Public Enemy Number One - An EP Novella by kharizzmatik
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6822405/1/
"I sense someone's tapping into my phones, why do
I got this feeling in my bones I might die soon
The F.B.I might be tryin' to pull my file soon
I might be walking blind fold into a typhoon"
- Eminem "Public Enemy Number One"
Prologue
There are days that are never forgotten, days that stand out in history. People
gauge time by them, their lives nothing but a string of events with a bunch of
mediocrity in between. Most couldn't recall what they were doing on September
5th, 2001, or the 6th, or any other day that week, but they did know what they
were doing on the morning of the 11th. You could ask anyone about it and you'd
be guaranteed to hear a story about how they heard the news of the terrorist
attack in New York. They'd remember the tiniest details, not because they were
significant, but because the day was. Their world had been put on pause, the
moment forever seared in their mind.
However tragic, something had finally broken the monotony.
I was thirty-seven at the time. Esme and I had been in Phoenix and were
supposed to fly out later that night to go back to Chicago, but she was so shaken
she refused to get on the plane. I ended up having to rent a car for her sake and
drive over 1700 miles straight. It was the first and last time I'd ever been late for
a meeting. I told her she was irrational and complicating my life. She told me I
was an asshole.
Maybe she was right.
April 4th, 1968. I was four. I found the lady that worked in our house crying in
the kitchen. I didn't ask her what was wrong, but she took it upon herself to tell
me anyway-Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated in Memphis. That was
the day I learned she was a slave. I was too young to really understand the
concept and told her to just leave if she didn't want to be there. For some reason,
she listened to me. She didn't make it very far.
It was the first time I'd ever seen someone die.
July 21st, 1969. I was five. I sat on the floor in front of the television with my
sister and watched Neil Armstrong take those first few steps on the moon. Jane
said she was going to do it someday, but my mother told her the closest she'd
ever get to outer space was when she went to Heaven.
I begged to differ, because she wouldn't even make it there.
January 28, 1986. I was twenty-three. Esme and I were having lunch together at
a local diner and the television by the counter was broadcasting the latest space
shuttle launch. Everyone cheered at lift-off but were silenced a minute later when
the Challenger exploded live in mid-air. Esme gasped, horrified. I could see her
trembling. People around us cried.
My first thought was that if Jane still wanted to be an astronaut, she'd missed the
perfect mission.
November 22nd, 1963. The day I was born. I'd heard the story of my birth
dozens of times over the years, but that wasn't why the date held significance. It
had nothing to do with me, actually. People remembered it because of John F.
Kennedy's assassination.
My birth certificate listed my time of birth at 12:25 pm, a mere five minutes
before the President was shot. I wasn't breathing when I was born-the cord had
been wrapped around my neck so I was cold and blue. Technically speaking, I'd
been dead, but they managed to revive me as my mother gave birth to Jane. She
came out bright red and screaming. Fitting, really. We came into the world in our
own unique ways.
There were photographs from the hospital of the occasion, but I wasn't in any of
them. Instead of focusing on me and Jane, everyone's attention had been on a
small portable radio sitting off to the side.
The Mafia had ties to Kennedy. My father personally worked to get him votes in
Illinois, and other made men across the country did the same in their territories.
After he was elected, as a way to show his gratitude for the help, he declared war
on the Mafia with the help of his brother Robert, the Attorney General. The
Justice Department indicted over 100 men for organized crime, which, needless
to say, left a lot of Mafiosi unhappy. They were out for blood and when La Cosa
Nostra wanted blood, it got it. Even the President wasn't above the Mafia's wrath.
So whenever someone recalled that day and said that my father's first words
were, "I can't believe we actually did it," I suspected it also had nothing to do
with me. He'd never admit it, but up until the day he died I believed he harbored
secrets worse than the ones I now carried.
I tried to never think of those things, though. They were moments where people
came together and, for a day, united. They shared joy, and pain, and shock. They
cried together. They found common ground. They celebrated. They grieved.
It felt fraudulent.
Because after the day passed, so did everything else. Most people couldn't recall
what they did on September 12th, 2001, or the 13th. They were just days, much
like every other day. Time went on and so did life, but the memory of that one
single afternoon, when their dismal lives received a wake-up call, would haunt
them forever.
04/05/1968. 07/22/1969. 01/29/1986. 11/23/1963. They're nothing but dates.
No personal attachment to them. No significance. No meaning. Just numbers.
Story of my life.
I - Hell in a Handbasket
October 1996
33 years old
Chicago, IL
The deranged knocking echoed through the house, making my head pound. I
staggered down the steps toward the front door, groggy and still half-asleep. I
had told them I was going home because I didn't feel well, so for someone to
interrupt my night took guts. There was never any telling what I'd find on the
other side of the door, but whatever it was had better be important tonight.
And by important, I meant life or death, because if it wasn't I'd likely make it so.
Somehow, as I made it to the foyer, the knocking managed to grow more frantic.
I groaned and ran my hands down my face, trying to clear my head and wake up.
I was agitated and that wasn't a good thing for whoever was standing on my
front step.
"I'm coming," I yelled, shaking my head. All I asked for was one night where my
phone didn't ring. One night where I could relax and spend time with my wife
without interruption. One night where I didn't have to worry about who was doing
what with who and why. One night where people left me alone.
One night where someone didn't come knocking.
Present Day
Chicago, IL
There was a timid knock on the office door, so faint I barely heard it over the
music playing in the club. I ignored the tapping and continued to sort through the
paperwork on my desk. Mafiosi knew they were to carry themselves with
confidence, especially when dealing with the most dangerous of men. I didn't
care if they were staring down Lucifer personally, surrounded by brimstone and
hellfire leading them straight to eternal damnation. They needed to keep their
composure, be prepared to fight and never ever let their fear show. The streets
were ruthless and our rivals wouldn't hesitate to make a move at the first sign of
weakness. Vulnerabilities were exploited, and the worst thing they could do was
come off as uncertain. It didn't matter if they were wrong, they needed to always
appear right. It was the 'fake it until you make it' philosophy. They didn't have to
believe in themselves, they just had to convince everyone else that they did.
And I, most certainly, was not convinced.
There was another knock, still weak. Hesitant. Unsteady. Again, I ignored.
"Boss, there's someone at the-"
I held my hand up to silence Benjamin and he stopped speaking abruptly. He'd
initiated a few months earlier, the son of one of our high ranking Capo's named
Frank Mancini. Benjamin was a smart kid, good with numbers. He could've had a
bright future but instead chose the life of crime, more than likely for the same
reason most of the younger ones did-the money, power and respect.
It was a shame not many of them survived long enough to achieve any of it.
It took awhile for the third knock to come. It was louder, more determined. I
motioned for Benjamin to answer the door and sat back in my chair, glancing at
my Rolex as the boy entered. He was young, early twenties, and relatively fresh
within the organization. He still had the Young Turk mentality, believing
everything was open for negotiation. But, contrary to what he believed, I was the
only one in the room with the power to bend rules. He would learn that soon
enough, or he'd pay for his ignorance with his life.
"It's 9:03," I stated. "I told you 9. You're late."
"But I was here," he said defensively. "I was out in the hall."
I raised my eyebrows in disbelief that he was going to try to argue the matter.
"You have the audacity to make excuses?"
"No, I, uh..."
"I'm not interested in what you have to say. It's meaningless to me. I don't give
a rat's ass if you're ran over by a car out in the parking lot. You had better drag
your mangled body in here with enough time to be in my office when I tell you to
be in my office. Nothing short of death is reason enough to be late. Do you
understand me?"
"Yes, sir."
I could smell his fear. It reeked, filling my office with the sickly-sweet scent of
sweat and panic. I stared at him, watching as he fidgeted nervously under my
scrutiny. He was tall and lanky, nothing special about him. Nothing to make him
stand out. He was so mediocre, in fact, that I couldn't even recall his name. I was
almost certain it started with an S, but it wasn't as if it really mattered. He was
nothing but a number to me. A rank. A solider in the Mancini crew. Completely
replaceable.
I knew it sounded harsh, being that he was a person. He breathed the same air I
did. He had a family. A mother, a father, maybe a brother or a sister. He
probably had a girlfriend and might have even had a child. People loved him and
depended on him. To them, he was valuable, but I couldn't think of it that way. I
couldn't take that part of him into account. I had to be objective, calculating. I
had to do what was for the best for the Borgata as a whole, and not what would
help a single man at the bottom. If he wasn't a benefit to me, he was a liability.
