Page 61 of Mafia Star

They have me standing by a car, so the fucking news crews they called can film me. Let them. As long as the guys keep Beth out of sight, then I don’t give a shit where they splash my face. I watch a man walk to the side where Beth got into the car. I pray I didn’t hurt my girlfriend when I pushed her none too gently into the vehicle. Fucking shit. The little bitch officer has a slimjim and wedge. The lock pick tool won’t work on our vehicles because they’re for older cars. But it will allow him to pry at the door frame. If he can get it open enough to slide the wedge in, then he’ll get it open.

I watch in frustration as the piece of shit succeeds and gets the door to peel away from the frame. Three other officers are working on the doors, and one’s at the trunk. I dart my gaze around to see which reporters are watching the car. Only a couple. The rest are still shouting questions at me. I make sure my attention doesn’t linger any longer in case someone realizes there’s an important person in the town car.

If there weren’t so many officers— NYPD, FBI, and ATF —swarming the place and a few less cars, Vinny would have plowed through them without a second thought. That’s why Afonso moved over. I’m certain of it. Vinny started out driving a tow truck for us as a repo man. He gives no shits about anything blocking him and his job. He’ll ram anything and keep driving. He knows what our town cars can do versus the veritable tanks we’ve made our SUVs. But there’s no way he could get through so many barriers without totaling the car.

“Who’s the woman?”

I look straight ahead as a Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms agent steps in front of me. He shifts, trying to force me to look at him. I’m taller than the fucker. It does nothing. He’s a big guy, but not as big as Gabe. My cousin’s best friend is two-forty-five on a skinny day. He’s lean. He’s not some chubby lineman for the NFL. He’s a fucking beast. I can carry his ass if I have to, and I have. I’ve also knocked Gabe on his ass more than once when we’ve sparred. I’m the only one who enjoys boxing, but we all do it. We all train to fight. It’s not like it’s some skill we picked up as teenagers and hoped we kept. I didn’t beat the shitbag almost senseless by chance.

“Who’s the bitch?”

I don’t respond despite how much I’d like to bash his brains in. At the very least, spit on him. But I keep my composure.

“She the bitch you’re fucking these days? I thought you kept your fucking to that club of yours.”

It doesn’t surprise me they know something so private. It pisses me off, but it doesn’t surprise me.

“Or is she some high-end hooker you fucked last night and took out to breakfast?”

He can keep talking. All he’s doing is racking up a tally of shit I’m going to do to him in six months when he thinks I’ve forgotten about him. I can’t touch him before then. It would be too obvious. But people are going to think he got shot in the line of duty. Let them think he’s a hero. I don’t give a flying fuck. What I do give a fuck about is the shit I’m going to do to him before I kill him.

“They’re going to have her out and in front of all those cameras in a few minutes. Her face is going to be plastered across newspapers and TVs. People all around the world are going to know who she is. If we can’t get anything out of her, someone else will. Does she like it rough? Some Colombian asshole or Russian prick will fuck her and leave her broken. And it’ll all be your fault for getting close to her.”

I wonder if these are the interrogation tactics they teach. He can try to mind fuck me until the end of time. I won’t break. But that resolve is sorely tested when I watch the car door swing open, and a female officer yanks Beth out. Cameras pan in her direction. She doesn’t turn toward them, but neither does she lower her head. She looks straight at me. I know she takes in the bruises forming on my face, my hands cuffed behind my back, and the officer breathing down my neck. With this douche watching me, I can’t do anything but keep my expression impassive.

Beth shoots me a warning look, and I know she’s telling me not to react to the officer cuffing my girlfriend. I know she’s telling me she’s all right. I need to wake up from this nightmare. I need to get Beth somewhere safe, then find out who did this. I saw the beating Luigi took, and I know it came from an FBI agent pissed that he lied to them about everything to do with us. One of the NYPD officers had to pull the guy off Luigi, who spat blood in the douchebag’s face. Luigi already has a mouth full of dentures. He’s not too worried about having a tooth knocked out when he took a fist to his mouth for that.

Another female officer joins the first one as they manhandle Beth, who is cooperating. But I can tell both women are rapid firing questions at her. Her mouth doesn’t move once. As they walk her past me, she shoots me one more warning glance. She doesn’t want me to do anything to defend her. She wants me to think rather than react. She doesn’t know me in these situations. I won’t do a damn thing that’ll give these officers a reason to rough me up more, add to the charges, realize how important Beth is to me, or let them know I’m plotting their deaths. I have a memory for faces and names.

“They’re going to take your girlfriend to central holding. They’re going to toss her in with the dregs of New York society. You could protect her.”

They won’t put her anywhere except an interrogation room. Sinead, Papa, or Gabe will get her out long before they can put her in gen pop anything. She’ll be out in less than an hour. I hit my tracker as I rushed Beth into the restroom. I’m certain Vinny or Afonso has called Papa. Beth might have even gotten the number from them.

I’m unprepared to see them take Beth into the restaurant instead of a squad car or SUV. Why?

“I bet you want to know what they’re doing. Give us her name, and we’ll let you talk to her.”

That makes me want to laugh. Talk to her? So they can listen in? Uh, no. I don’t like her being out of my sight. Out of the camera’s sight, they could do just about anything to her. I’m worried they might rough her up to intimidate her. They won’t do too much because they don’t know who she is yet. Not really. I’m certain they know her name, but they haven’t figured out who she is to me. They probably guessed a girlfriend, but they don’t know she’s going to be my wife.

Oh, that much is now a fucking given. Not just to protect her by giving her my last name. I’m marrying her because I have never met a woman I admire more. One who awes me at every turn. One who gets me on such an atomic level. One who makes me feel at ease when I’m with her and ready to burn down the world when I’m not.

I know there’s more to my feelings than that, but I don’t know how to describe them. They’re too enmeshed in the others for me to explain them. But they’re there. I won’t rush her, but something about the way she looked at me makes me know she feels the same way. The resolve. This won't push her away from me. Just the opposite. God help anyone who ruffles another hair on my head. My vindictiveness may pale compared to what I saw in the look she shot me.

“Aren’t you wondering what they’re doing to her in there?”

Of course, I am. But I don’t acknowledge the question any more than I have the others. Isn’t this fuck nut bored yet? He can keep going on and on, but I won’t break. I have two brothers and a sister. We used to hide each other’s toys all the fucking time and lie our asses off to each other to keep them. Papa would make us answer to him, and we’d all go silent. We wouldn’t lie to our father. We weren’t that fucking stupid. Papa’s father, Nonno Vicenzu, was terrifying. Luca and I once broke a plate while we were doing the dishes. It wasn’t anything special, but the noise interrupted a phone call. I thought we were going to get a belt across our asses and soles.

Neither of us said a word. Neither of us ever contemplated turning the other over. We were in it together. We would sink or swim together. In the end, that dedication got us out of trouble. Our crazy grandfather commended us for our loyalty.

The only person with the power to break us is Mama. And that’s only to confess to our own sins. We still stay tightlipped about each other. She might not have known the truth— or she probably did and just didn’t expect us to tell her —but she still punished us as kids. Now she just gives us her most disappointed look.

So, the long and the short of it is: if I can survive my mother, there isn’t a damn thing this stronzo— asshole —can do to break me. It’s almost amusing to listen to him try.

“There’s no way to protect her when you’re out here, and she’s in there. You can’t know what she’s saying. What she’s telling those officers.”

That touches a nerve, but I keep looking over the douche’s shoulder.

“Who’s in charge?”

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