Page 2

Gunshots. I recognize the sound from when my dad took me to the shooting range. I use my hands to cover my ears as the bangs get closer and closer. They're louder without the big, blue headphones to protect my hearing.

Everything changes so quickly; I don't have time to understand what's happening. My father appears in the doorway, and before I can get excited or greet him, the snake man is shouting.

"I'll kill them!" With a frantic voice, he waves his gun in our direction.

My father has his own gun pointed, finger on the trigger.

I need to do something.I search around me, looking for anything to try to help my mom. My eyes land on a large stick leaning against the wall, and I grab it, pushing to my feet and lunging at the man.

"Sam, no!" Mama screams, and then the next moment happens in a blur.

Mama pushes in front of me, and a single shot rings out through the air.

Pain reverberates in my chest and Mama drops to the sticky ground.

Another shot, and the snake man goes down, a red dot in the center of his forehead.

"No!" It's my father, but he doesn't sound proud of me. He sounds pained as he drops to his knees beside my mama. "Giulia," he cries, his hands gripping her shoulders and shaking violently. "Giulia, no."

There's a puddle of red and it's spreading beneath her body, growing larger and larger as my father continues shaking her, begging her to wake up.

Clutching a hand to my aching chest, I crawl to my parents. "No," I whisper, staring down at my unmoving mother. "Mama?"

But she doesn't wake up, no matter how hard I cry or how much my dad shakes her.

My mama never wakes up again.

ONE

Sam

Abuzz.

A few clinks.

Birds chirping.

That's the sound of freedom.

I stretch my arms, the silky Tom Ford dress shirt a stark contrast to prison cotton. The Louisiana sun hits my face—too bright, too warm after eight months in a cell. For a moment, I let myself feel it all: freedom, grief, and the rage that's been building since they put my father in the ground and me behind bars for it.

John, my cousin and right-hand man, leans against the side of his black Porsche, a smile curling his lips. "Good to see you out of that hideous orange jumpsuit," he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder before pulling me into a hug.

For a split second, I'm back in that interrogation room, pictures of my father's blood-soaked carpet laid out before me. The detective pointing at the gun with my fingerprints. A gun I've never seen or held.

"It's good to be out of it," I manage to say, shoving down the memory.

"I have a fresh suit for you in the car." John points over his shoulder to where a suit bag hangs in the backseat.

My father's voice echoes in my head:"A Costello man always dresses the part, Sammy. The world respects what it sees."Dad had adjusted my first tie when I was eight, his hands steady the way they always were. Grief clogs my throat for a moment when I remember I'll never see or touch those hands again.

"Perfect." I swallow hard. "I'll change after I get this one dirty."

John nods, knowing exactly what I mean by dirty.Someone has to pay for my father’s death.

"How's it feel to be out?" my cousin asks quietly.

"Like I've been robbed," I say, the words bitter on my tongue. "Eight months I'll never get back. Eight months when I should have been burying my father properly, mourning him. Instead, I was locked up while his real killers walked free."