"Stop fidgeting," I ordered, annoyed by his nervous behavior. How hard is it to
stand still? "You look like a fool."
"Sorry, sir," he said, attempting to stand up straight but his shoulders still
slumped forward, his body language screaming coward. He'd been brought into
the organization while Aro was still in power, in the last batch of initiations before
his shoddy reign ended. I couldn't understand what Aro saw in the boy to make
him worthy of wise-guy status, but it was too late for me to do anything about it
now. Once in, you're in for life. My only choice was to try to teach the boy his
place before someone saw their chance to take him out.
Or I had to take him out, for that matter.
"Do you have something for me?" I asked. He nodded, pulling out a rumpled up
manila envelope and sitting it on my desk in front of me. He glanced at the chair
beside him but thankfully didn't try to sit, considering I hadn't invited him to.
The world we lived in was sort of like a perpetual game of Simon Says, and I was
Simon. No one was to make a move - any move - without my consent. If they
tried anyway, whether it be because of a lapse in judgment or blatant ignorance,
they were immediately out - no buts about it. The difference, however, was that
life wasn't a game, so when you were out in my world there was no coming back
later for another try. No do-overs. No take backs.
I opened the envelope and pulled out a wad of bills that were neatly stacked and
secured with a rubber band. I scanned through it, noticing a few hundreds, but
the rest were twenties. Three-thousand dollars, at best.
"This is from the shipment your crew hijacked?" I asked. "What was on the
truck?"
"TVs."
"How many?"
"Maybe 500."
"500," I repeated. There were 487, to be exact. I had intel and knew what was on
that truck before I told any of them about it. I ran my business solely off facts,
not hunches, and I never sent my men to a job blindly. Unless, of course, it was
their intentional death I was sending them to. "LCD?"
"Yes."
"Sony? Toshiba? Samsung?"
"I'm not sure," he stammered, his anxiety growing at my line of questioning. He
knew he was in trouble. At least he was smart enough to sense that much.
"For argument's sake, we'll say they're some of the cheapest LCDs on the
market, even though I know for a fact they weren't. But that's, what, $650 a
pop? 500 TVs at $650 a piece, that's a total of...?"
He stared at me dumbly.
"$325,000, Boss," Benjamin chimed in, even though I already knew the answer. I
didn't chastise him for speaking out of turn. He was my numbers man, after all.
"Selling on the black market the prices are cut about 25%, so that's a profit
of...?"
Again, no response.
"$243,750," Benjamin said.
"Split five ways, since there were five men on the crew." Technically speaking,
there were six, but that was another story for another time.
Benjamin didn't even give the boy a chance to respond, knowing he wouldn't. I
wasn't even certain the ingrate could add. "$48,750."
"$48,750," I repeated. "And I receive a mere $3,000? What percentage is that?"
Benjamin answered again. "A tick above 6%."
"6%," I said, shaking my head as I stuffed the cash in the envelope and tossed it
back down on the desk. "The sales tax here in Chicago is nearly 10%. The federal
income tax on your earnings would've been 25%. And you bring me a measly
6%? What do you take me for?"
"I, uh, I didn't think..."
"Exactly," I cut him off. "I'm beginning to wonder if you even know how.
Everyone knows half automatically goes right back to the organization, and that
doesn't cover my taste. I get a share of everything. There's no negotiating that
fact and 6% doesn't cover it. If those leeches in the government deserve 25%,
why don't I? Tell me, what makes them better than me? Do they do more for you
than me? Do they look out for you?"
"No, sir."
"I didn't think so. Benjamin, what's 75% of $48,750?"
"Uh, $36,562," he replied, barely having to think about it. "Oh, and fifty cents."
"Sounds fair to me. I expect you to have $36,562 and fifty cents on my desk by 9
o'clock tomorrow night. That's about 24 hours."
The boy stared at me, flabbergasted. "But, that money... my family, sir..."
"This is your family," I said, jumping up and grabbing a hold of him. I yanked him
closer, pinning him down against my desk with one hand while I reached in my
top drawer and pulled out a knife. Fear flashed across his face when he saw it
and he started trembling, tears in his eyes as I pressed the tip of it to the base of
his throat. "Do you need to bleed again to remember the oath you took? La Cosa
Nostra comes first, no matter what. Is that too much for you to grasp? If so tell
me and I'll put an end to your commitment right now."
"No, sir! I'm sorry! I didn't mean any disrespect!"
"I'm sure you didn't," I replied, letting go of him and taking my seat once again.
He straightened himself up as I slipped the knife back into my desk. "Time's
ticking away. Nine o'clock tomorrow, and not a minute later."
"Yes, sir," he replied. I waved him off and he scurried out of the room, slamming
the door behind him in his haste. I cringed and glared at it, briefly considering
going after him.
"Uh, Boss," Benjamin said. He sounded nervous and rightfully so, since I was in a
bad mood and I still hadn't told him he could speak. "You do realize the math was
sort of wrong, right?"
"Wrong in what manner?" I asked, looking at him suspiciously. Benjamin never
screwed up calculations.
"Well, he already gave you $3,000. We forgot... er, I mean, I forgot to deduct it."
"Late fee," I replied. "A thousand for every minute I had to wait on him to man
up."
"Oh. Makes sense."
"I think it's quite reasonable," I said, shrugging. "Especially when you consider
the fact that I usually take a finger."
He was silent as I picked up my paperwork again. The hostess in my club had put
in her notice of resignation nearly two weeks ago and I'd yet to find anyone to fill
the position. Naturally I was particular about who I hired, especially when it was
someone who would be on such prominent display. Hundreds applied and there
were still dozens of applications and background checks to sift through for the
ones Esme felt might have potential. We seemed to differ on what that meant,
though, and I was running out of time, since I needed someone to be hired and
trained within the next twenty-four hours. I'd promised Esme I'd do it tonight and
arrange for whoever I picked to meet with us first thing Monday morning, but it
was proving to be a lot easier said than done.
Most who applied had little to no work history. Some had unreasonable demands.
Others lacked credible references. A few were just completely absurd.
"Since when is mastering Farmville a special skill that makes someone think
they're competent to do anything in real life?" I asked, balling up an application
and tossing it in the trashcan beside my desk.
"Hey, it could come in handy. Farmville teaches them how to hoe," Benjamin
replied, laughing at his own joke. "Get it, Boss? Hoe?"
"I get it, Benjamin," I replied, shaking my head with annoyance. "I just don't find
you very funny."
I yanked the front door open, annoyed at the disruption, but before I had a
chance to speak or even get a good look, whoever it was rushed right past me
into the house. Startled, I turned in their direction, seeing my brother-in-law,
Carlisle, frantically pacing around my foyer.
Something definitely wasn't right. "Carlisle?"
"I can't," he started, shaking his head. He was frazzled, his clothes askew and
hair a mess. "I can't... he, uh… they… she… oh God! My fucking God!"
He turned in my direction and I froze, horrified when I saw he was covered in
blood. He grabbed onto his hair tightly as if he were trying to pull it out, and
before I could make sense of what was happening his legs seemed to give out on
him. He collapsed to the ground in a heap, a piercing scream exploding from him.
I flinched as a sharp pain shot through my head at the sound, my ears instantly
beginning to ring.
For a second I grew dizzy and I worried I would collapse, too. I held on to the
wall to stabilize myself and knelt down beside Carlisle once my vision cleared. He
was full-on hysterical, sobbing loudly as tears streaked his face. I'd never seen
him that way before and it was confusing, because he typically didn't show any
emotion around me. He knew I hated it. I had no time for it. Crying was just
something I couldn't stomach being around and he respected that. The only time
I'd ever even seen him even tear up was the day Elizabeth had been raped.
And just like that, I knew. "Elizabeth."
He sobbed louder at the sound of her name. "My wife, my beautiful wife! Oh God,
they got her, Alec! They got my wife!"
"Got her?"
"She's gone," he said, his body violently shaking. "She's fucking gone! They killed
her! Why did they kill her? Oh God, why did it have to be her?"
I grabbed a hold of him, trying to get him under control as he started rambling
incoherently. His condition wasn't helping and I needed to know what happened.
I needed details, and I needed them right that moment.
"Where?" I asked. "Where is she? Where did it happen? How?"
He continued muttering and I shook him as hard as I could, trying to snap him
out of it. He grasped onto my arms tightly, like he was holding on for dear life.
