Pocketful of Us: Pocket #4 Page 3

  "Mama loves you, Giacobbe."

  Locked doors.

  "No, Papa, don’t go!"

  Whiskey colored eyes.

  "Sketch likes to Sketch."

  Red ribbons.

  "What are you doing to me?" I strangled out, dragging my hands through my hair. "How are you doing this?"

  "I'm not doing anything," Dad replied, ignoring the others as he concentrated entirely on me. "You're remembering all on your own."

  "Please, not my son…"

  Blood and smoke...

  "Want a cookie?"

  Flesh burning.

  "I'll be your friend."

  The girl.

  "What's your name, boy?"

  The girl.

  "Who are you?"

  The girl.

  "Who is your father?"

  The girl.

  "Close your eyes, Giacobbe. Do not watch!"

  The girl.

  "No, Mama, no!"

  Angel…

  "Make it stop!" I demanded, clenching my eyes shut as memories of another lifetime flashed through my broken mind. I was terrified of the memories – the ones screaming at me to remember. "Please… just make it fucking stop!"

  "I know this is hard for you, but you need to hear me, Jacob. You need to take this in. It's time for you to remember who you are and where you came from."

  "I can't," I cried out hoarsely, breathing erratic. "I don’t want to know any of this. I just want Romi."

  "Fifteen years ago, when you were little more than a toddler, Cal Dillon committed the ultimate crime in our world and betrayed his boss. He double crossed your father. He sent my cousin down for a crime he did not commit by framing Raff for the rape of a young girl, and in doing so, he took command of his army, of his family." My father's tone was urgent as he spoke. His face looked more weathered in this moment than I'd ever seen. "But that wasn’t enough for him. Not for a paranoid narcissist like Cal. He knew that even in his absence, your father was worshipped more than he could ever hope to be. Therefore, to enforce his power and control over the family, Cal eliminated anyone openly loyal to Raff."

  "Including his mother," Lucky offered quietly.

  "Including his mother," Dad confirmed sadly.

  "Why not me?" Blinking away the tears, I looked at my dad, feeling numb to the bone, and asked, "Why didn’t Cal kill me?"

  "Because I convinced him that you would be far more useful to him alive than dead. You would be the perfect bargaining chip should Raffaele ever be released from prison and seek revenge on Cal."

  "Except I wasn't useful." My hands were shaking so badly that the vibration was ricocheting through my whole body. "He never came to get me."

  "Only because he thinks that you burned with your mother –"

  "Okay, can we pause the life-altering revelations until the gunshot victim is sitting down please?" Coming to stand beside me, Presley wrapped a tentative arm around my waist. "I've got you, buddy."

  "Sketch." Feeling both weak and deflated, I leaned heavily against him, allowing him to lead me back to a seat, and surprised as hell that he could take my weight. "My name is Sketch."

  "Damn straight," Presley coaxed. "To hell with the name Holden Capaldi and screw Jacob Toretto. I never liked those names anyway. You're Sketch, buddy. Just Sketch. Like Madonna or Rihanna, except cooler, and, you know, male. You rock the single-name thingy anyway."

  "Yeah," I breathed, consumed in my pain. "Just Sketch."

  "So, now we've established that Cal is Dr. Evil in all of this," Presley said once we were sitting down. "Care to break the rest of the madness into bite-sized pieces? You know; make it easier for my boy here to swallow all of this catastrophic trauma!"

  "Does he have a mute button?" one of Gonzalez's men asked, staring at Presley with a look of bewilderment.

  "I can mute the creature," Gonzalez replied menacingly, setting his gun on the table.

  "Oh, give it a rest with the creature comments, Mr. Stretch-Fatso-Stinky," Presley shot back with a huff.

  "What did you call me?"

  "Ever heard of the movie Casper? No? Too bad. It's a great movie. And I would've chosen one ghostly uncle nickname for you, but you know what they say about the shoe fitting…"

  "Did you just call me fat?"

  "Are you really surprised?" Presley replied, gesturing to his stomach. "You have the look of a man who is partial to a pie or ten. I mean, let's be honest here; I can't be the first person to mention your weight issue. As for the stinky jibe…" Presley shrugged. "Well, I think we've already established your urgent need to bathe in some grade A disinfectant – "

  "That is it!" Gonzalez declared, red-faced. "Bolillo, I cannot take another second of this creature." Jerking to his feet, he grabbed his blade and stalked towards Presley. "I am going to cut your tongue out and wear it as a trophy around my neck."

