ℂ𝕒𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℕ𝕖𝕠𝕟 𝔾𝕝𝕠𝕨 ➃

56. Familial Relations - ✭ Boston ✭

I'd spent the first half of my life growing up in a gilded cage and because of it I've found myself inside of this one; this shithole. It's fucking disgusting, to say the least, and from what I'd gathered this is all over some business deal gone wrong. I mean, don't get me wrong, I've watched my fair share of gangster movies but this seems a little excessive for a business snafu.

I guess I'm glad I haven't received a fist to the face or the mention of possibly wanting to take one of my fingers, save that one time. I enjoyed taunting some of my captors because why the hell not. I don't think they would actually kill me. Threaten— yes. Actually do it— no. Or maybe that's just something I've managed to convince myself of while being locked down here— wherever here is.

A woman has come by several times and offered me food to which I'd accepted, albeit hesitantly. Maybe they wouldn't kill me but they definitely drugged me to get me here. The woman was probably only a couple of years older than me so I'm gathering that's why she took some kind of pity on me. She's also related to the guy who's a major dick and, what I've come to realize, is also the boss.

Said boss comes in and watches me every now and again, making threats here and there as he does. He tells me they're going to find Monica. That they're going to hurt her and me if my father doesn't reconsider whatever it is he's supposed to reconsider. No matter how many times I told him I don't have anything to do with my father's business, that Monica most certainly doesn't, he didn't listen. My pleas to leave her out of this fell on silent, deaf ears.

I have no recollection of what time of day it is down here. I don't know how long I've been here, maybe days? Maybe a week? Not much more than that. Every day it was the same routine though, so if I go by how many routines I've gone through, I'd say about six days or so. Give or take a day.

I sit up from the shitty mattress on the floor at the sound of gunshots and yelling. Men are rushing past my cell shouting in their language. After what seems like a lifetime and no time at all does the commotion settle.

My prayer to every God that the police were raiding this place was completely forgotten when the door that's at the stairs, to wherever I am, flies open and I hear a familiar voice. The loud, extremely arrogant baritone is spilling vile expletives. It's spewing malicious intent. And it also has me running toward the bars.

"Torey?!" I call out his name again but he's too preoccupied telling the men how fucked they are. Ever the arrogant asshole he is. He's also my best friend.

I watch as he's dragged down by two large guys. They're having a hard time maintaining a hold on him. One— Torey is a big dude, corded with agile muscle. Two— he knows how to fight better the anyone I've ever seen, he even rivals his own father. Three— Torey takes zero shit from anyone. Underground crime lords or not. He gives not a single fuck because he's not scared of anyone. He displays this perfectly when one of the men loses a hold on him and he punches him in the face.

"Motherfucker!" The man bellows out in pain as he grasps his, what looks like, horribly broken nose. If that crunch sound was any indicator then I'd say the man is going to need to find a plastic surgeon.

"Cunt!" He growls when a gun is held out, pointing directly at him. Torey spits on the ground in front of him. "Can't fight me fair, huh?" He lets out a few more words of vitriolic intent as the man has his finger on the trigger, aimed right at Torey's head. "Bunch of cunts hiding behind guns, stealing people's kids and shit because of some butthurt sister."

What?

"Watch yourself, boy." I hadn't realized the boss had come down the stairs. A cigarette sits between his lips as he comes over to my cell with Torey in tow, dragging him by the hair. "You know this little shit?" His hand fists in his hair painfully before bashing Torey's face against the bars of my cell.