His hands looked like they'd been soaked in blood, stained red with a bunch of it
still under his fingernails. The sight of it made me recall a conversation I'd once
had with his father, not long after Carlisle vouched for Elizabeth.
"It'll never work," Antonio had said. "I know he loves her, but it's just not
enough. She's going to get him killed. Mark my words, Evanson. That woman will
be the death of my son, and when that happens, his blood will be on her hands."
I'd said nothing in response. I didn't think there was anything for me to say.
But as I knelt there, looking at the blood caked on Carlisle's hands, I wished
Antonio were still alive so I could say what needed to be said - that he had been
wrong. He'd had it backwards. She wouldn't be the death of him, but he would of
her. Her blood was going to be on his hands.
Literally.
My cell phone started ringing and I pulled it from my pocket, seeing Edward
Cullen written on the screen. He was doing a fair job working the scene in Vegas
- better than I expected him to be doing. There had been a few mishaps so far
along the way, but he was good at making sure things were properly taken care
of. If he felt he was slipping he called for assistance, which I hated because it
showed his weaknesses, but I certainly preferred it to losing control of my
territory. Asking for help was the lesser of the two evils, and I had to give him
credit for being man enough to recognize that.
"Evanson speaking," I said, answering the call.
"Sir, it's, uh..."
He sounded nervous. Something wasn't right. "I know who it is, Edward. What do
you want?"
"We have a little, uh, situation."
"What sort of situation?"
"There's a, uh... situation at one of the spots," he stammered. "Christ, you know,
one of the clubs?"
"Just spit it out, Edward."
"The police are planning to raid it."
I tensed. Those were words I always dreaded hearing. As if I didn't have enough
to deal with. "Which spot?"
"The one on 5th and Willis," he said. "The Gentleman's Club. Apparently they've
been giving more than, uh, lap dances."
Contrary to popular belief, prostitution is not legal in Vegas. There are legal
brothels throughout the state of Nevada, some of which I made money off of, but
none within the city limits. As a misdemeanor the penalties weren't particularly
stiff, but the added attention from law enforcement that the illegal sex-trade
brings wasn't something I could tolerate. Some of my men felt differently,
however, and occasionally took it upon themselves to dapple in it. I let it be
known when I invested in businesses that they couldn't take the risk, but the
temptation of easy money often won out over their better judgment.
"How long have they been doing it, Edward?" I asked, wondering how far it had
gotten. Usually those things were caught and handled quickly before the situation
got too out of control and brought any heat upon me. Of course, I couldn't really
be held accountable for it as a low-investor who wasn't there to oversee any of
the operations. I had plausible deniabilitiy and such an insignificant charge would
never stick, but that wasn't what concerned me. I couldn't care less about paying
their petty fines, and years ago I probably would've been fine with taking the
risk. But the government caught on to our tricks and created the RICO statutes,
giving them the authority to bring us up on charges without having to prove us
guilty of a specific crime. So while I had plausible deniability that one particular
club was breaking the law, if more than one of them were to do it and I was
invested in them all, the government could charge me for merely being linked to
a crime ring. The ones actually committing the crimes would walk free, while their
infractions would earn me decades behind bars.
Needless to say, my line of work was a lot trickier than it used to be. RICO nearly
took down my brother-in-law, Carlisle, and I'd already been suspected of it once.
Something told me the second time I wouldn't be so lucky to walk away.
"I'm not sure," he responded. "A few weeks. Shit, maybe months. I don't know."
"Months?" I asked. "They've been running a whorehouse out of your area for
months and you're just now learning about it?"
"Yes, but, I mean, I'm not exactly a regular at these clubs," he said. "Not really
my scene."
"I don't expect you to go for the strippers, Edward," I said, frustrated. "But I do
expect you to know what's happening around you. This is my money we're talking
about... my life."
"I know," he replied. "Fuck, I'm sorry."
"Keep your apology. It means nothing to me," I said, throwing the papers back
down on my desk as I pushed my chair back to stand up. "Do your job before I
find someone else to do it. I won't tolerate carelessness. You are replaceable."
"Yes, sir."
The night Elizabeth had been murdered, I stopped by the hospital to see Edward.
He was unconscious at the time, hooked up to machines to breathe for him
because he wasn't well enough to do it on his own. They only allowed me a brief
visit but it was startling to see a small child in such a precarious situation. I'd
witnessed a lot of death in my life, had watched many people take their last
breath, but I was always able to stay detached. It was rationalized in my mind,
calculated moves for the greater good. There were sometimes the unfortunate
ones, those simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I reminded myself
that I didn't know their story. I didn't know who they really were under the
surface. I believed that somehow, someway, the universe knew what it was doing
by placing that person in the line of fire and I was merely doing what I had to do
- if they got caught up in it, then it was meant to happen. Some would call it
karma, but I liked to think of it as God's master plan.
Another number. Another statistic. Life goes on.
But as I stood in that hospital room, I finally saw a victim. I knew Edward's story.
I met him for the first time when he was an hour old. I witnessed him being
baptized. I watched as he took his first steps. I heard him stumble through
playing the piano. I knew he had a family, because I was his family.
When I left the ICU that day, instead of going home, I went down to the hospital
chapel and prayed. For the first time in my life, I asked God to intervene, to
spare someone caught up in our world.
I wasn't heartless. I cared for Edward. I didn't like threatening him, or hurting
him, and I didn't like the fact that he was involved in La Cosa Nostra. But he was,
and because of that I had no choice but to treat him as I did the others. And I did
it because I cared for him, because I wanted him to succeed. Because I wanted
him to survive. If it took me threatening his life for him to do what was necessary
to stay alive, then so be it. The end result was all that really mattered.
"I'll be there in a few hours," I said. Hanging up the phone, I looked at my watch.
10:22 pm. I certainly wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight.
"Do you have plans?" I asked Benjamin, who was still sitting in the corner of my
office. He looked bored and was obviously waiting for me to dismiss him.
"Just the usual," he said. "It's Saturday night so I'll probably drink a little liquor,
screw a few girls."
"A few?"
"Yeah, two," he replied. "Maybe three, if they're lucky."
I shook my head as he laughed. I never quite understood the appeal of
promiscuity. The more women you brought into your bed, the more trouble you
invited into your life. Most of the married men in the organization had goomahs,
young mistresses who were fascinated with the lifestyle. They were nothing more
than glorified prostitutes, trading sex for money and material things, like cars and
houses. I was sure it made some of the men feel good but it certainly wasn't a
practice I'd ever be involved in. It was just asking for unnecessary drama,
considering gold diggers weren't exactly the most mature of people.
Besides, my wife had too much self respect to tolerate me stepping out on her.
Not that I'd want to, anyway. Why go out for fast food when you have the perfect
meal waiting at home?
"Your father always said you were an over-achiever," I said.
He shrugged. "It's all about the numbers game for me. I try not to get attached."
Numbers. That was certainly something I could appreciate. Maybe he knew what
he was doing, after all. "Well, those ladies will have to fare without you tonight," I
said, grabbing my coat. "You're coming with me."
"Come with me."
I followed the officer down the hallway, on edge because of the man's close
proximity. In my world, you weren't supposed to be seen anywhere near a man
in uniform, unless in handcuffs sitting in the back of his car, and even then you
were flirting with danger.
I didn't want to be there. In fact, it was the very last place in the world I wanted
to be, but I had no choice. Carlisle was certainly in no condition to do it. He was
too distraught and not in his right mind. He needed Esme, so she couldn't do it.
There was nobody else. Only me.
He led me into a small room with a large window that gave a view of an adjoining
room. It looked like a science lab, with scales and chemicals and trays and tables,
but it was much more than that. It was a room very few of us saw alive, but we'd
all be subjected to upon our death.
The morgue.
I paused in front of the window and he stood beside me, motioning to a man in
scrubs and a lab coat inside the other room. He pushed a metal table closer to us,
grasping a hold of the sheet covering it. At the officer's nod, the man pulled the
sheet back.
She looked just like she was sleeping.
Her wound wasn't visible from the angle I was standing, but I knew what it
looked like from experience. There would be a hole on the back of her head about
the size of a quarter, partially concealed by her hair. From the outside it wouldn't
look so bad, but the damage to the brain was irreparable. She would've died
instantly. No pain. No suffering.
No, the suffering was for those she left behind.
Both men turned to me and I nodded. "That's her."
"Name?" the officer asked. He knew her name, but I supposed for verification
purposes he needed me to say it out loud.
"Cullen," I replied. "Elizabeth Cullen."