  "Enough," Lucky interjected, stifling a laugh, as he stepped between Gonzalez and Presley. "Cowboy, as entertaining as I find you, and I find you immensely entertaining, you're walking a thin line."

  "Duly noted," Presley replied with a nod, sinking closer to me. "I know you're in bad shape right now," he whispered in my ear, "but do you think you can protect me?"

  I didn’t answer him because my entire focus was on my father.

  He's not your father, remember?

  He's your father's cousin.

  "Why?" I asked, hating the weakness in my voice. Christ, I hated crying, but right now I could hardly see through the tears burning my eyes. "Why would he think that I died with her?"

  "Because that's what Cal wrote in the letter he sent Raff in prison," my father replied.

  My eyes narrowed. "Why would he do that?"

  Dad sighed heavily. "What better way to torment a loving father than to taunt him with his only son's death?"

  "That's completely fucked up," I bit out, feeling broken and confused.

  "Aye, aye, aye," Gonzalez muttered, stroking his beard. "It is a dirty trick."

  "Question," Presley blurted, holding a finger up. "If Cal kept him around to use in the event of his gangster daddy returning from his time-out on the naughty step in the state penitentiary, then why fake Sketch's death in a letter?"

  "Italy."

  Presley cocked a brow. "Beautiful country. Shaped like a boot. Population of sixty million. What's your point?"

  "Raffaele served his time in an Italian prison," Dad bit out, looking bone weary and worse for wear. "Not the state penitentiary."

  "Well, it must suck to be him, but that doesn’t answer my question." Pushing his glasses up his nose, Pres glowered at my father, tone laced with distrust when he asked, "Why did Cal tell Raffaele that his son was dead if he was keeping him alive as a bargaining chip? Why did Cal give Sketch to you to raise? What the hell is up with that?"

  "You think I'm lying, Quinton?"

  "Only when your lips are moving, Christopher."

  A snort escaped Lucky, who quickly smothered his amusement with a bottle of beer. "Kid needs his own TV show," he muttered, before placing the rim of the bottle to his lips. "He's reality gold.".

  "Well, thanks for the compliment, but I consider myself to be more palladium than gold. It's rarer than gold and much harder to come by," Presley shot back before continuing with his interrogation. "You said that Cal eliminated anyone who was openly loyal to this Toretto mafia king." Standing up, he prowled around the room, looking like a scrawny state prosecutor. "Well, smack my ass and call me Judy, but I know full well that if one of my cousins was in trouble, I'd be by their side in a jiffy. And trust me, I don't say that lightly," he added, widening his eyes in dramatic fashion. "I have some seriously questionable cousins. I'm talking the illicit drug taking, stripping, my body is not a temple, kind of cousins– oh, no offense, Luck."

  "None taken."

  "You know I was referring to your sister Hayden, right?"

  "Half-sister."

  "Pssh. Semantics."

  "Focus, cowboy."

 
"Focusing," Presley replied, before turning back to my father. "Which brings me to the question; where was this Raffaele dude's cousin when Cal Dillon was testing out loyalty? Hmm?" He glowered at him. "Where were you?"

  "Answer me this, Quinton; what would have happened to Jacob if I had been a martyr that night?" Dad asked wearily. "Would he be here to tell the tale, or would he have truly burned with his mother?"

  Presley was quiet for a long moment, clearly working through his thoughts before reluctantly nodding. "Well, shit on a stick, that's a fair point."

  "Cal was always incredibly envious of my older cousin. Even as small children back home in Sicily, Cal's jealousy had festered away inside of him. Their fathers were brothers-in-arms, with Raff's father, Giacobbe, the capo dei capi of the family and Donnie Dillon his capo bastone. Raff was Cal's closest friend from babyhood, yet he always competed with him. I was four years younger than the boys, Raff's annoying little cousin tagging along after him, but I remember it well. Be it for the affection of girls, power in Cosa Nostra, or their fathers' attention, Calisto made it his life's mission to get one over on Raff. It never happened. No matter how hard he tried, Cal always found himself…"

  "Second best," I whispered, reeling at the fact that all of this felt more familiar than I wanted it to.

