Stroke: A Bad Boy Romance

by Gabby Grace

  “He was successful. He put what happened behind him and learned from it.”

  “Do you think Vito can do that?”

  “You don’t know what he did, Mama.”

  “It’s not important. Can he move past it and become a better person?”

  “Yes… I think so.”

  “Then my advice is the same.”

  My mama picked up the morning paper, The Jupiter Gazette, stuck her nose down behind it, while dipping her toast in her soupy eggs. It’s her way of telling me the conversation is over, and I need to think on things.

  I lift my cup of coffee to my lips, steaming and dark, with just a touch of sweetness, and I’m reminded of what we have together, Vito and I.

  45

  Vito

  "Holy shit, Vito, that’s fucked up.” We sip our Dunkin’ Donut coffees on a bench right outside the place, watching the poor suckers who work nine-to-five jobs go through the drive-thru for their morning coffee.

  “So I tortured the fuck and figured out he was sent by a guy named Tommy Dibullo who works in some capacity for Sirico.”

  “So where’s this guy now?”

  “The bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “Alright. What’s next?”

  “Good question, Frankie. I got the address of their newest place of operations. And then there’s Nero’s old place, and who knows if the Don is still staying there.”

  “It’s a tough call, Vito. Why don’t we go to the warehouse, since we’ve already scouted the other place? You know, poke around, see what we can find out.”

  “Let’s go.”

  ____

  There’s the warehouse. 348 Wharf Way. We drive by rather than stop, as we don’t want to raise any suspicion. There are trucks and cars driving both ways, backing in and out of loading docks in the hustle and bustle of the day, so we feel good that we’re not the only vehicle on the street.

  It’s a beautiful old factory building in a nicer section of town than the last one, a red with gold trim 348 painted on the brick above the front and center entranceways in a color scheme you might see on a firehouse or side of a fire truck. It’s slightly faded and weathered from the sun and the salt air.

  As we get to the end of Wharf Way, we see how it got its name. Ahead of us, and as far as the eye can see if every direction, there are ships of all sizes, but mostly gigantic container ships anchored at the docks. Rows upon rows of storage containers in every color imaginable are stacked in neat rows, ready to be unloaded, their contents trucked to places all over Florida and around the country.

  Two massive cranes painted construction orange do their busy work, loading and unloading containers onto and off of the ships.

  “This must be where the stuff is coming off the ships, Frankie.”

  “Yeah, and just a block away from the warehouse. It’s a tight set-up.”

  “Looks more efficient than what they had before. At least from what I saw.” We turn right, following the road that parallels the wharf. Going is slow due to all the trucks loading up goods and from the ground activities with forklifts.

  “What did you see on the warehouse, Frankie? Any weaknesses?”

  “I did, but you don’t want to know.”

  _____

  Earlier, Frankie had seen a ladder attached to the side of an adjacent building, a blue warehouse with newer siding that apparently houses the Eamon’s Feed Supply Company, a cattle feed company by the looks of the green and yellow logo depicting bags of feed on a diamond background.

  We waited until nighttime and then moved into position, parking the car just down the street from the feed company. We emptied the contents of the trunk, including a few backpacks filled with tools for breaking and entering, ropes, and some C-4 plastic explosives Frankie told me he brought in case we needed some sort of explosion. What a fucking lunatic. I scaled the ladder about twenty-five feet up to the flat part of the roof, and then lowered the rope as Frankie tied the long board to the other end. When he pulled on it, I hoisted it up, the 16-foot long board clattering a little too loudly against the siding for my taste, as I tried to estimate the distance across the other roof, our real objective for the night.

  With Frankie up on the roof now, we grabbed the board, keeping our weight back to keep the tip up and sliding the board across the open expanse between the two buildings. I estimate the distance at ten feet, which leaves three feet of board on each side. We settle the board into place as quietly as possible, then pause to consider what we were doing.