"Middle name?"
"I don't think she has one."
"Do you know her maiden name?"
I shook my head, my gaze still focused through the window. "I'm not sure."
"Her date of birth?"
I watched as the man in the other room covered her with the sheet once more
before wheeling her away. It was the last time I'd ever see her, I realized. I
wasn't sure how I felt about that. "Sometime in March, I believe."
"March of what year? How old is she?"
I turned in his direction, seeing he was eyeing me peculiarly. "She's in her
thirties."
The officer jotted some notes down as he shook his head. "You know, for being
her family, you sure don't know much about her."
I stared at him, realizing exactly how right he was.
II - Cut to the Chase
April 1982
18 years old
Chicago, IL
"Alec!"
I quickly turned toward the sound of my name, seeing Esme approaching. It was
just after dark on a Friday night and I was standing in the downstairs hallway at
the Cullen residence. Esme's father, Antonio, had sent me out to handle some
business and asked me to stop by afterward for a talk. There were other places I
would've rather been (like at home with a bottle of scotch) but when the Boss
called you in, you had to come in.
"Ms. Cullen," I said politely, nodding to her in greeting. Besides a few brief
glances in passing while in public, it was the first time I'd encountered her since
moving to Chicago a few months ago.
"Esme," she said, her voice suddenly stern.
"Excuse me?"
"My name is Esme."
I gave her a strange look. Why was she introducing herself? "I know your name."
"Do you?" she asked, raising her eyebrows curiously. "Because I'm pretty sure
you just called me Ms. Cullen, and that isn't it."
I smiled guiltily when I realized what she was saying. "Force of habit."
"Well, habit or not, that's no way to greet a friend."
Friend. It was a title in my world that was reserved for made men. The word
seemed foreign coming from her. Was that what she was - my friend?
Before I could even consider how it was real friends were supposed to greet each
other, she rushed toward me. I started to hold out my hand, figuring I could just
shake hers, but it was at that moment that I spotted the blood.
Blood. There was blood on my hands. I wasn't even sure who it belonged to.
I quickly shoved them in my pockets but she didn't seem to notice my reaction as
she wrapped her arms around me in a hug. I could feel her warmth through her
clothes and smell her perfume, the scent making me dizzy. My heart started
pounding at a rapid pace and my chest tightened. My throat felt like it was
closing up. Breathing was difficult. My skin tingled. I nearly swayed.
Was I having an allergic reaction?
She pulled away from me after a second, smiling brightly. Her radiant expression
did nothing to help my condition, my legs going weak. I wanted to tell her to call
911, but no words would come out. I was stunned. Speechless.
Stunned speechless. What was wrong with me?
"You look good," she said, brushing at my suit coat and straightening my tie. It
was oddly... intimate. "Bigger. Firmer."
Her skin flushed as she spoke. She was embarrassed, although I wasn't sure
why. Those had been compliments as far as I was aware.
"You, too," I managed to say. She looked at me peculiarly, almost like I'd insulted
her. "Good, I mean. Not bigger or firmer. Although, well, you are certainly
bigger."
The look didn't leave her face, instead deepening. It wasn't coming out right. "In
the good way," I explained. Was there a good way to tell a woman she was
bigger? "You're bigger in the right places."
She stared at me with shock and even I recognized how completely wrong that
sounded. Instinctively, almost as if some God-given male gene was triggered into
action, my eyes darted directly to her chest. Definitely bigger.
That was definitely not something friends were supposed to do.
I caught myself immediately and looked back away, but not quick enough. She'd
caught me. "So you like my, uh, bigger places?" she asked, amused.
"Yes," I replied, the answer was true but sounded horrible verbalized. She was
the Boss's daughter. What was I doing? "Wait, no."
The offended look returned. That wasn't good. I started to try to cover for myself
but she cut me off with a laugh. "You should probably just stop," she said. "Your
mouth seems determined to get you in trouble."
There was a lot that would get me in trouble in my life, but my mouth was the
least of my concerns.
I nodded anyway. "I believe you're right."
"Of course I am," she said with a wink. "You ought to get used to that fact."
I laughed, glad she wasn't angry. "I'll try."
"That's all we can do," she said. "Try."
She was certainly a far cry from her father. He always said there was no trying,
only doing. Failure was for the weak. To survive, you had to succeed. No
exceptions.
Was he wrong? Were there exceptions?
"So, what are you doing here?" she asked, glancing around the room. I figured it
probably looked strange, me standing alone in the middle of her hallway.
"Business. I was just waiting on your father," I replied. "You?"
"What am I doing here?" she asked, the amused look returning. "I live here, Alec.
You know that."
"Oh," I said, realizing what I'd asked her. It was confusing. I was completely
flustered, barely able to form thoughts. Everything seemed foggy.
Maybe it wasn't an allergic reaction. Maybe I was having a stroke.
I just stood there, unsure of what to say, and she started laughing. "You're cute,"
she said, patting my cheek lightly. "It's good to see you."
I'd been called a lot of things in my life - cold, calculating and even crazy. But
cute? That wasn't one of them. "It's good to see you, too, Esme."
Present Day
Las Vegas, NV
An hour after Edward's phone call we were on a private jet leaving Chicago,
landing in Las Vegas three hours later. It was a warm night, the sky pitch black,
but the darkness was overpowered by the bright lights of the city. The place was
alive with excitement, thousands of people still wandering the streets despite the
time. It was the city that never slept, most of the bars and casinos open twentyfour
hours a day.
"Do we do a lot of business down here?" Benjamin asked, staring out the side
window of the black Mercedes I'd rented. "I never knew we moved operations to
Vegas."
"The mob created Las Vegas," I said, shaking my head. The ignorance of our
younger generation was infuriating. "Lucky Luciano, Meyer Lansky, Bugsy
Siegel... they made this place after banking millions gambling in Cuba. Chicago
moved in, built some more casinos, and it grew from there. The government's
tried to force us out a few times, but we've managed to keep a presence."
"Wow, so all of this was conceived by gangsters?"
I gritted my teeth. Gangsters. I hated the term. "Well, we certainly didn't come
up with the concept of quickie wedding chapels, but yes. Stardust, Freemont,
Haceinda... all ours at one point. Caesar's Palace was built with the money Jimmy
Hoffa skimmed from the Teamsters Union."
"Nice."
Nice wasn't exactly a term I'd use, considering it ultimately led to Bugsy Siegel
being shot in the head and Jimmy Hoffa vanishing into thin air, but I supposed it
was all relative. You make your bed, you lie in it.
I parked the car on Willis Street, a few blocks from the club, and Benjamin
followed me into a local night spot we controlled. There were quite a few people
inside, the place packed with patrons still partying the night away. Security at the
door nodded as I passed, not bothering to check my identification, and one of the
managers scampered to help as soon as I stepped inside. "Mr. Evanson, it's
a...uh...surprise to see you," he stammered. He was nervous. Having the Boss
show up at your business unannounced wasn't something anyone enjoyed...
especially when the Boss was me. "Can I get you something? Everything's on the
house, of course."
I shook my head. "I'm just here to see someone."
"Ah, Edward Cullen? He's over at the bar."
My bad mood intensified. Edward and bar were two words that didn't belong in a
sentence together. Ever.
I started toward the area the manager pointed me in, immediately spotting my
nephew sitting on a stool by himself. He held a small glass filled with a pisscolored
liquid, his eyes fixated on the bar as he took small sips of the drink. He
appeared to be in rough shape, fidgeting nervously. His hair was sticking up and
his black suit was wrinkled, the green tie loose and barely knotted around his
neck. He clearly hadn't shaved in about a week, stubble covering his jaw. I
glanced down at his feet, cringing when I saw the dingy black Nike sneakers. He,
obviously, hadn't been expecting to see me when he left the house this morning.
He had tried, given he wore a tie, but he'd failed. Miserably.
"And what, exactly, are you drinking?" I asked, sparing my usual greeting as I
slid onto the stool beside him. He glanced at me quickly, apprehensive.
"Red Bull and Vodka," he replied, laughing dryly as he turned back to his drink.
"Without the Vodka, of course."
"Wouldn't that just be Red Bull, then?"
"You'd think, but the motherfucker behind the bar said they don't sell just Red
Bull, that I had to order a virgin Red Bull and Vodka," he said, finishing the drink.
"It's a fucking rip off. He charged me ten dollars for the shit."
I looked at him incredulously. "You paid for it?"
