Angelo

I sat in the chair in the corner of the living room of the house I shared with Sonny, with my gun on my lap and a beer in my hand. Sonny would sit in this chair for hours. Most of the time he was watching the kind of porn only twisted fucks like Pete and him could appreciate. He had interests that were nothing compared to the kink I did with Gia. That sick fucker was still my best friend. I couldn’t shake him, same as how I couldn’t get Gia out of my system.

My mind raced at the thought of Sonny kidnapping my girl, trying out that nasty shit with her. Nothing made sense anymore.

Why would he go against the family?

Why would he steal my fiancé?

Sonny had been in love with Gia for as long as I could remember. But I never thought he’d stoop so low to have her.

I took a sip of my beer, pushed the curtain back, and peeked out the front window. Gia was taken almost a week ago, and I had no idea where to begin. Sonny seemed the most likely source. I checked all of his usual hiding places. He hadn’t packed a single gun or taken a cent, all of it still tucked safely away.

He wouldn’t have made it far without money.

Samuel Bonfiglio was the first friend I’d ever had. I was the one who gave him the nickname Sonny. He always stayed the course, did what he was told, and watched my back. The first time I met Sonny we were maybe four or five years old. We were young, the memory so faint in my mind. But the day we’d met wasn’t important. My first good memory was of the time I found him behind the bakery. The day I knew Sonny would be my friend for life.

After being awake for close to sixty hours, my eyelids grew heavy. I tried to fight the exhaustion that rocked through my body, hitting me all at once. Sleep was imminent. But Gia needed me. I pried my eyes open with my fingers, doing my best to stay awake.

Nothing worked. My tired body won, as I dozen off in the chair.

Ma pulled me through the front door when I got home from school and took the backpack from my shoulder. She dropped it on the floor and held me at arm’s length. “How was school, cucciolo?”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

She pinched my cheek and smiled. “Such a good boy, my Angelo. Can you do your mother a favor?”

I nodded.

She shoved her hand into her pocket and gave me a ten dollar bill. “I didn’t have time to make Pietro the cannoli he wanted for dessert. Run to the bakery for me.”

Ma never called my older brother Pete. She said it wasn’t the name she’d given him, even though Pete was the English translation. I couldn’t stand my brother, even from an early age. He was always selfish and rude, never the older brother I could look up to.

I stuffed the money in my pocket, promising to return within the next twenty minutes, and strolled out the door. On my way to the bakery, I heard a loud crack, followed by a few grunts. I stopped at the corner, looked down the long alleyway, and spotted Samuel Bonfiglio kicking a boy on the ground.

I couldn’t avoid trouble. There was something broken and fucked-up inside me that was drawn to violence. Maybe it was in my blood. Maybe I just liked it.

I cupped my hand around my mouth and walked toward him. “What did he do to you?”

Sonny peeked up at me, a mess of dark hair in his eyes. He looked like a demon, possessed by the hunger that had overtaken him. “He took something that didn’t belong to him.”

I stood at his side, staring down at the blond haired boy on the ground. Upon better inspection, I realized it was Connor O’Shea, the youngest son of the man who ran the Irish Mob. He was five years older than us but much smaller back then. “What did he steal?”

“My PlayStation,” he said.

I looked down at Connor. “Anyone ever tell you to keep your hands off other people’s shit?”

Connor spat blood at me, the loogie landing on my brand new basketball sneakers. “Fuck you, Morelli.”

That was all it took for the rage that was always there to bubble up in my chest. I looked at Sonny and shook my head. “Can you believe this kid?”

An evil smirk tugged at the corner of Sonny’s mouth. Then, he refocused his gaze on Connor, his leg already mid-air, raised to kick Connor in the face. “Think you can steal from me, O’Shea? Think again, motherfucker.”

Following Sonny’s lead, my foot collided with Connor’s stomach, drawing a loud groan from him. He covered his face with one hand and his balls with the other. We kept kicking until he was gasping for air and our energy was spent. Connor rolled on his side and sobbed with his hand over his face.

Out of breath, Sonny bent over and laughed. He howled with each cry that escaped Connor’s chest. “If you ever touch my shit again, I will put a bullet between your eyes, O’Shea.”

We were thirteen years old and already polluted by our father’s lifestyles. Sonny’s dad was in and out of prison. He was a loyal soldier, one of the men who took the fall for a big job that had gone wrong. My father kept his hands clean. He always had a fall guy in place.

“Where’s your PlayStation?” I asked him.

Sonny looked at me confused. “What do you mean?”

“Isn’t that why we just beat the shit out of O’Shea?”

Sonny laughed. “Nah, I got that back last week.” He stared down at Connor and growled, “O’Shea needed another reminder not to fuck with me.”

“I like your style,” I admitted. “You could work for us someday.”

He knew that meant my father’s organization. His wicked smirk told me he understood.

We left Connor in the alley to lick his wounds and nurture his bruised ego. Sonny walked with me to the bakery and held the door open for me.

“Thanks for helping me out,” he said.

I shrugged. “Nothing to it, Sammy.”

Everyone in the neighborhood called him Sammy back then, but it was meant as more of a dig.

His face scrunched in disgust. “I hate that name. Don’t call me that.”

“It sounds like a girl’s name,” I told him. “You need a new one. How about a nickname?”

Sonny contemplated my idea. “Yeah, okay. How about something cool like Viper?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Did you just use the word cool and Viper in the same sentence? Fuck no. No friend of mine is going to be named Viper.”

He laughed. “We’re friends now?”

We were always cool, hung out together at family functions and school, but we were never as close until that day.

“Yeah, why not?” I stepped up to the counter, ordered cannoli from the baker, and angled my body to finish talking to Sonny. “You don’t annoy me.”

Sonny patted me on the shoulder. “You’re okay, Morelli.”

I shrugged him off and took a step back. “What should we call you? It needs to fit. How about your last name?”

“Bonfiglio?” He rolled his eyes at me. “You try saying that three times fast.”

“Good point. What does your last name mean?”

“Good son,” he told me.

“That’s it.” I took the box of cannoli from the baker and attempted to pay, but he refused. Our money was never any good at the market. I shoved the bill back into my pocket, clutched the box in the other hand, and left the bakery with Sonny.

“How about Sonny?”

He stopped out front of the store and eyed me up, tilting his head to the side as if thinking it over. “Yeah. I like it. But there ain’t nothing good about me.”

“Doesn’t matter, Sonny.” I smacked him on the back. “If anyone ever calls you Sammy again, we’ll set them straight.”

He flashed an evil grin that reminded me of the Joker.

I knew from that moment Sonny would be my best friend for life.

The front door opened, pulling me from my nap. I jumped to my feet with my gun in hand and waited until the footsteps reached the top landing.

Sonny held up his hands. “Don’t shoot. Let me explain.”

He was still wearing the same dress shirt and pants he had on the night of the engagement dinner at my father’s South Jersey compound. His dark hair was messy and unwashed, his dress shirt stained with blood and dirt on the collar. Judging by the cut on his lip and the gash on the right side of his neck someone hit him pretty good.

I aimed the gun at Sonny. “Where the fuck is she?”