𝗔𝗰𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀

Eleven.

Rebecca Caruso

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

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

My eyes widened at the luminous phone screen while I pulled the old-school lever, hoisting my passenger seat forward.

"You're here, in Chicago?!"  I texted back with profound excitement as the lightheaded sensation of lying down started to subside.

Robert's sapient vocals echoed through the slightly ajar car windows as he continued informing the press and public about the gruesome disarray that occurred within the shipping container.

I haven't seen my brother physically in seven years except for video chats. It's weird, really, thinking about it from that perspective; Raphael was twenty-five when he accepted his role as Digital Forensics Specialist for the FBI, whereas I got temporarily suspended.

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 grabbed my nearly finished coffee cup from the console while surveying the press' reaction to Robert's heeding words.

"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?"

A quick overnight Google search brought me up to speed with Angelo Montanari; Marco, however, had nothing. It still hindered the question: How did I not hear about them before? I'm sure Robert would have mentioned it prior at some point.

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 brought 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."

"Good."

I was perplexed by my brother's statement, "What do you mean by 'good'?"

It was apparent that Raphael took his phone off speaker mode as his voice became more prominent. "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?

"I don't get it," I implored. "Why come all this way for tabloid chit-chat?"

"Because," he remarked. "I want you to be my civilian informant."

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