"Yeah. I guess he's new here, I don't know. He said pay me, so I fucking paid
him. I wasn't going to fight with him on it."
"No, you'd much rather just whine about it," I said, shaking my head. Edward
could be such a pushover. People in the organization fought to death for power
and he didn't even utilize the little he already had.
Motioning for the bartender, I pushed Edward's empty glass away. "What can I
get for you?" the man asked, raising his eyebrows questioningly. He was young,
early twenties, with blond hair and blue eyes. German descent more than likely.
Definitely not Italian.
"Red Bull," I said.
"Another Vod-bomb? Red Bull and Vodka?"
"Did I ask for that? I said I want a Red Bull."
"Uh, technically we don't sell..."
"Do you know who I am?" I asked, cutting him off before he could finish his
sentence.
He hesitated, looking at me as if he was trying to place my face. I was probably
vaguely familiar to him, considering I was to most. Like Capone, Gotti, Columbo,
Gambino... we were innately recognizable, even if they didn't realize why. "No."
"Well, remember me," I said. "Because if you don't go get me a Red Bull right
now, the next time you see my face, it'll be the last thing you ever see. Capisce?"
Frightened, he nodded and backed away slowly. He grabbed a can of Red Bull
from a cooler under the bar and opened it, sitting it down in front of me. I took a
sip and cringed from the repulsive taste. It didn't just look like piss. "How can you
drink this?" I asked, holding it out to Edward.
He shrugged. "It does what it's supposed to."
"It gives you wings," Benjamin chimed in from behind us. I'd nearly forgotten
he'd come along and judging by Edward's reaction, he hadn't noticed Benjamin's
presence at all. He swung around quickly, defensively, and eyed Benjamin warily.
"What the fuck?"
I clasped Edward's shoulder. "Your senses need fine-tuning. You're a little off
your game."
"Yeah, well, it's late and I'm tired. I'd rather be at home."
"And you think I wouldn't?" I asked. "I'm not on vacation here. This isn't a social
call. "
"I know, I..."
"That's precisely why we're in this predicament, anyway," I continued, cutting off
his rambling before he could even get started. He still didn't seem to know when
to keep his mouth shut. "You can't even see what's going on right in front of you.
Are you going blind, or is it simply ignorance? I can get you glasses, but stupidity
isn't as easily fixed."
Edward went rigid as Benjamin stifled a laugh. I glared at him, finding nothing
humorous about the situation, and he straightened himself out quickly.
"I made a mistake," Edward said through clenched teeth. "It won't happen
again."
"I know it won't," I said. It was a lie. A big lie. It would happen again. It didn't
matter what he did or how hard he worked, these situations would arise. It was
impossible to have complete control over everything. People were opportunistic
and conniving. There would always be someone trying to get one over on us, and
sometimes they'd succeed. It was simply a fact of life. Criminals didn't like to
follow rules or listen to authority. If they did, they wouldn't be criminals.
I wouldn't tell him that, though. While I didn't expect perfection, I did expect him
to strive for it.
Edward chugged the rest of the second Red Bull before standing up. He ran his
hands down his face, still eyeing Benjamin carefully. They hadn't met before and,
like usual, Edward was suspicious.
"Edward Cullen, Benjamin Mancini," I casually introduced them as I stood.
"Nice to finally meet you," Benjamin said. Edward nodded, his demeanor not
shifting. Still guarded. It was the one thing about Edward that I thought served
him well. He was territorial and didn't like having his space invaded by anyone he
didn't invite inside. I knew why he was that way and couldn't say I blamed him.
I'd be protective, too, if I were in his shoes.
"Come on, let's get this sorted out," I said, walking away.
Antonio appeared, his footsteps faltering when he saw me and Esme standing
together. She was still touching me and quickly dropped her hand, taking a step
to the side when he gave us a peculiar look. He stared me down for a second,
before turning to her and quirking an eyebrow. "Don't you have a date tonight,
honey?"
Date? The moment the word registered I turned back to Esme. She looked nice in
a pair of jeans and a sweater, but she certainly wasn't dressed up. She had on
tennis shoes. What kind of date was she going on?
"Yes, he'll be here soon," she replied with a smile. "I should probably finish
getting ready."
She started out of the room, pausing briefly to kiss her father's cheek. After she
was gone he led me to the den and he offered me a drink but I declined, not
wanting to prolong the visit with socializing.
He got down to business, talking about people we knew and dealings we were
involved in, but I couldn't seem to focus. The fact that I was distracted must have
been obvious because after awhile Antonio cleared his throat. "Are you alright,
Evanson?"
"Yes, sir," I replied. "I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" he asked. "You seem nervous. You're fidgeting."
I glanced down, noticing I'd been wringing my hands together. Me, fidgeting?
That was a first. "I'm just tired, sir."
He nodded as he stared at me, his expression blank. I wasn't sure if he believed
me, but I had no other explanation for him. He said not a word for a minute, the
sudden tense silence putting me more on edge. His gaze was intense, like he was
studying me. Scrutinizing me. Sizing me up.
The sound of the doorbell echoing through the house surprised me and I jumped,
regaining my composure quickly but I was certain he noticed. He didn't move to
answer the door and after a moment it rang a second time, followed by the sound
of footsteps on the stairs.
"You couldn't answer the door?" Esme yelled from the foyer. Her father didn't
respond. He was so fixated on me, I wasn't even sure he'd heard her.
The boy spoke immediately when Esme let him inside. "Damn, you look nice." His
voice was smooth, almost song-like, and she giggled at the sound of it. The hairs
on my neck stood up instantly and I clenched my hands into fists. I instantly
hated him.
She led him into the den where we sat and Antonio finally looked away from me,
his posture relaxing as he turned to his daughter. He eyed the boy briefly, his
smile forced. "Hello."
"This is Andrew," Esme said, motioning toward her date. He was an American,
with shaggy blond hair and blue eyes. He looked like a typical surfer, which was
absurd to me, because Chicago wasn't near the ocean. What was he doing here?
He was all wrong for her and he obviously lacked common sense. "Andrew, this is
my father and Alec, a friend of the family."
There was that word again. Friend. Unlike the first time, however, it didn't settle
well with me.
"Nice to meet you guys," Andrew said casually as he draped his arm over Esme's
shoulder. My heart started pounding forcefully again at the sight, even harder
than before. He was touching her, like she belonged to him. Why was he touching
her?
The intense surge of blood made my skin feel like it was crawling, sickness
brewing in the pit of my stomach. My vision went red and my chest burned, a
voice in the back of my head screaming furiously. Warning. Warning. Warning.
The boy was a threat. He needed to disappear.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was having a heart attack.
"Nice to meet you, too," Antonio said. "You kids have a nice evening."
His nonchalance stunned me and I looked at him, almost horrified. Didn't he
sense it, too? Didn't he feel how thick the air was? Couldn't he see a red flag
when one was raised? What was wrong with him?
"We will," Esme said. Her eyes lingered on me for a moment, almost as if she
expected me to say something, before she took the boy's hand and they exited
the room.
He was touching her again. He needed to stop doing that.
"They met at school," Antonio said once they were gone, likely noticing my
expression. "His family just moved to town."
"And you think it's safe for her to be with someone you know nothing about?"
He shook his head. "I wouldn't say I know nothing about him. His father's a
doctor and his mother's a teacher. They're from Ohio. He has a perfect GPA,
plans to go to Princeton. Never been in trouble. He's perfectly harmless."
Harmless was not the vibe I got from him. On paper he sounded perfect, but my
gut told me differently. "Are we done here, sir?" I asked, needing to get out of
there.
"Yes," he replied. We both stood up and he clasped my shoulder. "Get some rest.
I don't like seeing you so frazzled."
I headed for the front door quickly, feeling his gaze on me as I exited. It didn't
matter what he said, I knew differently. There was something horribly wrong with
the situation. Esme shouldn't have been with that boy. Dozens of reasons why
passed through my mind, from him being in cohorts with our enemies to him
being violent toward women. I imagined her hurt, or in danger. I imagined him
violating her or taking her somewhere she shouldn't be. Violence. Anger. Pain.
Horror. Distress. The emotions were intense.
But never once, in my panic, did jealousy ever come to mind.
"Can I ask a question, Boss?" Benjamin asked as we stepped out onto the street.
"You just fucking did," I heard Edward mutter under his breath. I resisted the
urge to laugh and shot him a pointed look, reminding him to mind his manners.
Benjamin was a friend of ours. If we didn't at least have respect for each other,
we had nothing.
