin. I was getting my girl and getting the fuck out of here. I would survive just as long as I had her.

  "So, where to next?" I asked, pulling out of the parking lot of the cemetery.

  "I think it's time to make a bold statement," Seth mused. "I think it's time for you to go home, Giacobbe." Smirking, he added, "I would love a tour."

  Well shit. "For real?" A shiver rolled through me. "You really want to do this right now?"

  "No. Tonight, we plan. Tomorrow, we finish this," he replied, expression darkening. "Once and for all."

  Aw hell.

  14

  Romi

  "Well?" Raffaele demanded, as he paced the floor of his office like a caged animal.

  "Nothing," Mr. Capaldi replied, tossing his phone down on the huge oval table in the middle of the room. Slumping forward, he placed his elbows on the table and dropped his head in his hands. "Straight to voicemail."

  "Then try again!" Raffaele roared, shoving a hand through his tousled dark hair. "And keep trying until he answers the fucking telephone, Christopher!"

  "What do you want me to do?" Mr. Capaldi hissed back at him, swiping his phone back up. "I can't fucking teleport into the boy's mind and make him pick up the damn phone, Raff!"

  Eyes bulging in his head, Raffaele threw his hands up in the air, looking about two seconds away from bursting into flames. "I should have killed you the moment you stepped foot back in my home."

  It was in that moment that I recognized the uncanny behavioral traits he shared with his son. Sketch was a loose cannon, he always had been, and
it looked like Raffaele wasn't much different.

  "What are you doing now?" I asked, wary, as I watched Mr. Capaldi place his cell in the middle of the table and switch on the speakerphone.

  "Calling your father," was all he replied.

  "Are you completely insane?" Raffaele demanded.

  "We have to do something, Raff."

  "You cannot negotiate with terrorists, cousin," he hissed. "It's a trap. You do realize this?"

  "I don’t care," Mr. Capaldi replied stubbornly. "He's my son."

  "No," Raffaele seethed. "He's my son – my son you took from me!"

  "I didn’t want this life!" Mr. Capaldi roared then. "I have never wanted any part of Cosa Nostra – not for me, and not for my son! But you dragged me in, Raff. You sucked me into this hell. I have done everything in my power to be loyal to you. To honor my vow. I buried my own son because I was protecting yours!" Blowing out a ragged breath, Mr. Capaldi's shoulders sagged in defeat. "I need to see this through. I need to help him."

  Raffaele was quiet for a long pause before finally speaking. "I will find a way to save my son, make no mistake about it. But you are playing right into that bastard's hands. If Seth is working with him, then your phone call is exactly what Cal will want – what he will expect. Do not give it to him, cousin."

  "Christopher," my father's cheerful voice boomed from the speaker of Mr. Capaldi's phone and all of the air left my lungs in a rush.

  Too late to hang up, I gripped the oak table for all I was worth, chest rising and falling quickly, as my father's voice filled my ears.

  "I've been expecting your call."

  Rolling his eyes to the heavens, Raffaele gestured wildly at the phone, as if to say 'see, I told you so'.

  "What do you want, Cal?" Mr. Capaldi asked, tone impressively emotionless.

  "You're the one who called me," came my father's taunting response. "So, why don’t you tell me what you want, old friend?"

  "You already know."

  My father laughed. "You didn’t do a very good job raising him, Chris. The boy is all heart and no brains. Just as reckless as always."

  Mr. Capaldi stiffened and Raffaele looked like he was about to have an aneurism.

  I had never seen a man's face turn such a deep shade of red.

  Wait, scratch that, I had.

  Sketch's face.

  Whenever he used to see me with Chris.

  "What do you want, Cal?" Mr. Capaldi repeated, and this time my father answered the question.

  "I want him to suffer," he replied simply. "I want to destroy every trace of joy that ever existed for him and wipe it from the earth." There was a short pause before my father spoke again. "Did you hear that, Raff?"

  "I heard you," Raffaele spat, gripping the back of a chair.

  "I want your anger. I want your tears," my father continued to taunt. "I kept your son alive all these years just to prolong your pain. It was not enough for me to let you agonize in the knowledge that I burned your whore alive. I kept your bastard alive just so that I could taste your suffering when I slowly peel the flesh from his bones, carving your heir piece by piece. I want to revel in the fact that you know he's dying and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it." My father sighed in contentment. "That is what I want."

  "All of this because you are still sore that she chose me," Raffaele hissed, looking tortured. "She was my wife, Cal –"

  "And she should have been mine!" my father roared down the line. "But you stole her away from me. Blinding her with your charm and looks before I had the chance to show her what I had to offer."

  "You cannot steal a woman from a man who has never owned her heart," Raffaele countered, livid. "And Carmella was never yours."

  "And you will never hold your son in your arms again," my father retaliated cruelly. "I hope his death haunts you until you take your last breath."

  "It won't work!" I blurted out then, breathing ragged. "Even if you kill Sketch, you can't take Raffaele's family from him because I'm pregnant!"

  "You idiot," Raffaele snarled, fury emanating from him.

  I didn’t care what he called me just as long as I stopped my father from doing the unthinkable. "I'm growing his grandchild inside of me, daddy – yours, too. So, your plan is a waste of time. Hurting Sketch won't change a thing. This baby is a Toretto, and whether you like it or not, their bloodline will continue."

