I took out my lockpicks and got to work on the knob.
The thing about doors is they’re not hard to open. Most conventional locks aren’t really that difficult to pick with some practice. Most mafia guys learned the skill, and some were better than others, but we could all do it. I hadn’t neglected my lockpick practice, since going undercover sometimes meant getting into places I shouldn’t, and I made quick work of the bottom lock.
Next came the bolt. That took me a little longer. Sweat rolled down my back, cold and anxious.
But once it was open, I turned the knob and stepped inside.
The house was dead quiet. I halfway expected her dad to be sitting on the other side with a gun aimed at my face, but there was nothing.
The living room was small and cramped. Easy chair, patched leather couch. Carpet was shag and in bad shape. The place smelled like cigar smoke and stale beer. Newspapers were piled up on the table and the kitchen beyond was pitch black.
I snuck up the steps, trying to be as quiet as I could. They creaked underfoot and I grimaced at each sound. At the top, there were three doors, the bathroom and two bedrooms. I listened at the first and heard a soft snoring, so moved on to the next one.
I turned the knob and opened it slowly.
Something flew at me in the darkness. It slammed into my chest and nearly knocked me over. Nails dug into my skin and I barely managed to wrestle Sam back into her room. “It’s me,” I hissed, getting her over to the bed.
She finally stopped trying to rip my face off when I pushed her over onto the pillows. She stared up at me, mouth hanging open.
“Matteo?” she whispered.
I nodded once and held a finger to my lips.
She looked like she wanted to say something, but I shook my head fiercely. I pointed at her dresser, mimed filling a bag, and she seemed to understand. Without a word, she went into her small closet, got out a bag, and started shoving clothes and shoes into it.
I looked around her room. I figured I wouldn’t get another shot.
Light blue walls, pale pink carpet. Pictures of her and Nessa on the nightstand. The desk had a laptop and more pictures, stuff from her senior prom, of her on a ski trip, of her and her dad when she was a little girl, probably at Sesame Place. The walls had old, curling, yellowed posters of boy bands from the early 2000s, and they looked like they’d been there for that long.
I couldn’t imagine living in my childhood room for that long. It was like being a little kid forever.
She finished filling the bag and glared at me, gesturing something with her hands. Unfortunately, I couldn’t understand her sign language.
“Come on,” I said, heading to the door.
But a sound in the hall made me stop.
Sam froze behind me. I glanced back and her eyes were wide as I drew my gun out. She shook her head quickly, but I held up a hand.
Her father appeared, squinting in the dark, gripping a baseball bat. “Sam?” he said.
I moved first. I slammed the butt of the gun into his face. He dropped, groaning, and I kicked him hard in the chest. I ripped the bat away and tossed it aside, the wood clattering down the hallway and tumbling down the steps.
“You motherfucker,” her dad groaned. “What the fuck’s happening?”
I pressed the gun against his face. “I think you know what’s going on here,” I said.
He blinked at me, looked at Sam, then snarled. “You’re the guy that got my daughter pregnant.”
I pulled back, surprised, and looked at her.
“Nessa told,” she said. “That bitch.”
I clenched my jaw and stared back down at him. “And you still hit her?”
Sam took a sharp breath. “You saw that?” she whispered.
“Of course I hit her,” her dad said. He looked like a withered husk of a man, barely a ghost in just boxer shorts and a white t-shirt. He wasn’t worth my time or my rage, but I couldn’t help but heap both of them on him in spades. “You’d hit her too if she betrayed you.”
“She’s your daughter.” I held the gun out, aiming at his head. “I should kill you for touching her, you piece of shit.”
“Matteo, no,” Sam said.
Her dad laughed. “Matteo? Your name’s Matteo? What’s that, Italian?”
“Yeah, it’s Italian,” I said, leaning forward. “Maybe don’t bother thinking about my ethnicity when I have a gun pointed at your face.”
He showed his teeth. “Italian piece of shit, you got my daughter pregnant, you dirty piece of—”
I kicked him again, harder this time. He gasped for breath and doubled over, clutching his side.
“Don’t,” Sam said and put a hand on my arm. “Please, don’t.”