"Go ahead," I said.
"Our dealings down here, is it all legit like the club in Chicago?" he asked. "Is it
just strictly, uh, business, and you're just invested?"
"No. There is a small amount we earn, but the bulk of it comes from other ways."
"How?"
I sighed, too tired to deal with his nosy questions. "Why don't you explain,
Edward?" I suggested. He hesitated as he looked at me, not appearing pleased to
be put on the spot, but he knew better than to refuse. It might have sounded like
a request, but everything that came from my mouth was an order. Simon says.
"We do a lot of skimming," he started. "Take our money before it's counted, so it
isn't taxed. Some of the machines that weigh the coins are calibrated wrong, so it
says there's only nine-hundred there in quarters when it's really a grand. We get
to pocket the other hundred and the gaming commission is none the wiser. We
take chips to cash in later and alter the cash registers to cover it, but mostly it's
computerized. We have it set up so money from each transaction is pushed aside
for us. It's only pennies, really, so they don't even fucking notice when it
happens, but when you have millions of transactions it adds up."
"So it's just basic math, really," Benjamin said, his face lighting up. He quickly
rattled off some sort of mathematical equation that I didn't quite comprehend
before staring at Edward, awaiting a response.
This was going to be interesting.
"I have no idea what the fuck that means," Edward said, looking at him blankly.
"Was that even English?"
Benjamin frowned. "But isn't that your job? What do you do if you don't do the
math?"
There was a flicker in Edward's eyes. Anger. He'd just pegged Benjamin as a
threat and I smiled, despite myself, as Edward's fierceness surfaced. I knew I
brought Benjamin for a reason, and it certainly wasn't for his humor.
"Any fucking machine can do math," Edward said, his tone clipped. "My job is to
make sure no one gets in the way while it does."
Benjamin seemed taken aback by the response and went silent, his eyes darting
to me. "Why don't you go try your hand at a craps table?" I suggested, stopping
in front of a small casino. He brightened back up instantly, turning to look at the
establishment.
"Are you coming in?" he asked.
"I'm not allowed."
His forehead creased from his confusion. "Why not?"
"The Nevada Gaming Commission says so," I replied. "I'm banned for life."
He appeared shocked."What did you do?"
"Nothing," I said. "Just being tied to La Cosa Nostra is enough to get your name
into their little black book."
He looked from me to Edward. "Can you go inside?"
Edward nodded. "For now, anyway."
"They haven't banned any of us in almost a decade, so it seems they're not as
concerned about it anymore," I explained. "But my name got added nearly
twenty years ago, and there's no way to get it off. I know, I've tried."
"That sucks," he said. It sounded like he really meant it.
"It's not so bad," I replied. "I'm not a fan of gambling. I prefer to keep my money
and not throw it away."
"It's not really throwing it away if you know what you're doing," Benjamin said,
shrugging. He seemed to realize what he'd said within a matter of seconds
because he started backtracking. "Not saying you don't know what you're doing,
Boss. I'm just saying it's all about calculated risks, figuring out where the odds
lay. I could make a killing here. Well, I mean, not a killing, I shouldn't have said
that. Definitely not a killing. It's just, since I'm good at numbers..."
"I know," I cut him off. His rambling was worse than Edward's sometimes. "So,
go try your hand at it while we deal with business."
"I shouldn't," he said, still hesitating. "I don't even think I have any money on
me."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet, grabbing a hundred dollar bill.
I held it out to him. "Take it."
"I can't take your money, Boss," he said quickly, throwing up his hands
defensively, like I was holding a weapon that could end his life. In a way it was,
considering he knew you didn't mess with my money if you wanted to keep your
head.
Literally.
"You can, and you will," I said, shoving it at him. "I'll be back here in a few hours.
I expect my money back with two-hundred percent interest."
"Yes, sir."
"Didn't know you were bringing fucking Good Will Hunting with you," Edward said
once Benjamin was gone. "And how come he gets to gamble? You always told me
it was against the rules."
"I never said it was against the rules, Edward. I told you gambling was off limits,
and it is," I explained. "Benjamin doesn't have an addictive personality. You do.
You gambling is a disaster waiting to happen."
He didn't like my response, but he was much too smart to verbalize it. "So, are
we going to the club or what? We're wasting time just standing here," he said
after a moment of silence, running a hand through his hair. It stuck up further
and pieces fell into his eyes, but he didn't seem to notice.
"Did you look in the mirror this morning?" I asked. He stared at me like I'd spoke
in a language he didn't understand.
"I always look in the mirror," he replied. "Why?"
"I'm just curious if you're aware of how you look," I said. "I think I saw a
homeless man a few blocks down that was more put together than you."
"I don't look that bad," he said defensively, fiddling with his tie. He was nervous
again and I could tell he suspected he did look that bad, but at least he knew
enough to pretend otherwise. Edward Cullen was nothing if not tenacious.
"You should shave," I said. "And while you're at it, you need a haircut. You're
beginning to look like one of those horrid little Troll dolls that Chelsea collects."
He looked at me blankly before a chuckle escaped his throat. "How is Chelsea,
anyway?"
I shook my head. "I'm not going to discuss my family with you here."
"Oh, come on. She's my family, too," he said. "She's, like, my little cousin."
"If you care to know how she's doing, maybe you should ask her. Esme says it's
been awhile since she's heard from you."
"Bella just called yesterday."
"Yes, Isabella called," I said. "Last I checked, Isabella wasn't you."
"I guess you're right," he said, his brow furrowing. "I can't even fucking
remember the last time I called."
"Well, you should call," I said once more. "Chelsea would be happy. She's just as
enamored with you as ever. In fact, she'd probably want to add you to her
collection if she saw you right now."
Another reason I looked out for Edward - Chelsea would be crushed if he ended
up hurt. I promised to take care of the child. I couldn't let her heart be broken...
by anyone.
He smirked, running his hand through his hair yet again. This time he grabbed
onto a hand full and tugged. "I'll make an appointment to get it cut," he
conceded.
"Good," I said. I knew he would. "And speaking of appointments, you're delaying
one right now, so come on. We have things to do. We're wasting time just
standing here."
I turned to walk away and heard him groan, muttering under his breath, "I just
fucking said that."
"There comes a time, thief, when the jewels cease to sparkle, when the gold
loses its luster, when the throne room becomes a prison, and all that is left is a
father's love for his child."
The screen lit up with the film, the sound rumbling through the place from little
speakers situated on the dozens of cars parked around the lot. I shook my head,
aggravated, and tried to ignore it. Of all the places in the world, all the things
they could've done, he took her to the drive-in. And to see a movie as ridiculous
as Conan the Barbarian, at that.
He didn't deserve her. She was better than this.
I parked along the back, my car partially hidden, but close enough that I could
get a good look at the dingy,little, gray Volkswagen Rabbit. I could see the two of
them inside of it, eating popcorn and drinking soda as they watched the film. He
hadn't even treated her to dinner. She needed more.
I looked at the clock. It was only a few minutes past ten but it felt like days had
passed since the movie began. Didn't she have a curfew? How long was this
going to go on?
I glanced back up at the car and froze, my blood running cold at the sight that
met me. He had his arm over her shoulder again and she was leaning toward
him. My chest ached, my heart pounding hard. I felt dizzy again. I wanted to
crawl out of my own skin.
And then she kissed him. Her mouth, those lips that had spoken my name just
hours before, touched his. His filthy, rotten mouth was on her. All composure
slipped away at that moment, every ounce of self-control I had gone. I flung
open my driver's side door and jumped out, my hand instantly going to my
waistband where my gun was holstered. It didn't matter how many people were
there or what I had to do to stop it… he was never going to touch her again.
I took a few steps in their direction, grasping my gun, and was about to pull it out
when someone called my name. The sound of it stalled me and for a moment my
senses cleared, just long enough for me to realize what I was doing.
I turned toward the source of the voice, seeing Carlisle standing a few feet away.
He was eyeing me suspiciously, his gaze shifting to my hand. He seemed to
realize exactly what I was going for because his eyes immediately darted toward
the car his sister was in.
"Did my father send you?" he asked, sounding panicked. I shook my head,
quickly removing my hand.
"No," I replied. "I'm here on my own."
"Oh," he said. "What are you even doing here?"
"Shouldn't I ask you that?" I asked. "Aren't you a little young to be out here at
this time?"
My question bothered him. He narrowed his eyes, his cheeks turning red. "I'm not
much younger than you," he said. "I'm sixteen now."
