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“See you later. Daddy. Will you bring me something nice?”
“Sure, son. What would you like?”
“Uhm, ice cream.”
“Then ice cream you shall have, my love,” I smile and press my nose into his hair while I hug him tightly.
“I love you, Angelo.”
“I love you too, Daddy.”
“Be a good boy for Grandpa.”
“Sure.”
27
MIA
I’m tired and still a bit woozy from the drugs. I have no idea what the time is but I know that I’ve been here for at least a few hours. A young man brought me a sandwich and a bottle of water. I can’t eat now. I couldn’t even if I were hungry, which I’m not. My gut is clenched tighter than gnat’s chuff with fear and worry.
Then there’s the anger that keeps seeping through every so often, and I’m tempted to take a run at the door and gnaw through the wood.
I haven’t seen Franco since I arrived. He must be around somewhere, working his evil. Will Dante ever find me here, wherever here happens to be? I hope so. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. If I was tired before, I’m positively circling the emotional drain right about now.
I wonder what Angelo is thinking. He must be so confused. I was supposed to be back home a long time ago. Is my child fretting for his mother? Thank God my father and Dante are with him. I’m thankful to Dante for that much.I draw strength now from knowing that the three men in my life are together.
I lie down on the pillow for a bit. I have a splitting headache that’s been developing all afternoon and most of the evening. It has now reached full blown migraine status and I’m doubled up in pain. Thank God it’s dark in here. I tear off a piece of the sheet and dip it into the jug of water. Then I lay it across my eyes. It’s soothing and brings some relief.
I allow myself a short respite as I drift in and out of sleep. I have to be rested when the time comes for me to escape. How I am to do this is unclear to me right now, but I trust that an opportunity will present itself soon.
I wake up with a start. Was that? Yes! I hear it again! Shouting and gunfire. What the hell is happening?
I have to hide. If there’s a turf war going on outside that door, I have to hide. I squeeze myself under the very low bed frame and close my eyes tightly. I can barely manage under there. It’s tight. The voices outside are loud. Men are screaming and rushing about. I can hear objects crashing to the floor and suddenly, without warning, the door to the room bursts open.
I’m too afraid to look. Is it Franco? My answer comes soon enough.
“Where are you, you bitch?”
“Yup. It’s my gracious host, alright and he sounds pissed.”
“Mia! Where are you?”
I have no intention of coming out from the safety of my hiding place. Franco is going to have to flip the bed if he wants to get to me.
The next noise I hear is of another set of footsteps rushing into the room. Someone else is in the room. I hear Franco hurling insults at someone in Italian before he lets out a groan as someone clearly punches him.
“You!” Franco gasps.
The men are on the floor now, in a skirmish to the death by the sounds of it.
I’m too afraid to look. The level of noise coming from outside of the room is almost deafening. Screaming, shouting, gunfire, fighting. I cup my ears with my hands and close my eyes. All I see in my mind’s eye is my son. It’s as if I’m watching his life story on a reel on a large screen. I see him for the first time when he’s born. He’s so small in my arms. I see him crawl for the first time and then I watch as he takes his first wobbly steps.
I watch as he throws a ball for the first time and rides his bike without training wheels. He crashes onto the grass and I run to him to make sure he’s not hurt. I watch as he writes his name for the first time and how he learns to swim without his water wings.
Mom and Dad are there too. They’re talking to Angelo and laughing as he gets into Dad’s grease bucket and rubs it into his hair. I see my son’s face when he tells me that my job sucks. That’s the last thing I remember. No! It can’t be the last memory. It can’t. There are so many more we need to make. Many more happy memories, more milestones. High school, his first kiss, college, finding the love of his life, getting married and having his own children. This can’t be the end. It can’t be.
“Who put you up to this, you scum?” I hear a man’s voice asking.