Page 2 of Chicago Sin
Fifty-four months. That’s how long I served in the state pen. My colorless existence between four concrete walls.
Longer than some members of the Outfit served. Shorter than others. I kept my mouth shut and did the time like I was supposed to. I also earned a business degree.
“Out on good behavior,” Marco huffs, as if he’s reading my mind. “Who would have thought?”
I don’t answer but think how ironic that is since I literally shanked a man in prison. Thankfully, I’m a Made Man, and the don kept me protected and out of trouble. Amazing how the mafia has the ability to make things simply disappear on the inside. The power inside the system may even be stronger than outside the concrete walls.
Noticing the white knuckles of Marco’s hands as he grips the steering wheel, I see I’m making him uncomfortable. I know why. I got pinched, and he didn’t. I served time while he remained free. I’ve felt the same way before. A survivor’s guilt of sorts when one of your own goes down for a family crime. It’s hard to face, and there is always a part of you that wonders when you’ll be next. It’s cliche to say that prison changes a man, but it’s fucking true.
Now, riding passenger in my cousin Marco’s car back in Chicago, I don’t experience the big joy of freedom. I note the sky. Tall buildings. The traffic. The noise and energy of the city that ate me up and shit me out. It elicits nothing. The familiar streets, familiar places evoke nothing of my old self. Of the young man I was before I did time. I’ve been numb the whole ride, having some kind of out-of-body experience with being on the outside. I’ve thought of this day since the day I went in, but now that it’s here, now that I’m out... I feel nothing at all. I’m dead to the experience.
“Hey, let’s stop for dinner. My treat, obviously.” He maneuvers his SUV to parallel park in front of Lorenzo’s Italian restaurant, one of the Outfit’s favorite haunts.
“Sure, yeah.” I don’t want to. The silent car ride was excruciating enough. I appreciate Marco’s loyalty to me, but I’d rather not have to spend another hour with him. I don’t want to see anyone I used to know.
But I always did love eating at Lorenzo’s. The food is served in large portions, and everyone is treated like a guest of the house, especially if you’re part of the Outfit. The waiters and staff used to know me by name, greeting me with enthusiastic handshakes and hugs. It’ll be interesting to see if anything has changed.
An explosion of voices assaults me as I step inside.
I have no weapon. I have no way to fight.
Chapter Two
Armando
My whole body goes rigid, my instinct to fight for my life activated before I can turn it off.
“Bentornato!” Welcome back. Cheers of celebration follow.
Fuck.
Bentornato, Mando, the giant banner spanning the private room reads.
Everyone shouts and claps around me as I struggle to exhale the breath lodged under my ribs. They’re focused on me with welcoming faces, but I can’t make my face crack even the semblance of a smile for the assholes.
“Cristo, you coulda warned me,” I mutter to Marco. We’re six months apart, me and him. Raised together. Fought together. We became Made Men together. We’re tighter than brothers.
And for a split moment… I thought we were going to die together.
He cuts a look at me, taking in my balled fists. The muscle ticking at my jaw. “Surprise,” he says sardonically. “Sorry. I’ll get you a drink.”
My ma throws herself at me, her thin arms strangling my neck. I have to force my fingers open to hold her. I feel too many ribs on her back. Adrenaline’s still pumping from the unwelcome fucking surprise.
Seriously. Who gives a new prison-release a surprise party? I coulda killed one of them if they were within swinging distance. Thank God Marco didn’t give me a gun when he picked me up.
I scan the room filled with familiar faces.
Don Pachino sits in the back, chewing on a cigar and sipping whiskey, his capos and son-in-law beside him. I lift my chin to him across the room to show respect, and he raises his glass.
It’s a soldier’s welcome: the hero’s return.
Except only the people in this room will treat me like a hero. To the rest of the world, I’m forever marked by my felony conviction.
A criminal.
“You’re too thin, Mando,” my mother chides when I finally get her to loosen her hold on me.
“So are you, Ma.” I kiss her cheek. She’s much more bony than when I left. Her hair’s going grey, too. It kills me to see how much my stint in prison aged her.