  "And Raff's second in command," Presley added. "Well hell, the sick bastard must have taken great pleasure in watching Raff's son endure a lifetime of the same fate."

  "More than you could ever know."

  "What about the sworn-in vow of Omertá?" Lucky asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Didn't you all take a pact of silence before becoming made men?" Leaning back in his seat, he rested his feet on the table in front of him and took a swig of beer. "That's how it works, right? Omertá is compulsory in your world and failure to uphold the vow is punishable by death? Snitches get stitches – or cement boots – and all that jazz."

  Dad nodded in resignation. "Yes."

  Lucky cocked a brow. "But not to Cal?"

  "It's complicated," Dad replied. "When Raff came into power and Cal became his underboss, the world was changing and he wanted the family to change with it. Raff was adamant on upholding the code – one important factor in particular."

  "Which was?" Lucky drawled.

  "Women," my father replied simply.

  "Please," Presley groaned, holding a hand up. "Tell me that when you say women, you're not referring to sex trafficking?"

  "Yes." Dad nodded in confirmation. "It's one of the most lucrative businesses in the world, and one Cal desperately wanted to steer Cosa Nostra towards, but Raff refused point blank to even consider it. They clashed daily after that."

  "And to think I drank sweet-tea in that pervert's kitchen," Presley groaned, shaking his head. "For shame!"

  6

  Sketch

  "When Arabella left Cal shortly after the twins were born and took Seth with her, whatever little of good that was left inside of the man disintegrated. Because of his all-consuming hunger for supremacy, the malevolent streak inside of Cal slowly turned malignant. His resentment of Raff with his beautiful wife – a woman he had wanted for his own – and their baby son slowly poisoned him from the inside out. For three long years, he plotted and schemed to overthrow Raff until he finally –"

  "Became a rat-bastard informant for the feds, fucked your Don over with a fabricated rape story, more than likely provided by some underage side-piece he was banging, and betrayed the entire family," Lucky filled in lazily. "Well shit." Flicking his ash on the floor, he took another deep drag of his cigarette before saying, "Your substitute Don sounds like a real stellar guy."

  "He was never my Don," Dad replied coolly, hackles clearly rising.

  "He screwed your cousin over and you continued to work for him?" Lucky smirked. "Sounds like he's your Don to me."

  "Yeah." Gonzalez laughed. "It's sounds to me like you're his bitch boy."

  "Wait, aren't you breaking your Omertá by talking to us now?" Lucky asked then, attention clearly piqued. "Or did your most sacred vow fly out the window when you turned a blind eye to Cal's discretions?"

  "Don’t worry about my vows. I can handle myself," Dad bit out before resuming his tale. "After Raff's arrest, the family was in turmoil. Snakes were slithering from the woodworks and everyone was labeled a rat. Only a handful of us knew for sure who handed the boss in, and unlike Cal, we would rather die than break Omertá. Trust me when I tell you that it was a fucking mess. Cal took that as his opportunity to rise to the top of the ranks and take the family on a far more lucrative path."

  "Let me guess," Presley mumbled. "Sex trafficking."

  "Wait." I frowned in confusion. "Who's Arabella?"

  "Cal's wife, dude," Pres replied with a heavy sigh.

  "No." I shook my head, rebuking the mistake. "Cal's wife's name was Loretta."

  Dad shook his head. "No, Jacob."

  "Sketch." Mentally reeling, I dropped my head in my hands and mumbled, "My name is Sketch," over and over again.

  "Sketch likes to sketch…"

  The girl.

  "I love you, Sketch."

  The girl.

  "You'll always be my favorite, Sketch…"

  The girl.

  "I want you inside me, Sketch…"

  Angel.

  Angel.

  Angel.

  "I tried to warn Raff. I fucking told him that Cal was a ticking timebomb. As his Consigliere, he should have heeded my warning, but he wouldn’t hear a word against his oldest friend," Dad pressed. "I was in Rome the night he was overthrown. The moment I got word of his arrest, I returned to Sicily, but I was too late. Carmella's body was still burning when I reached the compound, but she was unrecognizable. I only knew it was her because I recognized the little boy sobbing at the base of the makeshift pyre." His eyes flicked to me. "That little boy was you, Jacob."

