Page 78 of Dreadful
“Gio, it’s okay, I was a child—”
“You were, but you’ve always been strong. Much stronger than yournonni.” He grips my forearm so forcefully that it pushes up my sleeve. “Be strong for us now. Avenge yourself. Avenge Tony. Avenge the lives we deserved to live. Finish what you have to do. Tony asked for a good show. Give him one,nipotina mia.”
I study his eyes, searching for any disgust, shame, or blame, but there’s only our shared need for retribution.
“They stole everything from us, Talia. It’s time for you to do the same.”
He lets go, leaving a handprint of Tony’s blood on my Medusa tattoo. Purpose fills my chest again. A renewed sense of vengeance swallows up my anguish and hurt, and I nod.
Sirens wail in the distance. Gio darts his eyes to the kitchen door.
“Go.”
I kiss him on the cheek without waiting another second. By the time the police and ambulance come, I’m gone.
Scene 22
PRETTY LITTLE TRAITOR
Sever
My motorcycle was still tucked away in the alley I left it in. It’s a shaky ride, but I make it back to my parking space behind the shop and headed inside. The back door slams into the wall as I fling it open and start to mash the button for the elevator. It’s quick with the extra work I’ve had engineered on it, but today it seems to be taking an insultingly long time. I slap the button again and again until the well-oiled doors slide open in front of me, and I step in. After the agonizingly slow ride up ends, the doors open. I snatch my razor, cane, and pistol sitting in the small hall outside my apartment. Knowing my cousin, Raze likely returned it as a mea culpa and a request for forgiveness. We’ll fucking see.
As soon as I’m inside, I limp as quickly as I can to my security setup. The blacked-out sedan is the biggest question mark. Claudio uses guns to take out his problems but leaves Vinnie to do most of the dirty work. My uncle hasn’t personally made a hit in years. Plus, whenever Claudio orders car “accidents,” he always insists the hitman uses a high-end car to send a message. I’ve never seen a Luciano or a Vincelli do a drive-by. It’s too messy, and the potential for unintended casualties is high. Of course, Claudio doesn’t care about the last risk, but it is harder to convince cops to look the other way when innocents like Tony get caught in the crossfire.
Tony…
Is that what he was? An “unintended” casualty? Gio thinks they were the target, but I’m not so sure. At dinner last night, Claudio hinted that he’d have to escalate his threats, but murdering two elderly bakers isn’t “escalation.” It’s war.
The North End is my neighborhood. It’s where I grew up, and if Claudio thinks he can toss a grenade in my home and I’ll go running, he’s out of his goddamn mind.
But what if I’m the target? And what if it wasn’t Claudio at all?
I haven’t been able to get the judge’s crazed expression out of my head ever since I left the bakery. It’s like someone dropped a filter over every thought. He said he had men that could take care of his “problem.” Did he make his move, and Tony died because of it? Because of me?
There are way too many goddamn questions, but I’m hoping the footage answers at least one.
My heartbeat races as my system boots up and security feeds take over the wall of screens. I locate the cameras that show the front and back of the bakery, as well as the surrounding streets. My stomach churns at the sight of the bakery’s broken picture window. The street is eerily empty, but I can hear sirens on their way, so that won’t last long.
If Tony wasn’t already gone, I’d be enraged at how long they’re taking. I have no doubt that if Claudio is indeed behind this, he has something to do with their delayed response time. And if he was the one that ordered the hit on Tony, I’m going to find out.
I scroll the feed back in time until I see the shooter’s car.
There’s nothing special about it other than the fact that it has heavily tinted windows, and they’re so dark it’s impossible to see the driver inside. I’ll have to enhance the footage, but in the meantime, I want to answer a different worry.
If this was about me, how the fuck did anyone know I was at the bakery to begin with? I hid my motorcycle from view, and I don’t remember being tracked. Granted I was suffering from blood loss, but I’d like to think I would notice someone following me.
I scroll the footage back to last night around the time I think I arrived at Sweet Tallie’s bakery. After watching the video in reverse on ten-times speed for several minutes, a black car zips across, and I quickly slow the video down. I lean forward to squint at the screen as it drives up and down Fleet Street and the road behind. It seems aimless, moseying down the road at the late hour, but no one just cruises this neighborhood this late on a Sunday night, telling me all I need to know. They’re looking for something.
“Fuck!” I slam my hand on the desk before I can stop myself. My palm throbs, but I ignore it to see if there’s anything distinguishable about the car in any of the stills. Try as I might, though, I can’t see the license plate or any defining feature. I want to get back to Tallie as quickly as I can, and enhancing the video will take precious time I don’t have. So, instead of studying a vehicle that someone purposely made impossible to track, I start looking for me. If the car spots me and follows me to the bakery, I’ll know I’m the one they were after.
As if on cue, I roll onto the screen, wobbling on my motorcycle. Goddamn, I’m unsteady. It’s a miracle I made it to the North End at all.
Once I get to the bakery, I ride the bike into a small alley between buildings down the street, then stumble onto the sidewalk. Even on fast-forward, it takes a painfully long time for me to get anywhere close to the front door. There’s no moving car in sight, so I rewind to see if one started following me before getting to the bakery.
I find it again roaming the streets, but I’m sidetracked when it passes a woman rushing down the sidewalk on the street behind Sweet Tallie’s.
“What the…”
