Framed
LORENZO COSTA
I didn't kill Damian!
“Where is my money, Damian!?” I asked, my voice sharp, my patience gone.
The dimly lit alley behind Rossi’s Bar reeked of piss, cigarettes, and cheap cologne. A single flickering streetlamp cast long, eerie shadows on the brick walls. Damian leaned against the wall, completely unfazed. He didn’t even look at me. Instead, he took a slow drag from his cigarette, inhaling deep like he had all the time in the world.
Then, with a smirk, he blew the smoke straight into my face.
I clenched my fists, every nerve in my body screaming at me to break his jaw.
“I don’t have it, Lorenzo,” he said lazily. “s**t happens.”
“s**t happens?” My blood boiled. “You owe me fifty grand, Damian! That ain't pocket change.”
Damian shrugged, flicking the ash from his cigarette. “What do you want me to do? Pull it out of my ass?”
That was it.
I took a step forward, but before I could grab him, a hand pushed against my chest.
“Relax, Lorenzo,” Ethan, Damian’s ever-loyal lapdog, warned. “There’s no need for this to get ugly.”
I shoved him aside like he was nothing. “Stay the hell out of this, Ethan.” He stumbled but caught himself, looking more pissed than hurt. I didn’t care. My focus was on Damian.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “I’ll give you two days, Damian. Two days to pay me back, or you’re gonna wish you never heard my name.”
Damian let out a laugh. Not a nervous one, not a forced one—a real, belly-deep laugh, like I had just told the funniest joke he had ever heard.
“Do your worst, Lorenzo.” He tapped the ash off his cigarette. “I ain’t scared of you.”
I didn’t say another word. I turned around, stormed off to my car, and slammed the door shut. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel as I sped off into the night. The city lights blurred past me, but my mind was locked onto one thing. Damian had no idea who he was messing with.
I would’ve taught him a lesson.
I should have taught him a lesson.
But before I could even decide what to do, the news did it for me.
Two days, that was all it took.
I was sitting in my apartment, half-watching TV, sipping a whiskey, when the news anchor’s voice caught my attention.
“Breaking News. A man was found dead in his apartment on Fifth Street early this morning…”
I barely listened, bored out of my mind, until I heard the name.
Damian Keller.
My glass nearly slipped from my hand.
“What the hell?” I muttered, sitting up.
The screen showed a picture of Damian, the same smug grin he had given me in that alley. Only this time, he wasn’t laughing.
He was dead.
Before I could process what I was seeing, my phone buzzed. I snatched it off the table.
Paul.
I answered immediately. “Paul?”
“Where the hell are you?” His voice was tense, urgent.
“I’m at home,” I said slowly, still staring at the TV. “What’s going on?”
“Listen to me, Lorenzo. You need to get the hell out of there now.”
I blinked. “What? Why?”
“You really wanna sit there asking questions, or you wanna leave before the cops knock on your damn door?”
A cold feeling crept up my spine.
Just then, I heard it—sirens.
Not in the distance, not blocks away.
It was right outside my building.
I shot up from the couch, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I ran to the window, pulled back the curtain just a c***k, and there they were—three police cars pulling up in front of my place, their red and blue lights flashing against the dark street.
Shit.
“Paul,” I hissed into the phone, my hands already sweating, “what the hell is going on?”
“I’ll explain later. Just run, Lorenzo. Now.”
He rattled off an address. I didn’t ask where it was or why—there was no time. I grabbed my keys, threw on a hoodie, and bolted out the back door.
The second my feet hit the pavement, I heard footsteps behind me.
“Lorenzo Costa! Stop right there!”
Hell no.
I sprinted down the alley, leaping over trash cans, dodging broken glass. The cops were fast, but I was faster. I’d been running these streets since I was a kid. I knew every shortcut, every blind spot.
I ducked into a side street, slipped through a hole in the fence behind an old bakery, and kept running. The sirens faded behind me. I didn’t stop. Not until I reached the address Paul had given me.
It was an abandoned parking garage on the south side of town.
Paul was waiting inside, leaning against his black SUV. His face was grim.
I bent over, hands on my knees, catching my breath. “Start talking. What do you know?”
Paul exhaled, rubbing his temples. “The cops think you killed Damian.”
I froze. “What?”
He nodded toward the back of the SUV. “Damian had security cameras in his apartment. Someone wiped most of the footage, but guess what the cops found?”
I swallowed hard. “Tell me.”
Paul pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, then turned it toward me.
I stared.
The grainy security footage showed a man entering Damian’s place. A man that looked exactly like me…
Same build. Same dark hair. Even the same damn leather jacket I owned.
I stepped back. “That’s not me.”
Paul’s jaw tightened. “Doesn’t matter. The cops think you killed him. And Ethan has already testified that you threatened Damian a few days ago.”
I clenched my fists. “That lying son of a bitch.”
“It gets worse.”
Paul turned up the volume on the car radio. The news was still running.
“…Authorities have issued a warrant for the arrest of Lorenzo Costa, believed to be armed and extremely dangerous. A reward of half a million dollars is being offered for any information that will lead to his capture…”
My picture flashed across the screen.
My stomach twisted.
My heart skipped not one, but several beats.
Paul shut off the radio. “You’re officially the most wanted man in the city, Lorenzo.”
I ran a hand through my hair. This wasn’t happening; it couldn’t be happening.
“Paul,” I muttered, my throat dry, “what the hell am I supposed to do?”
Before he could answer, we heard sirens..
Loud. Close.
Paul’s eyes widened.
“Run, Lorenzo, run!”
