Most Sundays at the Giorgetti compound began with Chopin. The notes would dance through the empty halls, trailing through filtered light and walnut railings. Since arriving in Southport, Isabella had cherished these mornings, taking each one in the sitting room with a cappuccino and a plain cornetto. That day, however, the house was silent. Demos\u2019 hands were still, positioned to begin his favorite nocturne. His fingertips hovered over the keys, white on white, yet he could not bring himself to draw forth a single chord.<\/p>\n
For a while, he simply stared. There was a soft clink as his grandmother set down her cup, a rustle as she folded her hands. She was always so patient, a trait he hadn\u2019t seemed to inherit. Demos closed his eyes, replaying the previous night in his mind, recalling each word for the thousandth time. He could still sense it, the color of Ferris\u2019 shirt as he disappeared into the crowd, the tone of his voice just before he left.<\/p>\n
Once again, Demos had made a mistake. It was all he could do lately \u2014 make mistakes.<\/p>\n
The piano lid shut with a clack. He slipped from the bench, grabbing his wallet from a side table.<\/p>\n
Isabella glanced up. \u201cPiccolo, dove stai andando?\u201d<\/p>\n
He dared not look back as left the room, leaving her with a single, dull word.<\/p>\n
\u201cChiesa.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
St. Anthony of Padua hadn\u2019t changed in the last few months. The same stone walls and the same heavy doors greeted Demos as he moved past the pews. The second mass had just ended and hushed voices rustled through the air like dry leaves. There was a line for the confessional. Demos avoided eye contact with the other patrons, keeping his gaze low until his turn finally came.<\/p>\n
\u201cForgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been\u2014\u201c He paused to count the time. \u201cTwelve weeks since my last confession.\u201d<\/p>\n
Demos couldn\u2019t see through the slatted window, but was certain the priest was smiling.<\/p>\n
\u201cBack so soon?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI missed one.\u201d Demos dragged his fingers up through his hair. \u201cEnvy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Of all the sins the priest had heard from this particular visitor, envy had never been on the list before. He listened intently, silent as Demos continued.<\/p>\n
\u201cI hurt him. I think I hurt him. It\u2019s the last thing I\u2019d ever want to do.\u201d His nails dug into his scalp, exposing the old, pale scar across his brow. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou envy this person?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHer<\/i> \u2014 I envy her. I don\u2019t know how she does it. How does she make him so happy?\u00a0 <\/span>I try so hard to watch what I say, to keep everything down. How come I failed then? How could I let that happen?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWere you cruel to him?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know. I tried not to\u2014 I tried not to be selfish. I waited so long for him to come back and now\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n Demos swallowed, allowing his hair to fall over over his brow. He sat hunched, eyes locked on his lap in the dusty light.<\/p>\n \u201cNow he\u2019s in my hands and I\u2019m holding too tight. I don\u2019t want to lose him again.\u201d<\/p>\n There was a creak of wood as the priest shifted in his seat. \u201cThen what is it you want?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI want him to be happy,\u201d Demos said without thinking.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u201cAnd is he?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s been smiling lately.\u201d Demos\u2019 voice softened to a whisper as he thought of the exact expression. That rare softness in Ferris\u2019 eyes, how their color seemed so much warmer when he spoke of her. The corner of his mouth would lift, slightly at first, then rise as he parted his lips to laugh. It made Demos forget every other detail of those times \u2014 where they were, what they were talking about. None of it mattered, nothing except the happiness set so deeply in his friend\u2019s face.<\/p>\n \u201cI just wish that smile was for me.\u201d<\/p>\n The demonstration was set for the late afternoon. Sunlight streamed in through the high warehouse windows, casting dramatic shadows over the vast interior. Wooden folding tables had been arranged in a line down the center, their surfaces covered in various firearms and pieces of equipment. Ferris had helped Benny arrange the targets on the far wall, ensuring they were at the exact distance Demos had specified. Benny had been able to carry much heavier loads than Ferris, standing at half a foot taller and carrying about twice as much muscle on his frame.<\/p>\n Ferris counted the last of the firearms, writing the tally in a worn planner. \u201cIs this everything?