Page 122 of Forgotten Sacrifice

“What?”

“Hit me.” I tap my cheek.

“Vince, I’m not going to fucking hit you. What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you? You should hate me!”

“Vince—”

“I fucking let it happen!” I thunder, slamming the bottle down on the table.

Aldo grabs the whiskey, and I go to grab it back, but he jerks it out of reach. “Let’s take this outside.”

I follow him through the kitchen and out to the back alley. He slides down the wall onto the pavement, and I do the same.

Before he can get a word in, I unload. “I should’ve listened to my gut. I should’ve seen the signs. I should’ve never brought you to work with me in the first place.”

“Should’ve. Would’ve. Could’ve, big brother. On both our parts.” He takes a swig, passing the bottle to me.

“You were a kid! I didn’t keep my promise?—”

“You’ve kept every fucking promise you ever made me. But you’re right, I was a kid; Uncle Joseph took my childhood away from me, not you.” He takes a sip, leaning his head against the brick wall. “You’re letting him off the hook by placing the blame on yourself, by the way. Trust me, I’ve internalized enough blame, guilt, and shame for the both of us.”

“Did it make you bisexual?” I rub my hand down my face. “Is that a bigoted thing to ask?”

“It’s okay. I’d be lying if I said I never asked myself that same question. But again, we’re both giving that man too much power. I’m bi. It’s a part of who I am.”

I grab the bottle and take another drink. “I don’t know how to move forward.”

“Forgiving yourself would be a good place to start,” he says quietly.

“Do you forgive me?” I brave a look at my brother.

“There’s nothing to forgive. Again, don’t let that fucker off the hook.”

I lean my head back against the wall. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I fucked you up more than our old man ever could’ve.”

He laughs mirthlessly, grabbing the bottle and tipping it back. “And he’s back to the could’ves. We’ve both crawled our way out of hell to get to where we are today?—”

“In a dirty alley sharing a bottle of cheap booze?”

“Why didn’t you swipe a bottle from the top shelf?” Aldo counters, passing the whiskey back to me. “Don’t let your sob story be your life story. Isn’t that what you always say?”

“My dime-store philosophy doesn’t add up to shit! I wear the suit and the smile, playing the part. Pretending my life isn’t a fucking sob story.”

“Then what are you going to do about it?” Aldo challenges.

What am I going to do about it?

“I’m getting out of the game,” I decide then and there, taking a swig before passing the bottle back to him.

“Finally,” he says with relief. “You were a hell of an oddsmaker, but you belong in the kitchen.”

I lay out the plan for Aldo. The odds aren’t great, but fuck the odds. “You in?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “You know I’ll follow my hero of a big brother to the ends of the earth. Course I’m in.”

My good eye stings, but I refuse to allow myself to cry. “No more booze for us.” I grab the bottle from him.