"Well, does your father know you're out here?" I asked.
"Does he know you're here, Alec?"
I stared at him as that question sunk in and he raised his eyebrows, a smirk
tugging the corner of his lips. He knew he had me. He could be a cocky little punk
when he wanted to be. "You should go home," I said, "before I decide to tell your
father."
He nodded, still smirking. "You, too," he said, taking a few steps back. "And for
the record, I don't like that boy either, but I don't think killing him is going to
help. It might make her kind of mad. If you like my sister, just ask her out. At
least it would be less messy... I think, anyway."
I watched as he walked away before glancing back at the car Esme was in. She
had pulled away from the boy and was sitting straight in her seat, her attention
focused back on the movie. The ache in my chest lessened, a bit of relief washing
through me that he was no longer touching her.
Was that what I wanted? To date her?
III - Go Out on a Limb
May 1982
18 years old
Chicago, IL
I stood along the street near the school, leaning back against my parked car with
my arms crossed over my chest. It was a warm afternoon thanks to a surprising
heat wave and I was sweating in my suit from the sun shining brightly above.
Classes had just let out and students swarmed the streets on their way home. It
was a Friday and I could hear their excitement that the weekend was here. They
were deep in conversation about things I knew very little about, like games and
parties and dates.
Dates. I wasn't sure, but I suspected I might've started sweating even more at
the mention of the word.
Girls strolled by, wearing skimpy clothing, with guys right on their heels. Some of
the guys were already going shirtless, relishing in the sun, and there I stood,
dressed as usual - plain black suit, black tie, black shoes. Usually I fit in with my
clothes, falling into the background, but today I stuck out like a sore thumb.
At least, I was pretty sure I did, considering the looks I kept getting.
Everyone blended together in a sea of people and I was reconsidering my idea
when the sound of familiar laughter reached my ears. I turned in the direction it
came from, stunned when I saw her. She was wearing a pair of extremely short
shorts, barely covering her behind, and a tight white tank top. It was cut short,
showing her navel, and the material was so thin I could see her bra through it.
I was equal parts awestruck, aroused and downright horrified. What was she
thinking? Did her father know she went into public like that?
The moment she glanced in my direction and caught my eye, I suspected he
didn't. She looked almost ashamed. Nervous. Petrified.
"Alec? What are you doing here?"
And suddenly, in that instant, I was nervous, too. I rarely second-guessed
myself, but now was one of those moments. "I needed to speak with you."
Her fear intensified. "Is something wrong? Did something happen? Oh God, it
isn't Dad, is it?"
Her panic surprised me and I realized at that moment how my presence must
have seemed. She worried I was there to deliver bad news, much like how the
police sent an officer to the house when there was a death. She stared at me like
I was the Grimm Reaper, coming to ruin her life.
This definitely wasn't going as I'd planned it would.
"Your father's fine," I said quickly, wanting to reassure her. "It's nothing bad,
don't worry."
"Oh," she said, immediately relaxing, and I wondered if maybe I shouldn't have
said that. Was I lying? What if she thought it was a bad thing? "So, what's up?"
"I was just wondering if you'd like to do something."
Her brow furrowed. "What?"
What? I hadn't exactly figured that out. "Uh, just something," I said, "with me."
"With you?" she asked, sounding confused. "Like what?"
"Anything," I replied, shrugging. Why was she making it so complicated? "If you
would rather not, I understand. I already asked your father and he gave me his
blessing, if that matters."
"Blessing for what?" The moment she asked that it seemed to dawn on her what I
meant. Her eyes widened and she stared at me with shock. "You mean us do
something, like, together?"
"Yes."
"Alec Michael Evanson, are you asking me out on a date?"
The word came out as a squeal and I nodded hesitantly, unsure of what her
reaction meant. Was she sweating at the word, too? "Yes, I'd like to take you on
one of those."
I held my breath as I waited for her to respond. I figured she'd have to think
about it. I even prepared myself for an angry "no". But what I hadn't expected
was for her to break into laughter.
"Did you really ask my Dad permission to date me?"
"Yes, I did."
"You know that's unnecessary, right? I mean, it's really sweet, but I'm eighteen.
I'm an adult now," she said. "We don't need his permission."
She had it wrong. She may not have needed his permission, but I did. One of the
most important rules in our world - you didn't mess with a made man's family,
especially the Boss's.
Without his blessing, I would've been violating a Borgata commandment, and our
God wasn't very forgiving. No Hail Mary's would save me from his wrath.
"So, is it a 'no'?" I asked. The delay in answer was frustrating. I wished she'd just
put me out of my misery.
"No."
"Okay," I said. "I should let you go on your way. It was good to see you."
I turned to walk away and she grabbed a hold of my arm to stop me, once again
laughing. "Where are you going? I thought you wanted to do something?"
My brow furrowed. "But you said 'no'."
"I said 'no', it wasn't a 'no'," she replied, rolling her eyes as if her answer
should've been obvious. "That means it's a 'yes'."
Present Day
Las Vegas, NV
You gotta squeeze a little, squeeze a little
Tease a little more
Easy operator come a knockin' on my door
Sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet
Little miss innocent sugar me, yeah
The walls of the club rattled from the sheer volume of the music, my heading
pounding to the beat of the old eighties tune. It baffled me that it remained
popular amongst this crowd after over two decades. I was quite sure the song
played the very first time I set foot in one of these establishments.
I glanced at Edward as we bypassed security. He was mouthing the lyrics. "This
song was released before you were even born," I pointed out.
"So?" he replied. "That Frank Sinatra shit you listen to came out before you were
born."
"Don't call Frank Sinatra shit," I said. Edward looked at me with surprise as the
curse slipped from my lips. It wasn't something he heard often. "Besides, he's an
exception. He's an Italian-American. He was one of us. His songs are classics.
This noise isn't."
"Maybe so, but 'Pour Some Sugar on Me' has its benefits," Edward said. "I'm not
sure bitches can do that to 'Summer Winds'."
He motioned toward the front stage where a bare-chested woman in a pink thong
and clear platform shoes hung upside down on a pole. One stripper was licking
the woman's nipples, while another literally poured sugar on them.
"Valid point," I replied, looking back away from the show. "But you shouldn't use
that word, nor should you even be looking at them. You're a married man now.
What would your wife think?"
He cut his eyes at me. "And I'm not talking to you about my family here."
I smiled. "Touché."
Despite the fact that it was late, the place was busy. Men packed the tables near
the stage, practically salivating as they stuffed dollar bills in g-strings, while
others sat at the bar, drinking and conversing. The air smelled of stale cigar
smoke and sex, the combination nauseating.
A topless waitress walked past us, holding an empty tray as she made her way to
the bar. She paused and thumbed my suit coat with her free hand. "Oh my,
aren't you good looking!"
I stared at her. She had bleached blonde hair, a fake tan and a plastic face. I
resisted the urge to say, 'It's a pity you aren't.'
"Can I get you something, Sugar?" she asked after a moment of no reaction from
me. She was probably seeking some sort of approval, but she was looking in the
wrong place for it. "Beer? Liquor? Lap dance?"
"Happy ending," Edward muttered to himself, but he wasn't as quiet as he
thought. The woman's attention shifted, a smile on her lips.
"I think that could be arranged," she said, zeroing in on him with dollar signs in
her eyes. I could practically feel the heat of her lust. It made my skin crawl.
"Can it?" I asked curiously. Were they truly so blatant about selling sex that a
waitress doubled as a pimp?
She smiled mischievously. It was the type of smile I knew my wife would knock
off of the woman's face if she were there. "For someone as handsome as you?
Absolutely."
"Sounds..." I hesitated, looking for the right word. Disgusting? Dangerous? Dirty?
I sighed, taking a hint from Benjamin. Sarcasm worked well in these situations.
"...nice."
"It sure will be," she said. "Will it be just you, or will your friend here be joining
us?"
She motioned toward Edward and he coughed, choking on thin air. "This isn't
really his scene," I said, using his words. The woman nodded as if she understood
the notion, when she knew as well as I did that it was bullshit. Sticchio was every
man's scene... unless, of course, it wasn't. But in my nephew's case, I was quite
certain he didn't play on the other side of the fence. At all.
"I'll be right back," the woman said with a wink before strolling over to the bar. I
certainly didn't intend to wait on her.
Edward shook his head. "Kinky bitch."
"What did I say about you using that word?"
