Romano;
"What the fuck was he talking about, father?" Enraged, Caruso asks our father with darkened eyes.
The dark walls of his study have never felt so claustrophobic. Closed in. So goddamn choking.
The aftermath of the gunfight clings faintly—creased shirts, slightly disheveled hair, faint smudges of dirt and blood that none of us have bothered to clean.
Father's sigh airs out, stiffening the growing tension.
He's nimble on his seat, expression drawn tight as he stares into space.
"Did you not hear what I just asked?" My brother's eyes blaze. Anger rolls off his words.
And I rush to the rescue before things spiral out of control. "Caruso, calm down."
He flicks his attention to me. "What do you mean by fucking calm down?" he grouses. Low. "That Mexican bastard just swooped in and sabotaged our event, and father orders nothing to be done."
"I think he has a plan," I tell him, trying to quell the rage simmering in the rim of his eyes.