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAlonzo deliver all crates this morning,\u201d Benny said. \u201cI check, they are good.\u201d<\/p>\n Ferris glanced at his watch.<\/p>\n \u201cThe Hills are late.\u201d He lifted his head, letting his attention drift from Benny to the empty warehouse. \u201cAnd so is Demos.\u201d<\/p>\n He had expected this. The Hills could not be blamed, as they had to drive halfway across New York State and through the gauntlet of Southport traffic. Demos\u2019 only excuse was his own rotten personality. Benny shrugged, making a poor attempt to hide his amused grin.<\/p>\n A steel door on the far wall creaked open. Ferris held his breath, silently hoping Ellen wouldn\u2019t beat Demos to his own demonstration.<\/p>\n For once, his prayers seemed to work. A dark figure stepped through, one so slim and smartly dressed that it could be no one but Demos Giorgetti. His footsteps echoed across the wide space, stopping only when he arrived at Ferris\u2019 side.<\/p>\n Benny was the first to speak. \u201cCarino da parte tua unirti a noi.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cStai zitto,\u201d Demos said before shifting his attention to Ferris.<\/p>\n \u201cDid you get my calls?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI was busy,\u201d was all Ferris said before walking past to examine the contents of a crate. Demos followed, a duckling in his friend\u2019s shadow.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you still mad?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis isn\u2019t the time for that,\u201d Ferris said, his brow low. \u201cEllen\u2019s going to arrive any minute now. Are you ready for the demo?\u201d<\/p>\n Demos took a moment to answer. He closed his eyes, then nodded. \u201cI think so. I should have learned to say \u2018hi\u2019 in Indian.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIndian<\/i> isn\u2019t a language.\u201d Ferris closed the crate with a clack<\/i>. \u201cSix Pines is run by Oneida.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCould you stop being a smart ass for like, one minute?\u201d<\/p>\n Ferris\u2019 usual dry retort never came. He finally looked at his friend, his eyes dull, heavy with the weight of the previous night. There was no banter, no hint of that familiar, affectionate frustration that always came at times like these. There was only silence.<\/p>\n Ferris stepped away.<\/p>\n It hit Demos tenfold \u2014 the sting under his collar, nestled between his heart and ribs. He stared at the crate until it lost form, a blur of scuffed, blue plastic.<\/p>\n The door creaked open once more. Afternoon light spilled into the warehouse, a stark white plane on the concrete floor. Their guests had arrived.<\/p>\n They were a group of three, Ellen, Don, and another man they had never seen before. They were led inside by Gina, who had met them at the warehouse\u2019s outer gate. Gina\u2019s part as host had been unanimously agreed upon \u2014 she seemed to be the Giorgetti that Ellen disliked the least.<\/p>\n Ferris shook Ellen\u2019s hand. \u201cGood afternoon. I\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n He paused as he took proper notice of Don. A plum-colored bruise ran from his temple down past his cheek and his right arm had been secured in a sling.<\/p>\n Ferris gave a thin frown. \u201cDon. I\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo worries,\u201d Don said, taking Ferris palm in an almost too-firm grip. \u201cI\u2019m left handed.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis is Dennis.\u201d Ellen gestured to the third member of their party, an older man with a square jaw and salt and pepper hair. \u201cHe has final say in all of our purchasing.\u201d<\/p>\n Demos was only half-present as greetings were exchanged, having been too distracted by his own self-pity to realize the weight of his role. A single clap of Ellen\u2019s hands snapped him to attention.<\/p>\n \u201cWell,\u201d she said, her eyes bright behind the safety glasses Gina had given her. \u201cShow us what you\u2019ve got.\u201d<\/p>\n It was then Demos noticed he was clenching his own wrist. He loosened his hand, his eyes screwing shut as he buried every fear and regret that had been swimming around his head since the previous night. His mind emptied, zeroing in on one thing and one thing only. It was time to work.<\/p>\n He opened his eyes, giving Ellen a nod.<\/p>\n \u201cOf course,\u201d he said as he positioned the proper safety attire over his head. The weapons were arranged neatly across the row of tables, each one resting beside a set of loaded magazines.<\/p>\n \u201cWe all know your primary concern is defense.\u201d Demos rested his hand on the edge of the table. \u201cYou need something powerful, yet easy to use.\u201d<\/p>\n He lifted the first gun, a long, black rifle that looked as if it had come straight from a war film.