  “So who goes first?” Frankie needs to know. He looks a little nervous.

  “I don’t fucking know.” Peering over the edge, the distance down seems twice as far as it did a minute ago.

  “Fuck it.” I put on one of the backpacks, take a deep breath, climb up on the black tar lip at the edge of the roof, and steady myself before continuing across.

  I put my right foot out in front of me, followed by my left, extending my arms out to the side to balance me. I think back to my football days and all the exercises we used to do for balance, and in theory, this should be a piece of cake.

  Then as the building edge disappears behind me and the ground below me comes into view – it’s mostly concrete with cracks of scraggly grass growing through – I came to the realization that one slip and I would probably fucking die, or worse, end up a cripple for the rest of my life. All I have to mark my way is the dim lighting of a few scattered security lights mounted to the corners of buildings. It was all part of our plan, really. Stick to the shadows and make our entrance above those lights, which are the scourge of any cat burglar.

  My favorite part was when the board started bowing in the middle from my weight, despite the fact that we had purchased the longest and most sturdy hardwood board we could find. Come to think of it, we must have looked ridiculous with a 16-foot board lashed to the top of a Mustang convertible.

  Fuck. My heart is in my stomach, but I do my best to breathe, and like Frosty the Fucking snowman, I put one foot in front of the other.

  Across to the other side now, a few more gray hairs for my collection, I hop down off the ledge, trying to be quiet, and look back at Frankie. He seems like he’s having a mini panic attack over there with both hands on the edge of the board.

  I frantically motion to him with my hands to come over, but he’s not budging. Then it hits me. I can motivate him with one word. I cup my hands together to create a mini bullhorn around my mouth, and in the loudest whisper I can send across the 10-foot chasm, I hiss, “Pussy.”

  That did it. He looks pissed. That’s it, Frankie, use that shit. I’m right over here. When he gets halfway over, he slows and stops when it starts bowing again, even though I’m securing it with my body weight on my end. “Mary.” That fuckin’ did it. That’s the worst thing I could say to him, and in my world, it means you’re fucking weak.

  Frankie enthusiastically hops off the end, meets me with his hands pushed into my chest, scrunching up my shirt in his fists, and pushing me backwards. “I’ll fucking give you Mary.”

  “Easy, Frankie. Save it for the bad guys.”

  “This isn’t over, Vito.” I can’t believe that stupid fuck didn’t take it for what it was. Motivation.

  “Fucking whatever, Frankie. Leave the board. We shouldn’t be that long.”

  We try to stay low while moving across the flat, rough-textured roof, really having to pick our feet up so as not to add to the noise we make. It’s mostly dark up here, but I’m drawn to a few skylights just in front of us that are throwing a faint glow along the roof, slightly illuminating our way and helping me avoid running right into some kind of exhaust fan. It’s twirling at breakneck speed, with just a meager grate cover its spinning blades.

  I motion to Frankie, military-like, pointing at him, and then pointing at the adjacent skylight, while I continue on to the one right in front of me. I creep over to the edge, the angled skylight following a light angle up in the ro
of, and peer over the side.

  What I see next blows my fucking mind. Below me, on the ground floor maybe twenty-five to thirty feet down, are a slew of men in various stages of moving boxes: forklifts moving them back and forth, loading trucks in one bay, and unloading them in another.

  The fact that this is happening is not the big deal. The fact that it is happening close to midnight is what has my mind working at full-speed. Are they working 24/7 shifts, or are they working the night shift, shutting down during the day because of what happened at the last warehouse? Maybe they’re mkaing up for lost time?

  Frankie slides over to me, staying low, until he’s on his stomach next to me staring down through the same skylight.

  “What the fuck, Vito?”

  “I thought this place would be empty, but they have a full-on workforce down there right now.”

  I roll over onto my back. I stare up at the sky and start considering our options.

