Two bottles of pills sit at my bedside. Xanax and Ativan. Both prescribed by different doctors but with my name printed on them. No physician in their right mind would prescribe those two benzos to the same patient, not if they hoped to keep their medical license.
I imagine Nino pleading his case to two different people.
Cat’s distraught.
She can’t get out of bed.
Barely eats.
Won’t stop crying.
She just lost the most important person in her life, and I don’t know how to help her.
If she could just relax and get some rest, she’ll be able to start feeling better.
I can’t lose her too. She’s all I’ve got left.
Due to grief, I’ve been distraught, unrested, and heartbroken. Even hysterical at times. Whatever he claimed to get his hands on these drugs was probably true, if you neglect the part where he assaulted me and retrained me to my bedframe while plotting my murder.
As one of Nino’s Russians exits, two lower-level Riccis, Carlo and Francesco Marino Jr., stroll in to finish organizing my “suicide.” The Russian was a diminutive man with black beady eyes and alabaster skin who’s been giving me the creeps since yesterday. Serious rapey vibes. I hope the guy chokes to death in his sleep.
Every man is dressed in black today in anticipation of the funeral later this evening.
I’m missing my own father’s funeral. Nino’s lost his mind. If this isn’t already proof enough, he still hasn’t even mentioned Tony di Norelli’s sudden absence.
Nino’s so egocentric and focused on his reign that he hasn’t noticed that one of his best friends has gone missing. That alone should have fired up a thousand red flags. If only I’d have believed Connor sooner.
I don’t know why I doubted Connor or ever thought I could reason with my brother.
Frankie carries a notepad, which I can only imagine has myGoodbye Worldletter scribbled across it in somebody else’s writing. Probably Nino’s. I mean, who else would pen such a thing? Frankie Jr. sets the note on my desk with a frown.
Carlo, Frankie’s cousin, emerges from my closet and approaches me with a pink satin pajama set. The top features a notched collar with long sleeves, and the bottoms are full-length. Pretty glamourous for a suicide outfit.
Maybe he chose it because of the silky fabric and roomy fit. My dead corpse ought to be comfortable, after all.
I want to laugh, except I can’t find the energy.
This is my last chance to save myself—and Connor, if he’ still alive—and I need to seize the opportunity.
Think.
“I’m going to unchain you, Miss Ricci, so you can use the restroom and change into these.” Carlo sets the silk pajamas at the end of the bed, and Frankie shifts to the side to catch a better glimpse of me.
Neither of these enforcers is twenty-one, yet Nino tasked them with this morbid undertaking. Gross.
For four decades, Francesco Sr. was a dutiful bagman for the Ricci family. In a rare stroke of luck, he survived mob life, retired, and still lives in the home Frankie was raised in. As Frankie’s mom is much younger than his father, both of his parents are still alive.
Frankie and I practically grew up together.
Carlo unlocks the chains. His father was injured in the Gulf War and wears a prosthetic leg from the knee down. Less than a year ago, his mother died of breast cancer. The frequency illusion strikes again, although I’m beginning to believe no illusions are involved. We’re joined by our grief, or will be shortly if I have anything to say about it.
Carlo started working for the family after his mother fell ill.
Under different circumstances, either one of these young men could’ve led very different lives.
I throw my legs over the side of the bed and sit here, rubbing my wrists. I certainly can’t outrun these men, so I’ll have to rely on my power of persuasion.
I’m still in the t-shirt and white panties I’d pulled on after sex. Nino’s way of humiliating me further for my sexual dalliance, I guess.
