Pocketful of Us: Pocket #4 Page 7

  Sketch clearly hadn't accepted his murderous offer, so why was he still here?

  A solid education and countless hours of my youth spent reading crime novels and thrillers led me to assume that Seth Dillon had an agenda. He was here for a reason. He'd found us for a reason. And frustratingly, he refused to speak about those reasons with anyone but Sketch.

  It was a pickle and I was beginning to loathe pickles.

  "I don’t trust him," I muttered under my breath. "Not one bit."

  "Hmm," was Lucky's non-committal response.

  "Why the hell is he still sticking around – and how the hell did he know where to find us in the first place?" I continued to rant, but when Lucky started to sing along to the music, I realized that, for him, the conversation was over.

  Left in a semi-state of silence to mull over my thoughts, I allowed myself to brood over the catastrophic predicament I had somehow found myself in.

  The way I saw it, I had two horses in this dastardly race of life or death.

  Sketch and Romi.

  One was AWOL.

  The other had dropped off the face of the earth.

  Everyone else could go to hell.

  Big dick Dillon, as pretty as he was, didn’t come into the equation, because you know, bros before hoe-bros and all that jazz.

  "Roll down the window, Cowboy," Lucky instructed, cutting his drunken rendition of Frozen's Love is an Open Door short and dragging me from my thoughts.

  "What?" Confused, I cast a sideways glance his way. "Why?"

  "Just do what you're told and roll the fucking window down," he repeated calmly, reaching for something under his shirt with one hand as he lowered the volume on the stereo with the other. "Please."

  Morbidly curious, I did as he asked. "Are you feeling sick or something? Because if you need to throw up some of the poison you drank tonight then I can pull the car over –"

  BANG!

  "Jesus fucking Christ!" I roared, both startled and deafened by the sudden explosion in my ears. Slamming on the brakes, the truck skidded from one side of the ice-ridden mountainous road to the other before coming to halt in the pitch dark. "What the hell was that?"

  "That was me assuring that I'm around to enjoy morning sex with my woman tomorrow," he replied calmly before climbing out of the truck – still humming along to the freaking song as he walked.

  Wide eyed and bewildered, I switched off the stereo and unfastened my seatbelt before quickly scrambling out after him. "Love is most definitely not an open door, Lucky Casarazzi, and neither is your right to use firearms that have both the noise level and ability to give me a heart attack!"

  "Two things –" Pausing, he sparked up a cigarette and took a deep drag before continuing, "First, you need to calm down. And second, it was either he went home to his woman, or I went home to mine," Lucky added, stopping at the steep embankment at the side of the road. "I know what I'm choosing, kid. Every single time."

  "His? Oh, holy fuck." My stomach churned violently when I reached where he was standing and saw for myself who he was referring to. "That's a dead man, Lucky."

  "You're sharp, cowboy."

  "With a bullet in his throat."

  "Again, a-plus for observation."

  "I thought you were drunk."

  "I am."

  "But you shot that man in the throat." I shook my head in disbelief. "In the dark of night. From a moving car!"

  "I know."

  "A drunk man shouldn’t have that deadly an aim." I looked up at him, waiting for an explanation.

  "Yeah, I know. I'm disappointed in myself, too." He shrugged. "I was aiming for his head."

  My mouth fell open. "You're a freaking lunatic. Seriously. You need locking up. Again. In a padded cell. With no goddamn firearms!"

  "Duly noted." Rolling his shoulders, he slid his gun into the back of jeans before crouching down next to the body. "Alright. Let's see who we've got here."

  He reached into the dead man's pocket and withdrew his wallet. "Oh my good lord, are you actually looting the corpse?"

  "Ramon Catochi," he mused, flipping through the cards in his wallet. "Can't say his bullet was meant for me." Flicking his drivers license into my hands, he asked, "Ring any bells?"

  "Only the bells of Notre freaking Dame!" I strangled out, immediately recognizing the name. "He's one of Cal's goons."

  "You sure about that?"

  "Positive." Eyes glued to the piece of plastic in my hand, I felt a tremor roll through me. "He's the one who killed Chris." I narrowed my eyes, feeling my temper rise and my sympathy vanish. "He tried to shoot us in El Paso."

