Page 4 of Craving Chaos

Her eyes flit briefly to mine. Whatever she has to say, she’s nervous to say it.

“Don’t get upset.”

My eyelids drift shut as I blow a deep stream of air through my nose. “Jesus, what did he do now?” I should have known when I saw the tuna salad. She was trying to put me in a good mood.

“Nothing all that awful. You got yourself into a mess here and there, too, don’t forget.”

I glare at her to continue.

“He’s at the station. Got caught joy riding a stolen car,” she spits out quickly.

“Fuck, now I have to go down there and smooth things over.” We have plenty of contact. I should be able to get the charges dropped, but it’s a pain in my ass. I don’t have time for this bullshit.

“You know how hard it’s been for Sante. We have to be a little understanding. Taking in your cousin didn’t just involve giving him food and a bed.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” When I offered to be his guardian after he was orphaned months ago, I had thought my dad would be around longer so that I wouldn’t be parenting a troubled teen while taking over an entire Mafia family. The past month has been fucking brutal.

How do you think it’s been for him?

His father killed his mother then tried to overthrow Dad and was killed in an ugly standoff right in front of Sante. And here I am bitching about the inconvenience when I’ve hardly been around to guide the kid.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll go get him out of lockup and talk to him.”

Mom’s face pinches with worry. “There’s one more thing.”

Of course, there is. “What is it?”

“He had Tommaso with him,” she admits softly.

Just when I was starting to feel bad for the kid. My frustration forms angry knots in my neck and shoulders. I stretch my head from one side to the other.

“This isn’t going to end well if he doesn’t get his head on right.”

“I know, but I hate to give up on him too quickly.”

“I’m not giving up on anyone, but it’s been six months. Something’s gonna have to change.”

My younger brother Tommaso is two years older than Sante, but he’s not a typical nineteen-year-old. He’s crazy smart and impossibly dense at the same time. I don’t understand him. Most people don’t, which means he hasn’t made many friends. When Sante came into the fold, he and Tommaso clicked. They’re complete opposites, so I don’t get it, but the two are practically inseparable now. That adds another layer of complication to dealing with Sante’s behavioral problems. I have to decide whether sending Sante away is better or worse for Tommaso. Fuck if I know.

“I know,” Ma says sadly.

I give her another quick kiss. “Don’t worry. We’ll get it all sorted. I’m going to go get them released.”

“Thank you, Renz. If your dad were here…” She trails off. It guts me to see her hurting.

“I really don’t mind, Ma. Everything’s gonna be fine.” I give her the most reassuring smile I can summon before heading to the police station.

“You are so goddamn lucky it was the 13th precinct that picked you up. Anyone else would have slapped you with a DWI on top of the rest.” By the time the three of us get in my car, I’m so pissed I can hardly see straight. Sante fucking reeks of alcohol. Tommaso has shut down and won’t say a word. I’m ready to ship both off to fucking boot camp.

“They’re not gonna do anything. Those assholes know who we are,” Sante mutters from the passenger seat.

“What you don’t seem to understand is we don’t have an infinite number of get-out-of-jail-free cards,” I snap at him. “If we use up our favors on piddly shit like joyriding, we may not have any goodwill left to help when something bigger goes down. It’s a give and take. We don’t fucking own the entire force.”

He looks out the side window and says nothing. Good. I’ve reached my limit for bullshit.

I drive them back to Ma’s house. Even though I’m technically Sante’s guardian, he lives with her and Tommaso. I thought it might give him the feel of a more structured home life. At this point, I’m not sure things like that matter. He’s got too much shit going on in his head for that to make a difference. I’ve even tried to send the kid to counseling. He refuses to talk. There’s no helping some people. I’m hoping that’s not the case with him.

I haven’t given up on my young cousin yet, but I’ve definitely had enough for one day. I park at the curb in front of the house and wait for the boys to get out. As they do, two men exit from the car in front of me, one on either side. They close their doors and stare back at us with scowls on their faces. I don’t know them personally, but I’d bet good money they’re Russian.

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