Gio
I knock an empty bottle of Jack over when I startle awake to the sound of pounding at my door.
I’m awake, but I’m not f*****g getting up. I’m lying on the couch in the same boxer briefs and t-shirt I’ve been in for days. Maybe weeks. I don’t know how long it’s been.
I ignore the knocking.
“Gio! Open the f*****g door before I break the motherfucker down!”
It’s Paolo. Acting like the stronzo he is.
“Vaffanculo,” I call half-heartedly. f**k you.
Growing up, we Tacone brothers made a habit of cursing in Italian so the nuns and non-Italian adults wouldn’t know we were saying bad words. Or at least, how bad the words were.
More pounding. If my door wasn’t solid wood, it probably would’ve cracked by now. Is he using his foot? “I said, open the f*****g door. Now!”
Porco cane. It takes
