Page 5 of Powerful Deception

Because what the woman said about the devil himself being involved is something that I’ve been hearing all week.

The Devil.

I’ve heard the moniker but have no idea who the person is.

Are they really a he? I don’t know.

I do know one thing though.

As the bagpipes ring out and I’m ushered to an awaiting car to head to the cemetery, I know what I want to do.

I want to find out who this devil person really is. I want to know if they really did have a hand in my father’s death and I want to know the why of it all.

And if they are involved, if this devil person is really the reason why my poppa is dead, I want to make sure that they pay for what they did to him.

I want whoever called the hit, the one that threw every single punch including the last one, to suffer just as much, if not more than, Joseph Vitale.

I will not stop until my father’s killer is behind bars, or better yet, dead.

That much I know.

That much I want.

2

Saying you are going to do something and actually getting it done are two different things.

And sometimes when you try to get things done a little too quickly, you end up paying the consequences. I’m currently paying those said consequences with the head pain that I’m experiencing.

There is this pounding headache just above my left eyebrow that doesn’t seem to go away.

I’ve taken pain medicine, drank water and yet the headache is still there like a persistent telemarketer calling about your car's extended warranty.

Maybe the headache is a result of the countless hours that I’ve spent crying these last few days.

Maybe it’s a result of me not eating anything but water and wine since the funeral.

Or maybe, the headache is stemming from me spending the last twenty-four hours glued to my computer screen and not giving my eyes a break for more than five minutes.

I’m putting my money on the third one. That is if I had any money.

My dad’s funeral was three days ago.

After the church service, we drove to the cemetery and my father was finally laid to rest after a week of agony.

The dirt hadn’t even touched the casket before the two-faced people that attended the service started to leave. That of course included the two women that were talking about my father and what he might have been involved in.

Within ten minutes of the funeral ending the only ones that were left standing by the hole in the ground were me, Tommy and a few of my dad’s colleagues. But soon after, they left too, and I was left alone, just like I wanted.

I stood by his grave site until the sky turned a dark blue and the groundskeeper told me that it was far too late for a girl like myself to be out there alone.

I wanted to tell him that even in the safest place, even in one’s home, something bad could happen. I knew it from experience, take the man we had just buried for example.

He was in his home, probably living his life like it was any other day, when someone came in and took everything away from him. Nobody is safe anywhere, what would make a dark cemetery any different?

But I didn’t tell him that, just like I didn’t slap the bitches at the cathedral. I just nodded and agreed when he suggested calling a cab to take me home.

It was when I got home that I realized just how numb I really was. Even being alone wasn’t enough to take the numbness away, so I brought out the wine.

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