Page 36 of Pocketful of Us

Too late to hang up, I gripped the oak table for all I was worth, chest rising and falling quickly, as my father's voice filled my ears.

"I've been expecting your call."

Rolling his eyes to the heavens, Raffaele gestured wildly at the phone, as if to say'see, I told you so'.

"What do you want, Cal?" Mr. Capaldi asked, tone impressively emotionless.

"You're the one who called me," came my father's taunting response. "So, why don’t you tell me what you want, old friend?"

"You already know."

My father laughed. "You didn’t do a very good job raising him, Chris. The boy is all heart and no brains. Just as reckless as always."

Mr. Capaldi stiffened and Raffaele looked like he was about to have an aneurism.

I had never seen a man's face turn such a deep shade of red.

Wait, scratch that, I had.

Sketch's face.

Whenever he used to see me with Chris.

"What do you want, Cal?" Mr. Capaldi repeated, and this time my father answered the question.

"I want him to suffer," he replied simply. "I want to destroy every trace of joy that ever existed for him and wipe it from the earth." There was a short pause before my father spoke again. "Did you hear that, Raff?"

"I heard you," Raffaele spat, gripping the back of a chair.

"I want your anger. I want your tears," my father continued to taunt. "I kept your son alive all these years just to prolong your pain. It was not enough for me to let you agonize in the knowledge that I burned your whore alive. I kept your bastard alive just so that I could taste your suffering when I slowly peel the flesh from his bones, carving your heir piece by piece. I want to revel in the fact that you know he's dying and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it." My father sighed in contentment. "That is what I want."

"All of this because you are still sore that she chose me," Raffaele hissed, looking tortured. "She was my wife, Cal –"

"And she should have been mine!" my father roared down the line. "But you stole her away from me. Blinding her with your charm and looks before I had the chance to show her what I had to offer."

"You cannot steal a woman from a man who has never owned her heart," Raffaele countered, livid. "And Carmella wasneveryours."

"And you willneverhold your son in your arms again," my father retaliated cruelly. "I hope his death haunts you until you take your last breath."

"It won't work!" I blurted out then, breathing ragged. "Even if you kill Sketch, you can't take Raffaele's family from him because I'm pregnant!"

"You idiot," Raffaele snarled, fury emanating from him.

I didn’t care what he called me just as long as I stopped my father from doing the unthinkable. "I'm growing his grandchild inside of me, daddy – yours, too. So, your plan is a waste of time. Hurting Sketch won't change a thing. This baby is a Toretto, and whether you like it or not, their bloodlinewillcontinue."

My father was silent for so long that I thought he had hung up.

When he finally spoke, his words sent a chill down my spine. "I am prepared to make a deal with you, after all, Raff. Come to my home and bring my daughter. We can talk then."

"Do you think I am that naïve?"

"I think you love your son," my father replied. "If I'm right, and you want to see him alive again then you will come."

The line went dead and Raffaele released a furious roar. "Congratulations, cousin," he sneered, glowering at Mr. Capaldi. "You just handed our one advantage over to the man who wants to kill us; the element of surprise. You have really outdone yourself this time." Furious and cursing in Italian, he pulled his own phone out and tapped furiously against the screen.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you think I'm doing, jackass?" Raffaele hissed. "I am organizing the plane." He placed the phone to his ear and stalked out of the room, leaving me all alone at the table with Mr. Capaldi.

---