Page 22 of Tossed into the Mob
"There," I said, pointing to a stack of boxes in the back corner. The name Santoro was written in black marker across each one, and I told Treyton that was my middle name. Brock Santoro Lucchesi.
“I’ve heard that name, Santoro, before but can’t recall where, but it’s a common enough name.”
I ignored Treyton’s ramblings as I opened the first box. Inside were suits and dress shoes. The second one contained CDs and books. We yanked open boxes until we came to personal items. Photo albums, letters, and a few pieces ofjewelry. I pulled out one of the albums and flipped it open. All the photos were of my father with the Durands.
But at the back of the album, tucked into the lining, was another photo, crinkled either with age or from handling.
A photo of a man holding a baby who was wearing a blue onesie. He was looking at the little one with adoration.The man was my father, and the baby was me. On the back was my name and the date of the photo.
"Look. This was taken when I was a few days old."
Treyton leaned over my shoulder to look at the picture, and brushed against me, making me feel less alone. "He looks happy."
The letters were from my father to me, but never sent. He’d signed them with a squiggle so I still didn’t know his given name. I shoved them in my pack along with the photo.
“So, why did he abandon us?”
Before Treyton could answer, footsteps echoed on the concrete outside.
“Shit,” he muttered, zeroing in on them at the same time. He moved to the entrance of the unit. “We need to go.”
But it was too late. A figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright fluorescent light. I’d seen him twice before, and like the second time, he was aiming a gun at me.
Treyton pushed me behind him, and I scrambled backward, almost falling over a metal chest.
“Brock Santoro or is it Lucchesi?” The man’s voice echoed around the storage unit. “Your father destroyed lives. His legacy ends with you. But before I put a bullet in your brain, you should know who killed your father.”
Killed? He was killed like my dad?
“Put the gun down.” Treyton pulled out my gun, and the man swiveled to face him. “Don’t make me shoot you, little boy,though you are dispensable to the organization, so no one will mourn you.”
Oh gods, there was nowhere to run. Treyton may be a Durand and technically mafia, but had he ever shot anyone? I looked around for something heavy to pitch at the guy.
“What do you want? Brock has nothing to do with his father.”
The guy adjusted his aim, and his jacket pulled up enough to reveal his wolf tattoo.
Treyton gasped. “You’re one of us. Flint will claw your eyes out.”
“Not if I get rid of the evidence.” He glanced at me. “Your father caused this mess. He wasn’t supposed to have a gun. Now I have to clean it up.”
Treyton fired off a shot that hit the guy’s shoulder before leaping into the air. He was Treyton when he jumped, but when he landed on the gunman, he wasn’t. He was… I slumped onto the floor. My destiny was to be shot a second time and die or be mauled by a… wolf.
I must have taken one too many painkillers, but I made the mistake of looking up. There were not one wolf but two, and they were snarling as they dug their canines into the other. Blood spurted, and I crawled over the floor, between boxes, destroyed clothing, and two guns. The one dad had used to defend himself was closest to me. But what did I do? Treyton and the killer had vanished and two wild beasts were fighting, maybe to the death.
Did I shoot? But which one? Was there a good wolf and a bad one?
I picked up the weapon, and just like when I aimed it at Treyton outside the hospital, my hands shook. I didn’t know if I could fire it.
“I’m going to shoot.” I aimed at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. The wolves fell apart, but one stared at me with eyes I’dseen before. They were the ones that had cast their gaze over me before putting a bullet in my arm.
Hoping there was another bullet in the chamber, I fired right into what I hoped was his heart.
NINE
TREYTON
He’s dead.
