of thought, he hated the dark too. Absolute darkness caused him to have panic attacks. He found he just couldn’t cope well after living with his stepmom. All those years of being tossed in the room in the basement that had no window. The things she would prick his skin with for hours. He remembered if he cried once, or even mumbled a single peep of protest, she would start again, poking and pricking him with sharp needles, in the pitch-black room.
He always said one day he would do it to her, and when he got the chance in that barn, he used a pitchfork. No one ever found out it was him and he was okay with that. One less fucked up human for the rest of humanity to deal with.
One day he would tell Rosina all about it. How his stepmother was always pricking him and his father had no idea as he was away from home a lot. Darwin was bleeding in a dozen spots that day. His stepmother was about to lock him up in the dark room again, but Darwin escaped and ran at least a kilometer away. He hid in a barn that didn’t look used for anything other than hay storage. When his stepmother found him three hours later, she was furious. She saw a pitchfork against the wall of the barn and came at him. He recalled her saying something about pricking him real good this time. He dodged left, he dodged right, and kept himself off the long tongs of the pitchfork, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before she got lucky.
The sun was setting that afternoon, casting the barn into darkness. His ability to control his temper became too difficult. When she lunged again, he dropped to the hay-covered floor, reached up and grabbed the handle of the pitchfork. After twisting it from her grasp, he moved at her with a quick jab. It entered her chest, and she died in less than two minutes.
Darwin ran from the area and never looked back. He knew no one saw him because it never came up. His morose attitude was attributed to the loss and funeral of his stepmother.
He wasn’t a murderer. He wasn’t a repeat offender. It was a one-time deal of getting back at the source of years of pain and anguish. Years of torment and torture at the hands of a psycho.
His father had been absent all those years, working late hours. When he finally broke down and told his dad what his stepmother had been doing, his father wouldn’t believe it.
Darwin was left emotionally damaged and scarred. He developed a violent reaction, an outright insane anger, to anything sharp being pointed at him. Although, he couldn’t hold a knife. No way. He’d end up getting angry at himself, piss himself off. He couldn’t have that.
So what kind of weapon would work? A taser? A stun-gun. A pellet gun? But he had no idea where he would get those things in Rome.
Darwin took the escalator back up to the main floor and started walking along the line of train tracks, some occupied, others not.
He passed by a stationery store on the right and came up with a great idea for a weapon.
He bought exactly what he needed and stepped out with the weapon carefully hidden in his new jacket’s pocket.
Wait, when Rosina and I were here earlier, two men chased the bus and banged on the window. Maybe they’re still here?
He spun on his heels, a full circle, looking in every direction. He didn’t see anything untoward. No one watched him longer than normal. No one appeared to be stalking him.
How stupid, how stupid, he chastised himself. I walked out in the open. I could’ve been grabbed at any time.
He moved to the wall and stayed close to it as he continued along, watching the faces of all the travelers. He looked for anyone without luggage.
People from every culture ran by, heading in a myriad of directions, intent on making it back to their loved ones.
If only I could make it back to Rosina.
In thirty minutes, he had traversed the entire bottom floor of Termini Station without seeing anyone who resembled a mobster.
What the hell does a mobster look like anyway?
Toward the front, people stood in long lines buying train tickets. The roof was made of some kind of glass. Clouds rolled in, some gray, some darker.
Then he spotted one of the men from earlier, the slimmer of the two men who had chased the bus Rosina and he had taken to the airport. The man sat on the second floor at some kind of coffee shop, a cappuccino in his hand. Right above the ticket area was a railing and behind that were cafes and restaurants. The man sat all the way down at the end, at the last table.
Darwin immediately ducked his head, tightened his grip on his weapon and started for the side. He walked with purpose, but without making his hurried step too obvious. Within twenty seconds, he made it under the railing of the second floor and as far as he could tell, the mobster guy hadn’t seen him.
He skirted around and took the escalator to the second floor.
What am I doing? Greg told me to be cool. I’m supposed to be playing it safe.
Too late. He almost died on that highway and he wanted to send a message to the boss man that he wouldn’t be intimidated.
The motherfucking FBI is on my side and one phone call brought them running.
The Fuccini family will always remember Darwin Athios Kostas.
He slowed as he neared the corner of the cafeteria-style cafe. The man still sat there, looking down over the railing, his attention on the lines at the ticket booths.
Darwin edged out and walked briskly up to his table. He made to walk past in case the man looked up, but he didn’t, so Darwin turned and stood for a second directly behind him.
He waited. His hand shook the weapon as he gripped it in a sweaty palm.
What am I doing? This is stupid. These guys are trained killers. How am I going to intimidate him?
This was the only way. Act insane and be insane. Insanity meant unpredictability.
He lunged forward, placed his weapon against the man’s throat and leaned down next to his ear.
“Move a fucking inch, and the next time you move any muscle will be convulsions from the lead poisoning in your neck.”
He surprised himself. His own voice scared him. He had no idea where it came from. On the word fucking, spittle flew from his mouth. It felt good, liberating. That kind of madness and control at the same time gave him something of a rush.
To his credit, the man didn’t budge. Darwin felt the guy shudder a little.
“Now, I’m going to sit down behind you and we’re going to talk. You will not turn around. You will not look at me or I will kill you and shove your corpse over the railing. Then I will nonchalantly walk downstairs and catch a train to wherever. Are we clear?”
The man nodded in a rapid flourish, like he was in a mad hurry.
Darwin eased back, pulled his weapon away from the man’s neck, and sat on the chair behind the mobster. The man didn’t budge. He just kept staring straight ahead.
Darwin glanced down at the weapon in his hand and almost laughed. A thick pencil, unsharpened. He couldn’t carry a sharp one. Never could in school, couldn’t now.
Lead poisoning. That’s rich.
A chuckle slipped out after all.
Shit.
He looked up. The man hadn’t moved.
Darwin set his teeth together and spoke through them. “Put your arms up on the railing. Your hands must stay in my view at all times or I will cut them off.”
The man lifted both arms up.
“Good. Now tell your boss that we have to make an arrangement. He cannot hunt me down forever and I will not be hunted like an animal. This has to stop.”
“Can I speak?” the man asked.
“Yes, but first, tell me your name.”
“Paul, my name’s Paul.”
“Okay, Paul…” he almost said nice to meet you.