  "No." Shaking violently, I rubbed my knees with my hands and desperately fought back the memories trying to burrow their way back into my mind. "No, no, Mama, no…"

  "…Close your eyes, Giacobbe!" Mama screamed as the bad men held her down. "Don’t look, baby boy –"

  "Mama, no!" Tears were stinging my eyes, but I didn’t stop trying to reach her. "Mama, please… Mama, no!"

  The flames got bigger and Mama's screams grew louder.

  "Papa, help me!" I cried, clutching her shawl in my small hands. "Papa! Pap –"

  "Your papa isn't coming to save you this time, Giacobbe," Uncle Cal sneered. "You're all alone now, boy."

  Coughing and spluttering from the smoke, I pushed past him, only to be dragged back by the scruff of my neck.

  Orange flames.

  They were everywhere.

  "Mama's on fire!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "Stop burning my mama!"

  "Your father is weak and your mama is a traditora," he snarled. "What happens to traitors, boy?"

  "Mama –"

  "What happens?" he roared, shaking me violently.

  "They burn," I sobbed, dropping onto my knees, with Mama's shawl still clenched in my fist.

  "Calisto!" Papa's cousin marched towards Papa's best friend, looking furious. "What the hell is this?"

  "Christopher," Cal acknowledged. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

  "What have you done, Cal?"

  "I'm in charge now."

  "Where is the boy?" he demanded, eyes bloodshot. "Where is my godson?"

  "Still alive," Cal mused. "For now, at least."

  Sniffling, I wrapped my arms around my legs and buried my face in my knees.

  They were coming for me next.

  Our home wasn't safe anymore.

  I knew that now.

  "Daddy, no," another voice cried out. "Make it stop!" Moments later, two small arms came around me.

  I didn’t need to look up to know it was Ramona.

  "My mama," I sobbed, throwing my arms around her waist.

  "Giacobbe," she wailed, falling to her knees beside me. "We gots to go. We n
eeds to run away from my daddy…"

  "I remember you," I whispered, body rocking back and forth. "The night they burned her alive." Shaking my head, I blinked the tears from my eyes and looked at the man who raised me. "You…you called me your godson."

  Releasing a pained groan, my father nodded slowly. "Everything I have done, every lie I have told you, and every treacherous order from Cal that I have ashamedly followed, has been to keep my oath to your parents. I vowed before God and your parents to protect you. To be your Papa's second. I'm only sorry that I didn't do a better job."

  "This is why I wanted you to read the journal," Presley groaned, pulling me from my horrible fucking memories when he flopped back down next to me. "I'm so sorry, Sketch."

  "One year," Dad continued to destroy my world by saying. "That's how long it took me to convince Cal to give you to me. For twelve long months, he kept you locked away on your father's ship, while I desperately tried to negotiate with him." Pain encompassed his features as he spoke. "For three hundred and sixty-five days you were beaten, starved, degraded, and tortured in your papa's private quarters."

  "The scar on his hip?" Presley demanded, sounding pained. "The one shaped like a T?"

  "Burned into his flesh by Cal. The mark borne by the son of a family traitor."

  "Except that he wasn't a traitor's son," Pres hissed. "He was three years old, dammit – an innocent fucking baby!"

  "By the time I finally persuaded Cal to give you to me, you had forgotten your own name. You had no memory of me or your parents. You didn't speak, nor could you eat with utensils. You even had to be potty-trained all over again." He released a shaky breath. "You were four years old by then."

  "Jesus Christ," Presley growled. "Sick bastard."

  "I'm not entirely sure of what happened to you for that year, Jacob, but I promise I did everything I could to get you back as soon as I could."

  "How?" I breathed, keeping my head in my hands, too fucking traumatized to look anywhere but my own lap. "How'd you convince him to let me go?"

  "To be honest, I think the novelty of terrorizing you had worn off by then. He had all the power in the world and Raffaele was rotting in a prison cell. He had finally bettered his greatest competition and was in the throes of relocating Cosa Nostra to the states. He was so focused on taking the business to new levels that you were more of a hindrance than anything else. Besides, there was no pleasure in torturing the son of his enemy when the son didn't remember his father." He sighed heavily. "In all honesty, I believe that he grew bored of you, Jacob."