  Fury.

  It was all I could feel.

  "If Catochi was here, it means that Cal knows we're in Boulder." I looked at Lucky, horror encompassing my features. "It means that he knows Sketch is here."

  Like a sadistic form of Satan's clockwork, Lucky's cell phone began to chime in his pocket. Dragging it out, he glanced at the screen once before swiping his thumb over it and putting the sleek device to his ear. "G, I've got some firewood for your men to collect about four miles south of the warehouse," he said in an eerily cheerful tone of voice. "I'd take care of it myself, but my woman's ovulating or some shit and I need to get home pronto."

  I eyeballed the hitman who was standing over the body of a man whose throat he had just opened up to the night sky. He genuinely didn’t seem to have a care in the world and I mentally stewed over the safety of the citizens of Colorado should he be successful in procreating another little miracle.

  Chuckling into the phone, he kicked at a piece of snow. "Yeah, she's doing good. Still pumping out those bestsellers… Nah, we haven't seen that one yet, but I'll put it on the list for date night."

  Oh my freaking God!

  These people were outrageous.

  "Say what now?" A frown quickly replaced Lucky's carefree expression. "When did this happen?" Okay, he was definitely scowling now. "And he's gone with him? You're sure?" He dropped his head. "Well shit."

  Uh-oh.

  This was bad.

  So freaking bad.

  "Alright, keep me updated," Lucky said before finally ending the call. He turned to look at me, expression grim. "One of Gonzalez's informants called. Your boy Sketch's truck was identified crossing the border of Texas yesterday."

  "No." I closed my eyes and groaned. "Tell me he's not going back there?"

  "It gets worse," he added with a heavy sigh. "Seth's missing."

  I stared blankly. "Come again?"

  "This is bad, cowboy." Muttering a string of curse words under his breath, Lucky stalked back to his truck. "This is very fucking bad." Yanking the door of the truck open, he climbed into the passenger seat, looking a helluva lot more sober now – and a helluva lot more pissed.

  "Tell me your thoughts?" I asked, jumping into the driver's seat. "You're the criminal mastermind – no offense intended. What do you think's happening here?"

  "Evil twin shows up out of the blue and persuades fullback to take on a glorified suicide mission with him, all the while this Catochi piece of shit comes sniffing 'round my neck of the woods? Both know exactly where to find us. Is that merely a coincidence or do they both have one mutual advisor – or should I say, one common interest?"

  "Cal Dillon," I gasped, doing the math while I cranked the engine.

  "Cal fucking Dillon!" Releasing a frustrated growl, Lucky slammed his fist against the dashboard. "Goddammit to hell, your boy Sketch just got played, cowboy." He looked me dead in the eye. "And he's in serious fucking trouble, kid."

  12

  Romi

  I thought I saw the devil in my dreams last night, but it turned out that I was only remembering fragments of my past. Remembering a man who had cloaked himself in shades of light to conceal the true darkness of his soul.

  My father.

  All day, I had tried to shake the horrible dream from my mind, but it wasn't easy. I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than my father and what he was up
to now. I could only pray that Sketch was somewhere safe. That his father had taken him to a hospital far away from Pocketful.

  Before our revelation in the bathroom, I was free to wander the estate, left alone to my own devices, but now, Raffaele never let me out of his sight.

  If he needed to leave the estate, I had to go with him.

  If I stepped outside for some fresh air, he was five steps behind me.

  If a doctor visited, he was right beside me.

  If I needed to use the bathroom, he stood outside.

  It was almost like we were joined at the hip.

  Paranoid was an understatement for the man's behavior, but I really couldn’t blame him. My father had betrayed him in the most despicable way, shattering his faith in the people around him and making it impossible for him to trust a single soul.

  His presence was stifling, his demands overwhelming, but I didn’t complain.

  I was grateful not to be dead.

  And besides, we had two common interests.

  His son.

  And said son's child growing inside of me.

  When he wasn't following me around, he was interrogating me on every memory and sliver of information I could give him about Sketch.

