Rebecca Caruso

Saturday, Sep. 1, 9:43 AM
Raphael:
Golden Nugget at 11?

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

My head throbbed, a dull ache pulsing behind my eyes like a drumbeat, relentless and unforgiving. I squinted against the harsh, blinding glow of my phone screen, the light cutting through the fog of my hangover like a knife.

The car's interior spun slightly as I groaned and pulled the old-school lever, hoisting my passenger seat forward. Every movement sent ripples of nausea through me, but I pressed on, trying to shake off the haze.

I blinked, my eyes widening in shock as the words processed through the pounding in my skull. Raphael was here? In Chicago?

"You're here?!" I texted back, my fingers moving clumsily over the keys, excitement bubbling beneath the layers of discomfort and the lingering dizziness from lying down.

I caught a glimpse of Robert through the slightly ajar car window. His commanding voice drifted in, serious and unwavering, as he addressed the press, going over the gruesome details of the bodies found in the shipping container. The juxtaposition of my current state—hungover, disoriented—against the gravity of his words was surreal. It was like I was trapped between two worlds, one where my head was a battlefield, and the other where a public crisis was unfolding.

I hadn't seen my brother in person in seven years. Video chats had been the only way to bridge the gap, but now, realizing he was actually here, I felt a strange mix of joy and disorientation. He had taken on the role of Digital Forensics Specialist for the FBI at twenty-five, while I... well, I'd gotten suspended.

I leaned the seat back, staring once again at the ceiling of the car, willing this dreadful headache to subside.

No more booze. 

The thought of seeing my brother again was enough to temporarily push the discomfort aside. Seven years was a long time, and right now, despite the nausea and the pounding in my temples, the idea of catching up with him in person felt like a lifeline.

Usually, I'm not one to compare apples-to-apples with my brother; after all, he is my only true comrade within this blue web of intolerance.

However, like my father, others beg to differ. It's the return of the prodigal son; where they saw talent, dedication, and perseverance from yet another Caruso—I witnessed someone desperately looking for an escape, an unhappy soul. Raphael moved to Virginia, not for the job, but for the liberation and freedom it brought him.

I gingerly reached for my coffee cup from the console, my arm barely stretching far enough without making my head pound more. I took a small sip, the taste slightly bitter and cool now, but it gave me something to focus on besides the blinding ache of regret.

I squinted against the daylight streaming through the half-open window, trying to gauge the reaction outside. From my low vantage point, I could only catch glimpses—journalists leaning in, their faces set in serious, concentrated expressions as they listened to Robert's speech. The murmur of the crowd mixed with the weight of his words, and though I couldn't see much, I could feel the impact they were having.

"The victims of these gruesome and horrific acts are not voiceless," he noted standing tall behind a makeshift microphone-filled podium; the shipping container behind him, opened wide revealing its savagery to the world. "We cannot allow for senseless offenses like these to go unheard nor unpunished."

National, local, and indie reporters all lined up in dreadful astonishment, each foreboding their viewers of such imagery. No one officially knew how many dead bodies there were, and according to Robert— it could take years to figure out.

"The leaders and heads of organized crime here in Chicago and our neighboring cities," he passionately proceeded while pointing to the container, "should be prosecuted immediately and treated as the murderous serial killers they are; not as glorified mobsters."

"Men who execute these vulgar acts," he remarked, this time looking directly at the crowd, "deserve no sympathy, no acknowledgment, and most certainly no praise."

I shook my head with bittersweet amusement as he spoke.

Although Robert couldn't specifically prove that it was Montanari's who filled the shipping container, he undoubtedly constructed a fearful tale that made them enemies to the public. Expecting that someone, somewhere, will turn on these known idols and hand everything over to the police on a god-damn-gold-platter.

However, here's the thing about public perception; it's a spinning dial that constantly moves. Nothing is absolute. One minute people may be afraid of the Montanari's, but the next, who knows, they may be lying for them.

"Tonight you and I never met. You were never out here, and all this with Frank never happened, understand?"