<\/p>\n \u201cThis is the Colt AR-15, the civilian version of the military\u2019s top assault weapon. It\u2019s lightweight, simple to assemble, and ideal for close quarters combat.\u201d He angled the weapon to the ground, allowing a better view of the hand guard. \u201cThe barrel is 4150 vanadium steel, designed to disperse heat. And when you\u2019re shooting 700 rounds a minute, it\u2019s going to get hot. Luckily, the Picatinny rail, which is standard for attachments, will keep your hands safe.\u201d<\/p>\n He seated a polymer magazine, pulling back the charging handle before releasing it with a clack<\/i>.<\/p>\n \u201cStep back, please.\u201d<\/p>\n There was a collective shift as the row of bodies behind him moved away. Demos lined the iron sight, then fired.<\/p>\n The sound of shots filled the air, carrying up to the soaring, dusty ceiling. Casings clattered as they hit the ground, just as puffs of smoke swelled and dissipated. The scent of lubricant and gunpowder followed, a whiff of chemicals lingering behind each shot. He had emptied half of the magazine before stopping, hitting the release to let it slip into his hand.<\/p>\n Even when the shooting had stopped, the warehouse still seemed to ring with the remnants of each gunshot. The cardboard target on the far wall had settled, its core riddled with ten clustered holes.<\/p>\n \u201cThese retail for about 1k, but we could certainly work something out for a bulk purchase. Not to mention the convenience of skipping background checks and licenses.\u201d Demos gave Ellen a poised smile. \u201cWould you like to try it out?\u201d<\/p>\n Her eyes seemed to glint at his invitation. \u201cAbsolutely.\u201d<\/p>\n Demos\u2019 heart skipped. Few things sealed the deal with a customer as effectively as a test drive.<\/p>\n Ferris glanced from Ellen to the gun. \u201cDo you need him to\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n \u201cI used to hunt white-tail with my father,\u201d she said, cutting off his offer of a tutorial. She set in a fresh magazine, letting the bolt clack<\/i> as it fed the round.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd I was better than him.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m glad we\u2019ve all maintained a sense of modesty,\u201d Ferris said under his breath. Once again, shots rang across the boundless space, littering the floor with brass. When the smoke cleared, he could see the smile on her face had grown.<\/p>\n \u201cNot bad,\u201d she said. \u201cWhat else have you got?\u201d<\/p>\n Demos lifted the second rifle. \u201cIf you like that one, we also have a Smith and Wesson M&P15.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0The demonstration continued through rifles, handguns, and finally onto Kevlar vests. It seemed that, for the time being, Ellen had forgotten her distaste for the young Italian. Dennis had remained quiet for the most part, only speaking up for more details on costs and transportation.<\/p>\n \u201cIf we were to place an order,\u201d Ellen said, removing the muffs from her ears, \u201cWhat kind of ETA would we be looking at?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTomorrow evening, at the soonest,\u201d Gina said. \u201cLonger if you order past our stock. Though we\u2019re certain you would want to\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n A noise stopped her sentence midway \u2014 a low, gravely rumble from just past the warehouse walls. It was an engine, one at full speed and growing louder by the second.<\/p>\n Demos stared at the loading dock door. \u201cSomeone\u2019s here.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI encrypted those emails,\u201d Ferris said, his voice wavering. \u201cI could have sworn I\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n \u201cFish, in the office.\u201d Demos pointed at the small room behind them. \u201cGet my gun.\u201d<\/p>\n The engine roared just past the walls, bouncing from steel and concrete.<\/p>\n \u201cBut there are\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n \u201cGo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0Ferris let out a sharp breath before turning toward the office. It was a small room with half-painted walls and a simple corner desk. The computer looked as if had hadn\u2019t been moved since the 90\u2019s, with a keyboard covered in scattered notes. A quick scan revealed nothing that remotely resembled a firearm.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t see\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n The door slammed shut behind him. There was a click<\/i>, followed by a thud<\/i> as a large object was propped against the doorknob.<\/p>\n \u201cDemos!\u201d Ferris rattled the handle, shoving against the door with his shoulder. \u201cWhat the hell are you doing? Let me out!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cStay in there.\u201d Demos\u2019 voice was muffled through the door.<\/p>\n \u201cBut I\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n \u201cI said stay in there!