  For most of our conversations, I did the majority of the talking. They usually consisted of him asking me question after mundane question about Sketch, and I dutifully answered each and every one. Raffaele's ranged from what his son's favorite movie was, to his height, hair and eye color now that he was eighteen. How well – or not so well – he did at school, and the sports he played.

  Raffaele Toretto hung on every word I said, listening intently to every miniscule detail I could provide him that related to Sketch, and, luckily for him, I had plenty.

  "We have a visitor," Raffaele announced, strolling into the kitchen where I had been attempting to keep down a bowl of pasta. It wasn't coming easy to me, though. Every morning for the past week, I had woken with terrible nausea that had lasted well into the evenings.

  Food was the last thing on mind.

  "Hmm," I mumbled, playing with my uneaten food, entirely uninterested in having a visitor in a foreign country where I couldn't speak the language. "Unless that visitor is Sketch, I really don’t care." I knew he was looking for him. It was the only reason I was remaining calm. Weirdly enough, I trusted Raffaele. I was banking my entire future on him finding his long-lost son and bringing him back to me.

  "Close," Raffaele replied, shoving his hands into the pockets of his tailored suit pants. "It is Christopher."

  "Columbus?" I tossed out, bored.

  "Capaldi," he corrected, causing me to drop my fork and almost fall off the stool I was lazing on. "Now come, Ramona. I have a feeling that you will want to hear what he has to say."

  Beaten and bruised to a pulp, it took me several moments for my mind to register the weathered looking man standing in the foyer as Mr. Capaldi. He looked a shadow of the man he used to be, with his nose clearly broken and his face swollen and purple. Two of Raffaele's well-dressed soldiers stood on either side of Mr. Capaldi, both armed with guns and ready to fire at their boss's order.

  "And the prodigal cousin returns to the scene of the crime," Raffaele said coldly, folding his arms across his chest. "Fifteen years too late."

  Mr. Capaldi bowed his head. In shame or respect, I couldn’t be sure. "Cousin," he whispered almost reverently. "You're home. I didn’t know – couldn’t believe it. I had to see come for myself."

  "And now you have," Raffaele replied flatly. "Seen me, that is." Unfolding his arms, he shoved his hands back into his pockets. "Now, was there anything else you wanted to see before I put you down for being a traitorous bastard?"

  "I need your help."

  Raffaele laughed humorlessly. "You have a lot of nerve, cousin, I'll give you that. Asking me for help after betraying me and kidnapping my son –"

  "Where is he?" I snarled, barreling forwards, both unable and unwilling to listen to another word. "Where's Sketch?"

  "Ramona," Mr. Capaldi replied, sagging in relief at the sight of me. "You're alright. Thank god."

  "I'm alright, but Sketch isn’t!" Nobody tried to stop me when I lunged forward and slapped Chris's father across the face. "You let my father do that to him, you sick son of a bitch! You let that monster shoot Sketch!" Furious tears burned my eyes as I continued to push and slap at Mr. Capaldi's chest. "And worse! You let him kill Chris. Why? Why would you do that? Huh? And what about the way y'all treated Sketch his whole freaking life? You and your horrible wife. Did it get you off torturing Sketch? Letting your wife treat him like he was scum of the earth? Letting my father make his life a living hell!" I hit him again, harder this time. "He better be okay. I swear to God if he isn't, I will kill you. Do you hear me? I will kill you with my bare hands, dammit! Now, tell me where he is –"

  "Pocketful!" Mr. Capaldi choked out, holding a hand up to shield his mangled face from my attack. "He's gone back."

  "No…" I staggered backwards, hand snaking up to clutch my chest. "No, no, no. My father is there. Sketch wouldn’t go back there..."

  "He has."

  "Why?" I demanded, voice breaking. "Why would he put himself in danger like that?"

  "Because he's going to kill your father." Shoulders slumping in defeat, Mr. Capaldi slipped a bruised hand into his pocket and withdrew his phone. "He sent me this."

  I moved to take the phone, but Raffaele stepped forward and swiped it out of his hand before I could.

  With a look of utter consternation, Raffaele glared at the screen for several beats, multiple emotions flashing in his eyes before he finally looked back at Mr. Capaldi. "You trained my son to call you dad." His words were laced with spit and venom. "Does he know yet? Does my son know that you are not his papa?"