  My father was silent for so long that I thought he had hung up.

  When he finally spoke, his words sent a chill down my spine. "I am prepared to make a deal with you, after all, Raff. Come to my home and bring my daughter. We can talk then."

  "Do you think I am that naïve?"

  "I think you love your son," my father replied. "If I'm right, and you want to see him alive again then you will come."

  The line went dead and Raffaele released a furious roar. "Congratulations, cousin," he sneered, glowering at Mr. Capaldi. "You just handed our one advantage over to the man who wants to kill us; the element of surprise. You have really outdone yourself this time." Furious and cursing in Italian, he pulled his own phone out and tapped furiously against the screen.

  "What are you doing?"

  "What do you think I'm doing, jackass?" Raffaele hissed. "I am organizing the plane." He placed the phone to his ear and stalked out of the room, leaving me all alone at the table with Mr. Capaldi.

  It was taking everything I had inside of me not to reach across the huge oval table and slap him upside his head. I managed to refrain, but only just.

  Finally, Mr. Capaldi broke the tension. "Say what you need to say, Ramona."

  "Sketch never deserved any of this." Placing my small fists on the table, I leaned forward. "You allowed him to be treated like a dog. He was owed so much more than that. He deserved a better life than the piss-poor one you provided for him."

  His remained silent for a long beat, obviously mulling over my words. "I agree," he finally replied, lifting his head to look right at me. "Both of my sons deserved better."

  "How could you lie to them all these years?" My throat felt tight with emotion. "How could you just…sit back and not do something?"

  A heavy sigh of defeat escaped him. "It may look that way to you, Ramona, but believe me, I did a lot of somethings, and made a lot of sacrifices."

  "You let him break us up," I wheezed, feeling the air rush from my lungs. "You let me date Chris. You never said a word when you knew Sketch had been coerced by my father." My lip wobbled. "You knew he was going to trade me off to Raffaele, and you did nothing to stop him."

  "I knew that Raff would never hurt you," he replied, tone thick with emotion. "I knew you were safer with your father's enemy than your father himself. And as for not stepping in when Cal broke your relationship up, well, let's just say that it was in his best interest to stay far away from you."

  "Why?" I demanded. "For what possible reason?"

  "You were his ornament, Ramona. His pretty little princess. Cal's prized bargaining chip. He needed to keep you polished and clean. Your father was only looking for a reason to kill Giacobbe, and he would have done it for the very reason you're cradling your swollen belly as we speak!" he countered heatedly. "Telling your father about this was beyond stupid, by the way. If he gets his hands on you, he won't allow it to live."

  "It?" I hissed, teeth grinding together. "My baby is not an it."

  "To your father, that's exactly what your baby is," he replied, eyes locked on mine. "He will eliminate any threat or claim to the power he is obsessed with, and you just gave him another target."

  My cheeks reddened and I sank back in my seat. "Oh."

  "Yes. Oh."

  "It's really is his baby," I croaked out, feeling oddly defensive. "Sketch, I mean. He's the father. I wasn't lying."

  "Yes, Ramona, I know. I didn’t doubt the paternity for a moment." A weary smile ghosted his lips that was quickly replaced with a pained grimace. "Cal and I both knew about Chris's sexual preference. He was never going to lay a fing
er on you. He was no threat to what Cal needed from you." He cleared his throat. "When I told Chris that he had to date you, I did it to keep you and Giacobbe safe. You were never going to leave him alone, and he was never going to be strong enough to resist you. So, I placed a wedge between you and prayed for both of your sakes that it was enough to keep you apart."

  "Chris," I breathed, finally understanding.

  Mr. Capaldi nodded in resignation. "That was a mistake that cost me his life."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Chris had questions," he replied brokenly. "When I didn’t answer them, he clearly went about finding them himself." A shudder racked through his slumped frame. "I didn’t know what Cal was planning to do to my son, but if I had, I would have killed him with my bare hands." Looking both remorseful and resigned, he added, "Not having the foresight to predict the sheer depth of your father's ruthlessness is the regret of my lifetime."

  I remained silent, unsure of what to say.

  "Was it quick?" he asked then, voice breaking. "You were with him that night." Tears filled his eyes. "Did my son suffer for long?"

  Too long.

  "No," I whispered, barely audible. "It was quick."

  The relief that flooded Mr. Capaldi's eyes made the lie easier to swallow.

  "I hope you are ready to meet your maker, cousin," Raffaele announced, returning to the room a moment later. "Because once we board that plane, neither of us are coming home."

  15

  Presley

  I was seriously ticked off.

  Not only had I put my life on hold for Sketch freaking Capaldi these past few months, but I had also put it on the line for him. And how does the sexy son of a gun repay my brave and generous nature? By skipping town with a delinquent fuck boy, that's how.

  I was so mad I could taste it.

  Hopping, in fact.

  Oh yes, I was Bugs Bunny in Space Jam kind of hopping.

  Except instead of chasing a basketball around a court, I was chasing a mob king's baby spawn across three states.

  Oh lord.

  How Sketch could be so freaking naïve was truly beyond me. Sure, I wanted to get under Seth Dillon and jump his bones like a horny cat in heat, but I trusted him about as far as I could throw him.