My head throbbed, a dull ache pounding through my skull, I cradled my nearly empty coffee cup, willing it to kick in, but it was doing little more than holding off the worst of the hangover.

The night had been spent in secret, my phone tucked under the sheets as I scrolled, the soft glow illuminating my face as I tried not to wake Christopher. He's a light sleeper—one wrong move and he would've been up, asking too many questions I wasn't mentally ready to answer.

I'd gone down a rabbit hole, trying every variation of "Marco Montanari" I could think of—Marco M, Montanari Chicago, Alcove Montanari, Marco Alcove, even just Marco Chicago, hoping for some accidental breadcrumb to appear.

Angelo? Plenty of dirt there, enough to keep me scrolling for hours. But Marco? Nothing. No news, no articles, not even a whisper.

How had I never heard of them before? I should've known, right? Surely, Robert would have mentioned the Montanari family at some point. Yet here I was, trying to unravel it all on my own, while lying in the dark next to a man I wasn't even sure I could tell.

I looked down between my thighs as I felt my phone vibrate once more...

Raphael:
Just got inside my hotel room.

It took me a while to realize that I hadn't responded to the original message in full. "Can't meet," I replied unknowingly gauging how long this publicized occasion would last, "waiting for Chris. At a press event. Turn on your TV."

I'm sure Raphael's sight wouldn't be pleasant. Alongside Robert, Christopher reluctantly stood behind the podium—waiting for his moment to convey a few statements to the press about this specific case. It was his first time being part of a high-profile suit; it was also the only reason he wanted me to come.

Lucky for me, I was still a fresh news topic amongst the tabloids; Robert's recommendation to stay in the car couldn't have been more accommodating. Nothing like laying back and aimlessly listening to the case in full, all while pretending I don't exist.

Wish I had bought more coffee...

Just before I was able to take the last sip, my phone vibrated with a PRIVATE number listed. Immediately I ignored the call wondering if my phone number was bought out or leaked somewhere online. Between spam emails, Robo-calls, and texts, scammers have been a busy bunch this season.

Not even a second later the same listing calls once more. Yet again, I hit ignore. A text notification instantly pops up on my phone screen.

Raphael:
Answer it.

The phone rang once more as I briefly read the text. This time I answered swiftly, "Morpheus, is that you?"

"Hello, Neo." my older brother jokingly replied. "Tell me, how in the name of all that is crazy are you still with Chico after he got you suspended?"

Good to know Raphael continued to have my back on certain suspension matters, but then again he and Christopher had their falling out years ago.

"Love, also an enigma," I honestly replied while taking the remaining sip of my coffee. "You got the conference on?"

"How could I not? It's on every damn channel," I was clearly on speaker as I could hear him rustling through the luggage in the background. "What's your take on it?"

"The case?" I reiterated while getting comfortable and leaning my seat back down.

"Yeah," he affirmed.

"I dunno..." I set my phone on speaker and dropped it into one of the cup holders, "maybe because I'm not familiar with it, but from what Chris told me it just feels very one-sided. Robert's jumping the gun and making assumptions with no viable evidence."

"And they say you don't have the brains for the job."

I was perplexed by my brother's statement, "Whose 'they' and what are their plate numbers?"

It was apparent that Raphael took his phone off speaker mode as his voice became more prominent. "Listen, the FBI has had the Montanari's on their radar for some time—in fact," his manner became more solemn, "we obtained intel about this particular shipping container months ago."

"And you guys did nothing, why?" I recollected while peeking out the window. Christopher had just switched places with the Chief of Police Superintendent; I could hear the faint nervousness within his oration.

"It's called the Federal Bureau of Investigation," Raphael affirmed. "We solely investigate."

"Oh, the irony..." A wry smile played on my lips as I reclined, unable to resist a quip, "So, if you're not planning to work the case alongside Robert, what brings you here?"

"I'm here because of your innocent run-in with Marco Montanari, " he scoffed out. "You gonna tell me what happened there?"

Shit, why can't that night escape me like everything else?

"Please tell me you didn't come all this way for tabloid chit-chat?" I implored.

"No," he remarked. "I came to convince you to be my civilian informant."

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