All the while my son is crying. He rarely cries. He’s always so happy. My heart is breaking as I listen to him wail.
“You. Get in there and make him shut his fucking mouth.” I follow, my eyes trained to the gun sticking out of his pants. My hands reach for it, only to be caught in mid-air by his firm grip. “Nice try, bitch.” The burn from him twisting my wrist, his callous and rough hands digging into my skin, only angers me more. I hold tight to my son, thankful he is too young to acknowledge any of this as Matthew tugs me hard behind him. Shoving me down into the chair once we hit the living room.
My phone rings, so does my mom’s over and over as we sit stoic and wait. Diesel calmed down the minute I brought him into my arms, Thank you, god.
It feels like hours, but I know it’s only been minutes when we all jump to the unfamiliar shrieking of a phone ringing, blaring out some dreadful, dooming music.
“You got it,” Matthew answers sharply, then commands for us to leave.
One brief tiny second he takes his eyes off from me. That’s when I grab the screwdriver sitting on the table next to me, shoving it inside of my pants.
I remember asking Aidan to please take care of it after he put a few toys together for the baby. Now all I want to do is kiss him for leaving it there. I swipe it, then stand as if I’m doing what I was told.
“You won’t get away with this. There’s security downstairs.” Mom juts her chin out. Her backbone is back in place. Thank Christ, because unlike her tough daughter, who no one knows is dead or alive, Grace has completely fallen apart. Her sobs spear through my chest. She needs to get it together. “Grace, you need to be strong. Think about Anna. I know she’s alive. They all are.” Her eyelids are swollen, her forehead crinkled, her ivory complexion ashen and pale.
“There’s no one downstairs. Well, there was, but he’s followed Dilan and Anna out the building,” Matthew says gruffly and with more confidence than I like.
“No. She’s all I have. She has to be all right,” Grace cries out. “You would be wise to listen to the crazy lady over here.” He juts his thumb in my direction. I stand stone still. He’s trying to bait me. To break me and make me weak. Fuck him. He underestimates me. They all will. I will survive this time. My son will survive, and I’ll be goddamned if I let them take any of my loved ones away from me.
“It’s time to go.” The piece of shit manhandles my mom once again by gripping her tightly on her upper arm while training his gun at my son and me. I move onward out the door, my anxious mind tediously wishing there were something I could do to stop him. I can’t get to the screwdriver while clinging onto one of the only reasons I’m strong enough to survive this.
“Where are we going?” I have no clue which one of them is talking right now. All I can do is try and cling on to what sanity I have left, to hope someone finds us, saves us before… God, I cannot even let myself thin k about what could happen. Or why. Money is an evil bitch. I hate it. It’s unfortunate we all need it to survive. Does someone really need that much? I know damn well Salvatore pays his men above what they’re really worth. Especially this fucker, who deserves to die at the hands of John Greer. The cleaner. The sweeper. The man who will silence you once he’s finished gutting you like a fish. I can only hope he’s been called.
My flip-flop-covered feet slap against the cold tile floor of the passageway into our building. The warm air sweeps across my skin when we exit. We keep moving on, down the few stairs that lead into our apartment building from this side of the building. I see a dark van parked along the curb.
And then I see him. Junior and his snarly, self-assured grin in the passenger’s seat. The security guard from my building is in the driver’s seat. I ignore them when I’m pushed forward past the van. Don’t ask me how I can feel it, or sense it, or whatever the hell you want to call it. But I do. I feel him. I feel Aidan and his strength spill out of the back of that van. He’s in there. My perception tells me so. I want to run to him, make sure he’s okay. But I keep going, holding one half of my heart in my arms while the other half is just a few feet away from me, yet untouchable. He’s hurting in there. Oh god, does my chest ache.
We’re all shoved into another van. Unlike the one in front of us, this is a goddamn mini-van. “Nice ride, jack-hole.” My flaming mouth gets slapped for that comment. My child is tugged from my arms. I yell, and kick, and draw blood from this fucker who dares to take my son from me. “Give him to me! He’s a baby! He’s done nothing to you! Give me my son!” I scream. The sting on my face is nothing compared to having my child taken from me.