"I need to go home," my words to Gusty G. He stayed quiet. I reckoned he was processing his thoughts, but I just really needed to see my old man, regardless.
"Santo," he began his speech, "I know you're smart, and without me saying, you clearly know that that wouldn't be the best move to make yet," his words tasted bitter, and I felt the bitterness all the way down my gullet as I swallowed hard his utterances.
"What?! I can't go home?!" My question was rhetorical, but my mood was soiled.
Sinking into one of the office couch, I resigned wearily. He stood there, watching me sulk. Now, I felt more like a prisoner, only without chains and cuffs. Then, it dawned on me, 'Why do I have to do everything he says? Why can't I just take a sabbatical from all this emotional blackmail and mafia drama? It's too much to deal with, I haven't even lived my life yet. What if I die? Perhaps, Antonio was right from the start, we should have informed the fucking police?'