𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞// 𝐓𝐎𝐌 𝐊𝐀𝐔𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐙

Snitch

🎧please use the music provided above for a better experience🎧

March 22, 2011

The morning light shines through the curtains, casting a soft glow in the room. Gently shifting Tom's arm wrapped around me, I slip out of bed, leaving him to his slumber. As I make my way downstairs, the wooden steps creak under my weight, as I make my way to the kitchen.

The fridge, upon inspection, disappoints with its contents—only remnants of last night's takeout and a nearly empty gallon of milk. Opting for a simple breakfast, I grab a box of cereal from the cabinet. Preparing two bowls—one for me and another for Anton—I can't help but feel a tinge of loneliness while conducting this mundane morning routine.

Navigating through the familiar layout of the house, I eventually reach the basement door. Its aged hinges squeak as I push it open, revealing the dimly lit space below. The light coming in through the small windows fails to brighten the gloom.

My eyes lock onto Anton, seated at the table, chains binding his wrists. Nearby, amongst the keys, a glint catches my eye—the cold, metallic handgun. Without hesitation, I pocket it, feeling the weight press against my waistband.

Approaching Anton quietly, I place a bowl of cereal before him, the other across the table. A muffled clink echoes through the basement as I unshackle the chains, the sound startling him awake. "Morning." I murmur, trying to keep my tone light.

"Mornin'." he responds groggily.

Anton blinks away the remnants of sleep, and I explain, "Sorry, it's all we had." gesturing towards the plain cereal bowl in front of him.

"Oh, that's fine." he says, offering a light smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

The basement feels stifling, the air heavy with unspoken tension. As we sit across from each other, the only sound breaking the silence is the occasional scrape of our spoons against the cereal bowls. The overhead light flickers intermittently, casting eerie shadows on the worn walls.

Hesitant to break the strained quiet, I muster the courage to initiate conversation. "How do you know my father?" I ask, my voice barely audible over the faint hum of the basement's ventilation system.

"Your father?" Anton's brow furrows in confusion, a hint of uncertainty coloring his features.

"Yeah." I affirm, my gaze fixed on him, seeking answers.

"You're his daughter?" he questions, surprise evident in his expression, pausing to take a deliberate bite of cereal.

"Yes." I confirm, waiting for his response.

Anton's eyes cloud over momentarily, as if recalling a distant memory. "Salvatore never mentioned havin' a daughter." he remarks, his gaze lingering on me.

A wave of disappointment washes over me, mingled with a hint of frustration. "He never mentioned that he sold drugs to me either." I retort, my tone laced with bitterness.

"I don't blame him; this is a dangerous business. My baby girl doesn't know I do this either; she thinks I just got another job further out." Anton explains, shaking his head. There's a weariness in his voice.

"But, uh, your father and I met at my job." he continues, breaking the quiet tension. "I was a chemistry teacher, but I cooked meth for small distributors in Russia. My product eventually spread all over Europe. Your father somehow got ahold of where I lived and worked, promised me I would never have to worry about money again, so I started cooking for him." He says shrugging his shoulders moving the cereal around in his bowl.

"So you knew about my mother?" I inquire softly, my voice barely above a whisper, the question lingering in the air.

His sigh is heavy, laden with regret. "Yes, your mother was a lovely lady, and I'm so sorry for what happened to her. Believe me, I had no say in anything your father did. You didn't deserve that."Anton replies, his eyes reflecting a genuine empathy.