Chapter 3 - Shadows In The Mountain
Rocco stayed in the back of the bakery that night,
sleeping on a cot Elara provided.
The wheelchair sat in the corner,
a silent witness to his deception.
He wasn't paralyzed,
but the chair was his shield,
the only thing that kept the world from seeing the predator underneath.
In the quiet hours of the morning,
he pulled the yellowed letter from his coat.
"There is a debt there I could spend my whole life repaying and never finish,"
he read the words again,
the ink blurred by time.
He thought of his uncle Gino,
the way his eyes had hardened at the mention of the letter.
Gino knew about this place,
he knew about Ray’s past,
and he knew about the baker.
Rocco stood up,
his legs strong and steady,
and walked to the window.
The moon was a sliver of silver over the jagged peaks of West Virginia.
He heard a noise from the front of the shop,
a muffled thud and the sound of glass breaking.
Instantly,
the Mafia boss returned,
every muscle in his body coiling like a spring.
He moved silently,
ignoring the wheelchair,
staying in the shadows of the hallway.
He saw two men in the front of the shop,
wearing dark hoodies,
one of them holding a crowbar.
"Where's the cash box?"
one whispered,
his voice thick with a local accent.
"Forget the cash,"
the other replied,
"the boss said just wreck the place."
"He wants her to sign the papers by Monday."
Rocco felt a cold rage bubbling up,
the kind of rage that had ended lives in the back alleys of Boston.
He reached for a heavy rolling pin on the counter,
weighing it in his hand.
He could take them both out in seconds,
but if he did,
Rocco the beggar would be gone.
He would have to explain how a man in a wheelchair could break a man's ribs with a piece of wood.
He retreated to the cot,
lowering himself back into the chair just as Elara’s footsteps echoed from upstairs.
"Who's there?"
she shouted,
her voice trembling but brave.
The intruders panicked,
smashing a display case before scrambling out the broken window.
Rocco sat in the dark,
clutching the armrests of his chair until his knuckles turned white.
He had come here to find a debt,
but it seemed he had found a war instead.
And in this war,
May you like
he wouldn't be the one giving orders from a glass tower.
He would be the one fighting from the dirt.
