Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Dad and I spent Saturday digging through everything we knew about Phil and any possible link that there might be to him and the FBI. Over the years we pieced things together and had a few clues as to who Phil really is. Dad's theory is he was a hit man of sorts, and that he kept his identity hidden so that the police couldn't find him. That's why he was never in any pictures, that's why he was always taking long trips.
I didn't know what to think of Phil. In fact, I tried not to. Even thinking his name made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I was terrified of the man, and I knew that given the chance, he would kill me as easily as he did my mother.
Sometimes I thought about how much easier it would be if he succeeded in finishing me off before dad and I escaped. We wouldn't be constantly looking over our shoulders, dad could have a real life, we wouldn't have to have strict rules to follow on a daily basis, and we could breathe. But then I think about dad, and how he would be devastated if anything were to happen to me.
Shaking my head, I chug down the glass of what I came into the kitchen to get, as well as a small break from the constant searches being performed in the living room. I swear, dad hasn't slept a wink so far since discovering Edward is affiliated with the FBI. I'm not much better, but at least I pretended to sleep for his sake. I tossed and turned for the majority of last night, and when my mind finally did settle enough to let sleep take over I was haunted by the memories of the past.
I joined dad on the couch before the sun had fully risen and helped sort through the information he has put together since last night. The living room looked like a giant web with stacks of paper and pictures linked to one another.
"Holy shit." I hear dad curse from the other room.
I run back with my half full glass of water still in hand. Dad stands in the center of our web holding a picture in one hand and a newspaper printout in the other. His expression is one of absolute fear.
"What is it?" I whisper, slowly approaching him and glancing at the picture he grips.
The black and white photo is of a man getting out of a car. The photographer captured him just as he is making eye contact with the camera. Average is how I would describe him – average height, average build, Caucasian male, mid-to-late thirties, dark hair, and then my breath hitches. His eyes. They are the same as Phil's. Absolutely identical. Dark and filled with absolutely no emotion, just pure evil.
It was Phil's eyes when I first met him that made me take a step back. My mother had laughed and said that I was just shy. Phil's eyes had narrowed in on me, scrutinizing my every move. It took almost two full years before I stopped jumping each time his gaze narrowed at me. But I never trusted the man. My instincts, it would seem, were spot on.
"Who is that?" I asked, feeling a chill run down my back staring into those eyes.
"Caius Volturi," Dad said, dropping the papers on top of the coffee table as he sat heavily onto the couch. "He's a capo in the Volturi family."
"I don't understand." I said, picking up the newspaper article and scanning through it.
"The Volturi Family are connected to one of the original 'five families'." He said quietly.
I looked up, not believing what he was saying.
"The 'five families' operate New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, California, Nevada, and" he paused, looking up and catching my eyes "Florida."
"So your saying Phil was in the mob?" I almost laughed. Really, the mob? That was just a bunch of non-sense played up for movies and TV. That stuff didn't really exist in the real world, did it?
"Kiddo, Caius Volturi works with Freddy Massaro," he explained, frantically picking up his piles of papers to show me, "they are both Capos of South Florida crews. Massaro is somewhat retired now and has started to go legit, he opened up a restaurant in Sunny Isles Beach called Beachside Ma.."
"Mario's" I finished.
"You know it?" he asked. His wide eyes meeting mine.
"Uh, yeah, Phil took me and mom there a few times for dinner." I said, thinking back on the few times he had taken us out.
"Tell me everything you remember kiddo." Dad said, reaching for a pad of paper and a pen.
"Well, we always met him there. He introduced us to a few people once, but nobody named Freddy." I said, sifting through my memories. "There was someone named Lenny and a guy he kept calling 'Little Allie Boy'. We always ate at the same table right off the side of the bar near the manager's office, and Phil would always go directly to the bartender to get our drinks." I said, recalling how weird it was that he would go to the bar to get the drinks even though we had a waitress.
"Ok, ok." Dad kept repeating, frantically writing things down on his notepad. He reached for his laptop and clacked on the keyboard before sighing heavily before patting the seat next to him.
I sat down quickly, leaning into his shoulder to read what he was showing me on the screen.
"There he is." Dad said, pointing a finger at the man that haunted my dreams. "I can't believe I never made the connection before." Scrolling down I read the description under his picture.
Phillip "Crazy Phil" Leonetti, is a Philadelphia gangster who became the underboss of the Scarfo crime family under his uncle, Nicodemo "Little Nicky" Scarfo before becoming a government informant. At the time, he was the highest-ranking member of the American Mafia to break his blood oath and turn informer. His criminal record includes racketeering charges and ten murders.
I couldn't believe it. This man killed my mother and ran from authorities, he was a government informant? Then why were the police coming to us asking about him? It didn't make any sense.
After tossing and turning once again that night, I decided that I would do a search of my own in the morning. Not only into 'Crazy Phil', but also into the officer whose card I've held onto all this time.
Rolling out of my bed I reached for the duffel bag that had accompanied us on all of our moves. I pulled out the small rectangular card that was now bent and had a slight rip in the top left corner. Running my finger over the raised print, I thought back on the man who had found me hiding in the closet all those years ago. Never once had we looked into him, and as I sat there flipping the card over between my fingers, I thought back to moments leading up to him finding me. He navigated the room as if he was familiar with it, and within moments of entering our house, he found me hiding in the closet, almost as if he knew I was there.
On the list in my mind, right next to 'Crazy Phil', I added Officer Jacob Black.
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