Speak Low (Speak Easy 2)

When I was positive I’d knocked him out, I burst into tears and shoved open the door to the dining room.

“Tiny, get out of here!” shouted Joey. But his words still sounded muffled.

Disoriented, I looked through the archway into the front room, where one lamp burned.

My knees nearly buckled.

Joey sat on a chair, the same chair I’d sat in before Sunday dinner, while Sam Scarfone stood to his side, holding a straight edge razor to his throat. His face, his beautiful face, was bruised and bloody, and his wrists and ankles were tied with rope. Just like Daddy.

Instinctively, I tucked the pistol I held behind me.

“You heard him. Get the fuck out of here,” said Sam. “Where the fuck is Freddy?”

“I…” My voice stuck in my throat. Fear had totally paralyzed me. Somewhere in my mind, a voice said shoot him, but I wasn’t sure I could do it. I locked eyes with Joey, who silently begged me to go. I could see the desperation in his face, but I wasn’t about to leave him. My fingers tightened on the pistol.

Sam glared at me. “Get the fuck out of here, I said, before I show you the way myself.”

“You lay one finger on her, and I’ll rip you to fucking shreds,” Joey said, the clearest words from him yet.

“You got a lot of nerve talking to me like that, Lupo, after what you pulled. I ever hear you held back again, I’m gonna lay more than my finger on her and make you watch.”

I saw the rage erupt in Joey and he vaulted out of the chair and hurled himself at Sam, butting his head into Sam’s chin.

“Joey, no!” I cried.

Sam was easily able to shove Joey down to the floor, and he grimaced, touching his tongue to one bloody corner of his mouth. “You’re gonna pay for that,” he said. “I thought you were smarter than Angelo, but I guess I was wrong.” He brought the blade to Joey’s cheek, and I snapped.

Rushing forward with the pistol out in front of me, I took aim at Sam’s chest.

And I pulled the trigger.

Chapter Eighteen

Turns out, I did have it in me to shoot someone.

It also turns out that I’m a horrible shot.

I missed his chest by a mile, putting a bullet in his leg instead. But it was enough to knock him backward, and as he staggered I pulled the trigger again. This time I caught him in the shoulder, and he dropped his blade, groaning in pain. I raced into the room and scooped it up.

To my utter shock, he actually stumbled for the kitchen door and disappeared through it.

“Oh no!” I cried. “Should I go after him?”

“No!” Joey struggled to sit up. “Let him go. Just let him go, he won’t get far.”

I rushed over to him. “Oh my God,” I said, breaking down again. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine, baby. Where’s the other guy—Freddy?”

“He’s in the kitchen. I kicked him in the balls and knocked him out with your dad’s gun.”

Joey actually tried to smile. “He’d be proud of you.”

I untied Joey’s wrists and ankles. He threw his arms around me and I wept into his chest, relieved and grateful. “Shhhh, it’s OK now. It’s OK, cara.” Then he murmured something in Italian, I had no idea what, but his voice was soothing and the lilting, rhythmic words were so beautiful, I grew calmer immediately.

Joey took one of the guns and went into the kitchen, where he discovered Freddy had disappeared as well. However, he must have been too cloudy-headed to handle the fire escape because the police found him in a heap of broken bones beneath the iron staircase as if he’d fallen. Either that or Sam had pushed him.

Turns out there had been someone else in the building, and though she’d been too scared to answer my knock after hearing the shouts from Joey’s apartment, she’d called the police. Freddy lived through the fall and was promptly arrested after being released from the hospital.