<\/i>\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFucking let me out!\u201d<\/p>\n There was no response. The next thing Ferris heard was a torrent of crumpled metal and screeching tires. Steel buckled as a vehicle plowed through the loading dock door, sending a line of crates clattering to the floor. Then, there were gunshots.<\/p>\n Just as loud was the sound of his own pulse, knocking through his chest and skull as he made another hard kick at the door. His foot bounced from the surface, throbbing at the ankle. It was no use \u2014 it wouldn\u2019t budge.<\/p>\n Outside the office, the Giorgettis and their guests had found cover behind overturned tables and bins. Ellen had made quick use of the first weapon she\u2019d sampled, her heels already encircled in casings.<\/p>\n \u201cFucking Marianis,\u201d Demos said through grit teeth, racking back the slide on a spare Beretta. Beside him, Benny had made every attempt to bend his large frame behind a stack of cartons. There was a ping as his shot bounced from a metal surface, the sound barely audible over the cacophony of gunfire. Demos glanced over, took aim, then paused.<\/p>\n The men that had poured out of the truck weren\u2019t Italian. One had a face he knew \u2014 a face he had seen only months before. Victor had not-so-subtly threatened to burn the man alive before suggesting that he leave town and never return.<\/p>\n It was Hassan. He hadn\u2019t left town.<\/p>\n The only window in the cramped office was on the door itself, thick and frosted, obscuring Ferris\u2019 view of the catastrophe that was occurring just on the other side. How could Demos have done this \u2014 locking him in a tiny room like some child? What had they trained him for? The shooting ranges, the torturous trips to the gym \u2014 what had any of it been for if he couldn\u2019t help his friend?<\/p>\n Somewhere past the wall, a man screamed in pain.<\/p>\n Ferris\u2019s fingers clawed lines over the back of his head. If he could only see past the window, then\u2014<\/p>\n No, he didn\u2019t need to see past the window. He had to get through it.<\/p>\n The desk chair wasn\u2019t heavy, lifting from the ground in one smooth motion. He took a breath, then swung. The legs hit the door in one sweep, shattering the surface with the shriek of steel of glass. Shards burst across the concrete floor, each piece glinting in the smoky light. A loose chair wheel slid past a toppled ammunition case before slowly rolling to a stop. Just as Ferris looked through to find the handle, his eyes froze.<\/p>\n Twenty yards ahead, Demos was on the ground. The others, both friend and foe, were too occupied to notice \u2014 all but one. Hassan loomed over the smaller man, his heel pinning Demos\u2019 wrist to the floor as a handgun lay only inches from his fingers. He was speaking, but Ferris couldn\u2019t hear his words. His words didn\u2019t matter. Nothing mattered but the Italian on the floor.<\/p>\n The office door swung open. Glass crunched beneath Ferris\u2019 soles as he stepped forward, grasping the first weapon in arm\u2019s reach. The semi-automatic pistol sat tightly in his grip, the metal growing warm under his palm as he snapped in a magazine. He went through each motion without thinking \u2014 the safety, the cock, not once removing his eyes from the two men across the floor. Gunfire rang in from either side, echoing, yet unheard.<\/p>\n Hassan lifted his arm.<\/p>\n The gun in Ferris\u2019 hand rose, the sight lined perfectly over his target\u2019s chest. The air was suddenly cold, harsh as it rushed down his throat.<\/p>\n Ferris took one step \u2014 one breath, then fired.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Most Sundays at the Giorgetti compound began with Chopin. The notes would dance through the empty halls, trailing through filtered light and walnut railings. Since arriving in Southport, Isabella had cherished these mornings, taking each one in the sitting room with a cappuccino and a plain cornetto. That day, however, the house was silent. Demos\u2019 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-350","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fishbones-book-02"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p4oWx8-5E","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"post_mailing_queue_ids":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/350","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=350"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/350\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":577,"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/350\/revisions\/577"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=350"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=350"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.fishbonescomic.com\/novel\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=350"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}