Beretta stands outside the black convertible, the door held open as he crosses an arm over his chest, bowing to play chauffeur, Arsen perched high on the driver’s seat, grinning from him to me. The actual doorman is trying to get them to move, or to at least acknowledge his attempt, but they don’t, and the man turns to me.

I shrug, chuckle, and push out the door.

I take Beretta’s hand and climb into the back seat.

He doesn’t join me but falls into the front, and then we’re driving away.

Beretta catches my eye in the mirror and pointedly looks to the empty space beside me and back. “More of that family shit.”

I shrug because I didn’t ask.

Even if I sort of wanted to.

I’m laying across the plethora of blankets piled on the old mattress in the bed of the truck at Beretta’s house, laughing as he acts out a scene from some movie called The Night at The Roxbury that he swears is a ‘classic’ and almost had a fit when I told him I’d never heard of it.

He’s dancing like a fool on the open tailgate, his hands, arms, and legs flailing all around as he bumps his chest against Arsen’s, who laughs with me.

His tone is soft, but strong, maybe a little gruff, as his voice must be.

He doesn’t move but is fully entertained by Beretta’s antics.

Nobody I know would have the confidence or comfort to act so silly out in the open like this. I know I don’t.

It’s addicting, the freedom they walk with.

Beretta spins, his grin wide as he shouts, “Emilio!”

I laugh, shaking my head, but then he turns serious, straightens, and hops off the bed of the truck.

“This can’t be good,” he mumbles, taking a few steps.

Arsen hops down next, both walking around the truck.

I lift onto my elbow, looking over my shoulder through the back and front windshield to spot Ransom slipping through the gate on foot.

His hair is pulled at its ends and chaotic, his eyes dark underneath and shirt torn at the neckline.

“Hey man,” Beretta says cautiously, but cuts himself off.

Ransom darts forward, gripping the edge of the folding table set up next to the garage door and flips it.

He picks it up again, tossing it against the wall and it snaps in the center, the cheap plastic no match for his wrath.

He jumps on top of it, stomping, and picks up a nearby wrench off of the top of a small safe tucked in the corner, heaving it across the yard. It crashes into something, clanking hard as it falls to the ground.

“That motherfucker!” he bellows, growls, and spins. “That sorry piece of shit!” he shouts, then bows, screaming nothing into the air.