  Then I roll over to my side, perch up on my elbow and speak. “We have to assume they’ll be working here every night. And if they are, and not working during the day, that’s forcing us to have to infiltrate while they’re here in force, or during the day when we have to infiltrate in full daylight.”

  “Whoever is running this operation is fucking smart.”

  “It has to be Tommy Dibullo, or the Don himself. I don’t know of any other players.”

  “Alright, let’s see if we can find a way in.”

  “You’re fucking shittin’ me, right?

  “You’re not going to pussy out on me again are you, Frankie?”

  “Fuck you, Vito.”

  I’m just fucking with Frankie, but I’m also trying to motivate him. He seems determined to prove me wrong, as he leads the way around the edge of the skylights and deeper into the center of the roof where I can make out a couple of dark shapes.

  Frankie comes up on a rectangular section of the building jutting up from the rest of the structure. He pulls out a small flashlight and moves all around the rectangular area, even on his hands and knees, looking for anything that may provide a way in.

  “Here.” Frankie’s pointing at something with the light as I move around him to see.

  “What is it?”

  “A vent.” A large vent, it’s base is even with the roof of the building. About 3-feet square, it looks like it could be our key in.

  “I don’t see anything else up here, so other than the skylights, this might be our only shot.”

  “Can you jimmy it off?”

  “Hold this.” Frankie hands me the flashlight. I hold it aimed in the backpack first, then at the grate, as he works the edges with a crowbar. It’s making some noise, but as he grunts into it, I see one of the edges starting to give way. It pops out unexpectedly, and I have to dive down on one knee to catch it with my free hand before it clatters on the roof.

  “Fuck, that was close.” I lean the grate up against the wall next to the dark opening, while Frankie grabs the light, shines it into the opening, and says, “We’re in.”

  I crawl behind Frankie, my knees dragging along the concrete, as my hand pulls me forward. Just when I think we’re free, we run into a large steel pipe that gives us just enough room to shimmy under. We come out the other side and find ourselves in a small room. I notice there’s a fire axe and hose on one wall, and a few pipes with large wheel valves coming out from different parts of it’s length. Ahead of us is a red door; it’s heavy steel and looks like a fire door.

  Frankie checks it. Unlocked. We make our way from the concrete floor on one side of the door to a metal-grated catwalk on the other side. It extends straight, right out over the main area where we can see a few people milling around below us. Softly, we pad our way across until we reach a T-junction that extends off to the right to a small boothed-in area. It looks like there is the glow of monitors coming from the glass windows going around it on three sides.

  “Control room. That would be a good place to start.” I lead the way across twenty-five yards of open catwalk, keeping my eyes squarely on the booth and looking for any signs of movement.

  Approaching the base of the booth, the brick base extending up about three feet and giving us just enough room to duck behind it, our backs are to the wall now. My heart is in my chest, but I need to take a look to see what’s what. Inhaling a deep breath, I spin my body around one hundred and eighty degrees and edge my head up, my eyes rising up to the glass level. I see legs just under a desk, and I’m facing right at it. I edge my head down, breathing hard and knowing I could easily have been seen.

  I whisper and motion with my hands, “Stay here. I’m going around the side.” I crawl around the booth to my right and turn the corner. I’m on my belly now and right up to the side with the door. Just to the left of the door, I raise my head up once again, then shift half a foot to my right for a better look.

  Staring at an angle now, I can see a lone person, a male wearing glasses who is maybe forty-five, sitting in a leather office chair on wheels. His feet are up on the desk, and he’s staring at a few dozen monitors. There are monitors that show men working, loading and unloading trucks, and in various levels of work.

  Then I see it. Something familiar. It’s a smaller cluster of monitors off to the far right in the upper corner. The monitors are noticeably smaller than the others and hard to see from where I am, hidden in the shadows.

