Page 10 of Filthy Little Games

Over the sounds of gunfire and people screaming, she clutches my arms and blinks up at me in shock. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know…I didn’t know…”

There’s no time for me to ask her what the fuck she’s talking about as a flood of men in all-black uniforms, complete with riot helmets, pour in from the front door. All of them point their big ass guns at the room of patrons.

This is too organized to be some random shooting. It’s the fucking cops, and for some unknown reason, they’re apparently raiding my fucking club.

Either the cops on my payroll had no idea or they decided to fuck me over.

The place is clean. I know better than to stash any drugs, guns, or money here on a busy night.

“HANDS UP WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!” the cops yell. “GET YOUR HANDS UP!”

I push my weight off the woman and glance over my shoulder at the bar to make sure Carmine got down.

He’s one of the few people in the club still standing. Staggering actually, as he reaches for the bar as if to keep himself upright.

Two officers storm over to me, blocking my view and pointing his weapon right at my face.

“EVERYONE GET ON THE GROUND! HANDS IN THE AIR!” someone shouts.

I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I can’t shake the feeling that these sons of bitches are out for blood.

“Get off her! Nose to the ground,” an officer says to me as he and his buddy pull me off the woman and shove me facedown to the ground.

“GET ON THE GROUND!” is yelled yet again.

As I’m being felt up for weapons, my fury growing with every second, I lift my head to find my brother still standing at the bar.

What the fuck is he doing?

“Carmine, get down!” I shout at him. He turns towards my voice which is when I see the gun in his right hand. One of my guns.

“DROP YOUR WEAPON!” a voice orders and is immediately followed by another round ofpop-pop-pop.

“No!” I scream. Carmine drops to his knees and starts to fall forward onto his face.

I’m instantly on my feet and shoving the officers off me to run toward him, but I know I won’t make it in time to catch him.

From what sounds like a million miles away, someone says, “HOLD YOUR FUCKING FIRE!”

“Carmine!” I grab his shoulders to lift and roll him over. Thefront of his white dress shirt and dark suit jacket are so fucking bloody I can’t even tell how many times those sons of bitches shot him.

They fucking shot him!

I press my palms to where the bleeding is the heaviest.

My brother’s blue eyes are frantic as they blink up at me. He parts his lips, as if trying to speak, but only a trickle of blood slips from the corner.

I lie when I tell him, “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Cazzo!

I search the room full of people for help. Most are still face down. “He needs help! We’ve got to get him to the hospital!” I yell when none of the cops move an inch. They just stand there, watching through their helmets with guns raised. “Someone help me get him up!” I don’t know whether to try to haul him off the floor or keep applying pressure to slow the bleeding. I’ve seen plenty of gunshot wounds before, but I’ve never seen anyone with this many chest and stomach wounds live.

No. No, no, no.

This can’t be happening. It can’t. Only seconds ago, Carmine was joking with me and giving me hell like usual.

In slow motion, his eyes dull as they sweep over me once like he’s checking me over for injuries before they roll back in his head.

---