Where the Bad Ones Go

Copyright © 2023 Thomas Bilotta All rights reserved. [email protected] ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-7389651-1-3 ISBN (eBook): 978-1-7389651-0-6 to the tears hidden behind every fake smile. to those who sometimes don’t wanna see their reflection in the mirror. to those who try as hard as they can to be someone they’re not. to those who feel like they can only be themselves when no one else is around. to those who feel unseen. to the dreamers. to Joe for his days of hard work and dedication. to Rose for her days of hard work and dedication. to Maria Christina, Anna, Francesco, Italya, Luna, and my future nieces or nephews. to Nonna Maria, Nonno Tommaso, Nonna Anna, and Nonno Dominic. to all of my uncles, aunts, and cousins. to my former professors and teachers who emphasized the importance of art and storytelling. to those struggling with mental illness while they search for inevitable relief. to the young souls who found their way home a bit early. to those I’ve judged. to those I’ve ignored. to those I’ve hurt at my lowest and highest. to those who’ve hurt me at their lowest and highest. to all of my inspirations in cinema and music. to that confused boy who never felt good enough until he stopped trying to be good enough. Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight 1 1986 HOURS PASSED WITHOUT me taking a single moment to rethink what I was about to do. No one on the train had a clue they were sitting among a soon-to-be murderer. They couldn’t see the pistol tucked deep inside my backpack. I’m surprised I even made it past the train station security. I wouldn’t hurt anyone on this train or any other stranger. I’d never ruin an innocent life the way mine was ruined. There’s only one person on this earth I believed worthy of the bullets hidden in my sock. He awaited me in Boston, but he wouldn’t have clue who I was until I told him. I can never take back what he stole from me, but his demise felt like a good alternative. As soon as I found out what he did and where he was, I didn’t waste much time. I probably called almost every grocery store in Boston and asked to speak with him. Took days and days to find him. As soon as the woman on the phone said she’d pass the call over to him, I hung up. He’d hear my voice in person, right before I shot him in the head. I haven’t been outside New York many times. Only to visit some of my mom’s family in New Jersey, but that didn’t even feel like a different state. When I was a kid, my mother, grandma, and I lived in a small house on the north side of Buffalo. I spent more time with my grandma because my mom had to work two jobs. She was forced to take on the role of both mother and father. I did meet my dad, but not when it mattered much; he died when I was only a week old. Actually, he was murdered, and that was why I was on that train to Boston. After twenty-four years of life, I’d finally found who destroyed my family. The case had remained open for years and years, until last week, when someone decided to tell all. A man close with my dad was dying from lung cancer and suddenly believed a confession was the right thing to do. Twenty-four years too late in my opinion. He didn’t pull the trigger, but he gave the order. Cancer will take care of him for me. My dad clearly didn’t keep the best company, and he paid the price. I didn’t know if my dad was a good guy or bad guy, but according to my mom, he had a big heart. From an early age, his biggest problem was the need to be validated and respected. An average day job couldn’t offer him that level of confidence. He found his purpose in the Italian Mafia in New York City. My dad was a mobster. People he thought were his closest friends and mentors put him in the dirt. My mom admitted that, whether or not they found his killer, she knew who did it. After we read the dying man’s deposition at the police station, I asked her if she was right. I couldn’t get her to answer me. She still feels like my dad’s murder was only yesterday. They’d been getting ready to leave the city and start a new life with organized crime behind him. Before they had a chance to leave, he left and never returned. Some said he ran away on his own, but she refused to believe that. I don’t really know if he and I are alike or not. From what I can put together, he was much tougher than me. It’s difficult to ask my mom about him because she instantly tears up when I mention him. My grandma often tells me I have his eyes. She doesn’t like talking about him much either. He was her only son, and she raised him on her own for most of his childhood. Both my mom and grandma wonder if they could’ve done anything differently to help him. If my dad and I have anything in common, it’s insecurity. I’m not as confident as I’d like to be. There are a lot of things I like about myself but also things I’d love to change. My mom tells me a person should never live by someone else’s definition of what’s good enough. She’s probably right. No one can