Page 58 of Pocketful of Us

"I'm alright, Ro," he called back to me. "Your daddy's bitch boy hits like a girl."

Another blow to the head and Sketch fell to his knees. "This bitch boy will bash your brains in," the guard hissed, kicking him in the back and causing him to fall flat on his face.

My father laughed in delight.

"Go for it,bitch," Sketch recklessly challenged, as he spat a mouthful of blood on the floor and climbed unsteadily to his feet. "You wouldn’t be the first to try."

"Don't," my father warned, when the guard moved to strike Sketch again. "I want him in his full senses for the next part."

"Dad, what are you doing?" I croaked out, trembling. "This is madness."

"No, Ramona, this is business," he corrected coldly, inclining his head to one of the guards.

Moments later, the double doors of the great room opened inward to reveal Raffaele and Mr. Capaldi, both badly beaten. Mr. Capaldi had a look of resignation etched on his face, while Raffaele had one of pure hatred. Both men were flanked by guards and had guns pressed to the backs of their heads.

Trailing after them were both Victoria and Mrs. Capaldi.

The minute they noticed our presence, both Raffaele and Mr. Capaldi's attention switched to Sketch. I could see relief, love, and utter reverence shining in both men's eyes.

Immediately, my gaze shifted to Sketch, frantic to gauge his reaction.

Surprisingly, he wasn't looking at his bitch-mom or either one of the men that claimed him as their son.

Instead, his entire focus was onme.

His wild blue eyes kept shifting from my face to my stomach and back again. His entire body was trembling with the need to inflict violence, as he clenched and then unclenched his hands over and over.

"It's okay," he mouthed, snaring me with his heated stare. "I'll get you both out of here."

"No," I mouthed back, giving a small shake of my head in warning. "Don’t be reckless."

"Now, isn't this a lovely family reunion? Three generations of Dillons and Torettos all under the same roof," my father announced. "What has it been, Raff, at least fifteen years since you saw your baby boy? Does he match up with the image you painted in your mind? Does the boy whose only talent in life is drawing pictures pass the bar for you?"

When nobody answered him, my father turned his focus on Sketch.

"What about you, Giacobbe?" he goaded. "Has everything become a little clearer for you – now that you are standing in the same room as the mirror image of yourself in thirty years."

Nostrils flaring, Sketch reluctantly tore his gaze off my face and locked eyes on Raffaele.

I held my breath, fearful of what might happen.

Sketch was unpredictable.

He could – andwould– say whatever he was feeling in that moment, and I didn’t want Raffaele to get bruised in the explosion. Because I just knew that Sketch was going to blow soon.

Sketch surprised me again by turning back to my father and shrugging. "Am I supposed to feel something? Are you expecting me to fall at your feet and beg for a stranger's life? Because I won't. Because I don’t give a damn about him."

Instead of looking crushed by his son's words, which I had expected him to be, Raffaele beamed with uncontained pride. I could imagine he was sayingthat's my boyin his head.

"Oh, so you don’t care about your father?" Dad hedged, taking a menacing step towards both Raffaele and Mr. Capaldi. "You have no feelings on whether your father lives or dies?"

"Nope," Sketch deadpanned. "Couldn’t give a damn."

"Well," Daddy mused. "That's a shame." Not a second later, he withdrew a blade from his pocket and slashed it across Mr. Capaldi's throat. Blood gushed from the opening in this throat; thick, red, and oozing.

"No!" I screamed, hands shooting up to cover my mouth, when the man that had raised my two best friends collapsed in a heap on the floor.

"What did you do!" Sketch roared, breaking free from his captors' hold. "Dad!" Barreling towards where Mr. Capaldi lay face down on the red velvet carpet, Sketch collapsed on his knees beside him. "Dad –" his voice cracked and his pain poured out. "Dad, no, no, dad…" Crying hard and ugly, he pulled the older man's lifeless body onto his laps, smearing his hands, face, and clothes with blood in the process. "Wake up, Dad. Please wake up…" Cradling his dead father in his arms, Sketch bowed his head and continued to whisper to himself as he rocked their bodies back and forth. "It's okay. You're okay. Just find Chris, 'kay? He'll look after you… fuck, Dad, I'm so sorry I brought all of this horror to your door." Sniffling, he pressed a kiss to Mr. Capaldi's sunken cheek. "I love you so much…"

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