  "He knows," he confirmed. "But only recently."

  "How recently?" Raffaele demanded, eyes darkening like thunder clouds.

  "A few weeks," Mr. Capaldi replied in a weary tone. "Listen, Raff, you have to understand –"

  "Don’t listen Raff me," he sneered. "I do not have to understand a damn thing. The words of a traitor mean nothing to me!"

  "I kept him alive," Mr. Capaldi urged. "I protected Giacobbe when you weren't around to do it yourself."

  "When I wasn’t around?" The vein in Raffaele's temple bulged. "You mean when I was betrayed and thrown for a crime I did not, have not, and would never commit?" Looking wholly enraged, he continued, "Were you there? Did you watch them burn my wife? Did you hear her cries? Did you do nothing like the rest of them?"

  "I did what I had to do to ensure Giacobbe's survival," Mr. Capaldi shot back. "I couldn’t save Carmella, Raff. She was already dead when I got here, but I did protect your son. I did that much."

  "Who cares!" I screamed, delirious with fear. "That's in the past. Fighting about it won't solve anything. We need to focus on Sketch, okay? He's the one who needs y'all right now!" Breathing hard and fast, I turned back to Raffaele and swiped the phone, desperate to read whatever message Sketch had sent Mr. Capaldi…

  I should hate you, but I don’t. I should want to kill you, but I don’t. I don’t feel any of the things I should be feeling. I guess that makes me completely fucked up in the head – worse than you and Mama already thought. Listen, I need to do something and I don’t know if I'm gonna be able to pull it off. If I do, then you can forget about this message. But if I don’t, I need you to find Romi for me. I need you to make sure that she's okay. I shouldn't be asking you to do shit for me, considering all of the lies, but I am. I'm trusting you to have my back if shit goes south. I'm heading back to Pocketful with Seth. You know what he wants me to do. You know that I have to try. He's my only chance to find her. So, I guess what I'm saying is goodbye, hopefully not forever, but who the fuck knows anymore. Oh… and if I don’t make it back, look out for Presley for me. He's a good guy. Don’t let him get shot, okay. Bye Dad.

  – Sketch.

  "What the hell is he doing with Set
h?" I demanded, waving the phone in front of their faces. "Sketch doesn’t know Seth – hell, I don’t even know him and he's supposed to be my twin! What does Seth want with him?"

  "Seth wants to kill your father, Ramona," Mr. Capaldi replied. "And he wants Giacobbe to help him."

  "It's a trap," Raffaele announced. A wild concoction of fury and terror flashed in his steel blue eyes. "A rouse to lure him into the lion's den." His gaze flicked to Mr. Capaldi. "They're going to kill him."

  "What?" Feeling frantic, I turned to Raffaele. "No, no, no, no…"

  Mr. Capaldi paled. "Raff, how are you so sure? Cal murdered his mother right in front of him. Maybe the boy wants –"

  "The boys wants power and nothing less!" Raffaele roared, cutting him off. "I should know, dammit. He was my prisoner for four months!" he added, hands balling into fists. "Revenge and power. It is all he knows. All he thinks about. All he seeks." His eyes darkened. "Just like his father."

  "Then you have to stop him!" Hurrying towards Raffaele, I gripped his arm with both hands. "Please. I can't lose Sketch again, and my father will torture him…" It didn’t bear thinking about. Throwing myself at the mercy of my captor turned ally, I begged, "Raffaele, please, you have to stop him before he gets himself killed!"

  "If my son is with that boy, then he is already dead." Pain encompassed his features and he staggered forward, clutching the window sill. "It is already too late."

  13

  Sketch

  If Seth Dillon thought that I would do his dirty work for him without getting confirmation of Romi's wellbeing first, then he thought right.

  It took me two weeks to come to terms with that.

  Fourteen days and nights of frantically searching for Romi and coming up empty before finally accepting the fact that I wasn't going to see Romi Dillon again without her brother's help.

  In order to receive the help I desperately needed, I had to take a life.

  Cal Dillon's life.