push my luck by being seen in too many places where our business is being conducted. How about when we’re done here, I take you to go get some ice cream? Sound good?”
I roll my eyes, but I smile too.
“Dad, I’m fifteen, not five,” I snip in jest. “But I’m not gonna turn down ice cream.”
“Ah, that’s what I thought,” he replies behind a laugh. “Wise guy or not, everybody loves ice cream.”
“Fuhgeddaboutit.” Both of laugh just as the light ahead of us turns red and Dad stops the car.
While we laugh, a white Honda pulls up to the light next to us. There’s two men inside, staring straight ahead, but I’m not an idiot. Something about them seems off, like they’re trying too hard to look straight ahead. I feel my brow furrow all on its own as I look past my dad at the two guys next to us. I don’t recognize the driver at all, but the passenger looks familiar.
It takes a second, but eventually my mind finishes flipping through the images of faces I’ve seen recently, and recognizes the guy. Those facial features are what catch my attention: sharp chin, pointy nose, strong jaw clenched tight. It’s the guy who had the balls to try to tax my father a few weeks ago. It’s Sammy Cestone.
As my memory grasps the name, the stoplight turns green. Dad sees the change in lighting and directs his attention to the road, pressing his foot on the gas just as Sammy’s arm comes out the window holding a black nine millimeter pistol.
“Fuck! Dad watch . . .”
Before I can finish the sentence, the nine millimeter explodes into a flurry of gunfire. I immediately duck down and cover my head with my hands as the bullets come flying through the car. There’s glass shattering and I can hear the distinct sound of bullets piercing the metal of the car. The sound is so loud I can’t hear myself think. Panic sets in and tears fill my eyes as I try to dig myself lower and lower into my seat. I can’t seem to get low enough though, and suddenly, a hot stinging sensation rips across the back of my neck, and I feel warm liquid rolling down the back of my shirt. It hurts like hell, but I know better than to move. The shots seem like they last forever, but eventually they stop, and tires squeal as the Honda rushes away.
Now, there’s silence. Nothing but the terrifying scream of silence and the ringing of my ears. I know I heard the car drive away, but I’m scared to move.
I open my eyes first. There’s broken glass on the floor beneath me, and a white smoke is hovering through the car as it floats off the bullets and shell casings. I see drops of blood next to my feet just as I rub the back of my neck and wince at the pain. Sure enough, there’s blood all over my fingers when I inspect them. It’s not a hole, so I assume a bullet grazed me as I ducked. It hurts, but I think I’ll be okay. Now, I need to get up.
“Dad, you good? I saw who it was,” I hear myself say, but my voice sounds muffled and my ears ring louder when I speak. “Dad, I saw them. Dad?” I force myself to sit up and look over at my father, but the second I do, I wish I wouldn’t have.
My father’s slumped down in his seat, his neck bent down and to the right so much that his head is resting on his own shoulder like a pillow. His entire torso is covered in blood.
“Oh fuck! Dad!” I scream as I lean over and try to lift his head up, but when I grab his face, my fingers sink into a hole on the left side of his head. I scream when I feel it and let go of him, and his head falls back down to the position it was in. “Oh my god. Oh my fucking god! Dad!”
I muster up the courage to lean over and look at the other side of his face, because I have to see it. I have to know. When I do, I crumble. There’s two, maybe even three holes—there’s too much blood to tell for sure—in the left side of my dad’s face, and I know there’s no chance he could possibly have survived what I’m seeing.