Acquaintances (A Mafia Romance)

Eleven.

Rebecca Caruso

Saturday, Sep. 1, 9:43 AM
Raphael:
Golden Nugget at 11?

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

My head throbbed, a dull ache pulsing behind my eyes like a drumbeat, relentless and unforgiving. I squinted against the harsh, blinding glow of my phone screen, the light cutting through the fog of my hangover like a knife.

The car's interior spun slightly as I groaned and pulled the old-school lever, hoisting my passenger seat forward. Every movement sent ripples of nausea through me, but I pressed on, trying to shake off the haze.

I blinked, my eyes widening in shock as the words processed through the pounding in my skull. Raphael was here? In Chicago?

"You're here?!" I texted back, my fingers moving clumsily over the keys, excitement bubbling beneath the layers of discomfort and the lingering dizziness from lying down.

I caught a glimpse of Robert through the slightly ajar car window. His commanding voice drifted in, serious and unwavering, as he addressed the press, going over the gruesome details of the bodies found in the shipping container. The juxtaposition of my current state—hungover, disoriented—against the gravity of his words was surreal. It was like I was trapped between two worlds, one where my head was a battlefield, and the other where a public crisis was unfolding.

I hadn't seen my brother in person in seven years. Video chats had been the only way to bridge the gap, but now, realizing he was actually here, I felt a strange mix of joy and disorientation. He had taken on the role of Digital Forensics Specialist for the FBI at twenty-five, while I... well, I'd gotten suspended.

I leaned the seat back, staring once again at the ceiling of the car, willing this dreadful headache to subside.

No more booze. 

The thought of seeing my brother again was enough to temporarily push the discomfort aside. Seven years was a long time, and right now, despite the nausea and the pounding in my temples, the idea of catching up with him in person felt like a lifeline.

Usually, I'm not one to compare apples-to-apples with my brother; after all, he is my only true comrade within this blue web of intolerance.

However, like my father, others beg to differ. It's the return of the prodigal son; where they saw talent, dedication, and perseverance from yet another Caruso—I witnessed someone desperately looking for an escape, an unhappy soul. Raphael moved to Virginia, not for the job, but for the liberation and freedom it brought him.

I gingerly reached for my coffee cup from the console, my arm barely stretching far enough without making my head pound more. I took a small sip, the taste slightly bitter and cool now, but it gave me something to focus on besides the blinding ache of regret.

I squinted against the daylight streaming through the half-open window, trying to gauge the reaction outside. From my low vantage point, I could only catch glimpses—journalists leaning in, their faces set in serious, concentrated expressions as they listened to Robert's speech. The murmur of the crowd mixed with the weight of his words, and though I couldn't see much, I could feel the impact they were having.

"The victims of these gruesome and horrific acts are not voiceless," he noted standing tall behind a makeshift microphone-filled podium; the shipping container behind him, opened wide revealing its savagery to the world. "We cannot allow for senseless offenses like these to go unheard nor unpunished."

National, local, and indie reporters all lined up in dreadful astonishment, each foreboding their viewers of such imagery. No one officially knew how many dead bodies there were, and according to Robert— it could take years to figure out.