  But then I see it, and there is no doubt what I’m looking at. It’s the bedroom where Bella and I sleep. It’s the same place where I’ve fucked her six ways to Sunday. Were they watching us have sex? The bathroom where I interrogated that goon, then choked the last breath from his lips. The foyer where I first claimed Bella as my own, on that shag white carpet, soft as a polar bear’s skin.

  They’re monitoring me. They know who I am, and they’re keeping an eye on me. They sent a man to kill me, or to abduct Bella, and instead he’s taking a ride on the Gulf Stream into the middle of the Atlantic.

  This is bad. Really fucking bad. I never told Bella about the goon who was waiting in her shower. Why would I? One more thing to put her in line to Bellevue Mental Hospital.

  She needs to know. I have no idea when she’s coming back home from her mother’s. It could be tomorrow. It could be today. My phone has been off for an hour now while I’ve been breaking into this place. I didn’t need Aunt Edna giving me a call while I’m trying to sneak up on some fucker. There could be a message on there right now telling me that’s she coming home and will be there any minute.

  If they’re watching her house, it means they’re ready to act. That guy I offed must have planted those cameras, and I took care of business before they were fully activated. Shit, there could be someone at the house right now. Just waiting for me or Bella to walk in. She would never see it coming.

  Think, Vito, think.

  I crawl back over to Frankie, then motion to him that we have to go, and he reluctantly follows me as I lead us back the way we came in. When the fire door is secured safely behind us, Frankie speaks.

  “What the fuck, Vito?”

  “They had cameras there, dozens of them. Most of them are security cameras for this place, but they had six that we’re monitoring Bella’s house. That fucker I killed must have planted those cameras before I got there. I swept for other guys, never for electronics, not that I would even know how the fuck to do that.”

  “It’s really pretty easy. They emit a low signal, and there’s this app you can get…”

  “Frankie! That’s not helpful right now.”

  “What’s fucking helpful right now then, Vito?”

  “I need to get a hold of her.” I’m already fishing the phone out of my pocket, hitting the power button, and waiting for what feels like forever until my home screen shows messages.

  “I have a text.” I hit the yellow button and the text pops up.

  “Hi lover. I miss you and wanted to come home early. Be home in 30 minutes.”


  I frantically start texting her back. “Stay away from the house. Too dangerous. Text me when you get this.”

  I call her next and leave a similar message, but it goes to voicemail. My heart balls up in my throat, as I swallow hard and have to force out the next sentence.

  “We have to go. Now.”

  46

  Bella

  I don’t know what happened. I had just gotten home and jumped in to the shower. I was enjoying my time with my mama but I missed Vito and wanted to surprise him. I planned on staying the night, maybe grabbing some clothes for two or three days, and then going back to her house. Vito said it might not be safe until he takes care of things, but I figured I’d find him home.

  My shower curtain was gone and I couldn’t figure out why, so I angled the spray toward the wall and tried not to get the bathroom floor wet. I washed the day’s sweat from my body and it felt so relaxing.

  I went to the bedroom next and put on some pajama bottoms and a black t-shirt with no bra. As I was heading back to the bathroom to blow dry my hair, a strong arm strangled me around my neck and held me close, tugging me into a solid torso, as the person’s other hand cupped my mouth so I couldn’t scream. At first I thought it was Vito, but the way I was being handled was too violent for Vito, and I felt myself struggling for breath each time I struggled. The arm clenched tighter around my neck the harder I fought, like a vice grip. I knew it was no use.

  “You’re coming with me. You fight, it will go real hard for you.” A voice I didn’t know hissed into my ear, and I could tell by the tone that this wasn’t a guy I should fight with.

  So I did as I was told. The man, who was still behind me at this point, my wet hair balled up in his fist, grabbed my phone off the counter as we exited the front door that he never bothered to close behind us. He guided me across the front lawn, sticking to the shadows and staying away from my front porch light that I had turned on when I got home.

  I wanted to cry out every time he yanked on my hair, but I knew that would only anger him and make him hurt me more.