He didn't think I saw, but I knew he rolled his eyes. "She just offered to take us
both for cash. I think I described her perfectly."
"You ought to be respectful," I said. "Prostitutes aren't much different from us."
The look on his face suggested he didn't believe me. "They're selling pussy. How
is that even remotely close to what we do?"
"They sell what they have to get what they don't," I said, shrugging. "We take
what we don't and sell it to get what we have. It's a delicate balance. It all works
out in the end."
"Are you seriously talking philosophy to me?" he asked. "Who are you now,
Pluto?"
I glanced at him, figuring he had to be joking, but hisexpression was completely
serious. "Do I look philosophical to you?" I asked. "I just understand the concept
of necessary evils, Edward. We do what we have to do to make it. Some give,
while others of us take. Just because they're one thing, doesn't mean that's all
they are. You of all people should get that, given who you married."
He stood silently, pondering my words. When I woke up this morning, I certainly
hadn't expected to spend my night in a strip club with my nephew, teaching him
respect for prostitutes. I was sure my wife would've called this a bonding
moment, but it felt absurd.
"And it's Plato, not Pluto," I continued. "I hope you weren't intending to compare
me to a cartoon dog."
He laughed when it struck him what he'd said. "Or a planet."
"Pluto isn't a planet anymore. It got demoted."
"Fuck that," he said. "It's still a planet."
I shook my head. It was late, and I was starting to run low on patience. What
were we even talking about? "You're wasting my time again, cacasenno," I said.
"And watch your language before you get demoted. Now, come on."
I started through the club and he followed behind me silently. Security stepped in
front of us when we reached the hallway leading toward the back VIP rooms and I
pushed my coat aside, showing him a brief flash of my holstered gun. He froze,
panic in his eyes. "I'm just here to speak business with the manager."
I counted down in my head. 10...9...8...7...6... By the time I hit 5, realization
seemed to dawn on him and he took a step back instinctively. Thankfully so,
considering when the countdown ran out, so would his luck. "Yes, sir," he said.
"He's, uh, in his office. End of the hallway."
He stepped aside hesitantly. He knew he wasn't supposed to let anyone pass
unless they'd paid, but he also knew precisely who I was. He might have lost his
job disregarding club rules, but he'd lose his life by getting in my way.
Like I said, I could respect a man who was smart enough to accept the lesser of
two evils.
I walked straight down the hall toward the back office, passing at least a dozen
rooms along the way. Some were open but at least half had the doors closed,
while more strippers lingered in the hallway outside. Blockers, they called them.
Look-outs. Paid to watch, to make sure no one barged in on the sexual acts. It
was blatantly obvious to me what was going on in the club and my anger grew
with every step I took. If Edward had just taken ten minutes out of his day to
step inside the place, he would've seen it and known what was happening.
I shoved open the office door and it slammed against the wall, the noise barely
registering over the sound of the music. The manager, a balding man with dark
hair and glasses, jumped up from behind his desk. Caught off guard, the moment
he saw me he slammed his laptop closed and started stammering.
"Mr. Evanson, uh, hello, it's a, uh, pleasure to see you!" He started around the
desk, his hand extended, but I turned away from him. I focused my attention on
a bookshelf against the wall and he stopped in his tracks, dropping his hand.
"I'm sure it is," I said, picking up a picture frame from the middle shelf. It was a
photograph of his daughter, a teenage girl with long brown hair and a nose too
big for her face. I'd met her once when I first invested in her father's business
and recalled she was a quiet girl who lived with her mother and went to a private
school. She had to be around fifteen now. Maybe older.
"Is there something I can help you with?" he asked. I could hear his nerves, a
slight tremor to his words. He knew he was in deep. I didn't respond, figuring I'd
let him stew in his fear for a moment.
I turned the frame over and popped the back off of it. I removed the picture
before sitting the frame back on the shelf where I got it, turning toward him to
make sure he saw I had it. I noticed the name Lucy was written on the back of
the photograph in ink as I folded it and slid it into my coat pocket.
After strolling around his office for a moment, I stopped behind his desk. I eyed
him intently as I opened the laptop back up. The password prompt greeted me
right away. "Password?" I asked.
No answer. He was terrified. I saw his eyes shift to the discarded frame, telling
me all I needed to know. People weren't as slick as they thought they were.
"Lucy," I said aloud, typing in the girl's name. I hit enter and the laptop came to
life, instantly revealing a sectioned off screen of live video feed from the security
cameras. My eyes scanned the boxes, seeing quite a few unsavory situations on
display.
The manager took a step toward the door, panicking, but Edward quickly shifted
his position to block the man's path. His hand was on his belt, prepared to pull
out his gun if necessary. He'd make a good enforcer if he wasn't so scrawny.
"Do they know you watch?" I asked the manager.
"I, uh... well, I mean..." His evasiveness was annoying. I hated men who couldn't
answer a simple question without stumbling over their words.
"Answer!" I snapped.
"Watch what?"
The question came instantly, the fact that he was going to play ignorant causing
my anger to spike. I came around the desk without a second thought and
grabbed a hold of him, shoving Edward out of the way as I dragged the man
down the hall. He tried to resist and pull away, but he was weak.
The girls in the hall panicked when they saw us and scurried to get out of the
way. I reached one of the closed doors, kicking it as hard as I could. It flew open,
slamming into the wall roughly. The woman inside jumped up from the patron's
lap and ran to the corner of the room, stark naked. The man fumbled with his
pants as he stood up, throwing a used condom on the floor as he yelled about the
disruption. I shoved the manager into the room and drew my weapon, switching
the safety off in the blink of an eye.
"That," I said firmly. "Do they know you sit in your office and watch as they
whore themselves?"
Based on the gasp that came from the stripper, I assumed the answer to that
was 'no'.
I slammed the manager down so his back was pressed against a table as Edward
walked into the room, once again blocking the doorway so no one could leave.
"When I invested in this place, I told you this was off limits," I said, shoving my
gun under his chin. "You said you understood, but it's obvious I didn't make
myself clear. What's it going to take for me to get my point across?"
Fear burned in his eyes, nearly crippling him. "Please!" What he was begging for,
I wasn't sure. Reprieve? Forgiveness? For me to put his sniveling, pathetic self
out of his misery?
I snatched a discarded, half-empty bottle of beer from the table nearby with my
free hand and dumped it on his face. He choked as he inhaled the liquid and
gasped for air. "This stops now. I don't ever want to hear about this happening
again or I will pay your daughter, Lucy, a visit. Do you understand me?"
"Yes!"
I let go of him and took a step back as security rushed into the room, shoving
past Edward and knocking him down. The boy just couldn't catch a break. They
all faltered when they saw the gun in my hand, every single one of them
unarmed. The one we'd encountered earlier lingered by the door and helped
Edward up from the floor, not wanting to be involved.
"It's fine," the manager said quickly, attempting to diffuse the situation. "Just a
misunderstanding."
They looked between him and my gun with disbelief.
I slid the revolver back into my holster and walked right out, the devil on my
shoulder just wishing one of them would be stupid enough to try to stop me.
I kicked in the rest of the doors, interrupting the escapades as I made my way
down the hall. No one looked as Edward and I walked back into the main area
once more. The music was still thumping so loudly from the speakers that they
hadn't even heard the commotion in the back.
She's my cherry pie
Cool drink of water, such a sweet surprise
Tastes so good make a grown man cry
Sweet cherry pie
I shook my head. "They really need to get some new music."
"I'll take some cherry pie," Esme said, closing the menu and smiling at the
middle-aged waitress. "And some chocolate milk. Oh, no! Wait! A chocolate
milkshake. With whipped cream and a cherry please."
The waitress laughed as she jotted Esme's order down before turning to me,
giving me a questioning look. "Just water is fine," I said.
Esme rolled her eyes. "He'll take some cherry pie, too," she interjected. "It won't
kill him. It's made out of fruit."
"Milkshake also?" the waitress asked. I opened my mouth to respond but before I
could get a word out, Esme spoke again.
"No, he doesn't like ice cream. Or chocolate. Or even milk, really. So I guess you
can still bring him the water."
The waitress nodded before walking away and I stared at Esme in shock. "You
remember all that?"
She glanced at me and smiled. "Of course I do," she said, tapping the side of her
head. "I remember everything."
The streets were still bustling when we stepped back outside. I looked at my
watch. 4:23 AM. Or 2:23 AM, really.
"Don't make me come back down here for this, Edward," I said, reaching into my
pocket for the photograph I'd taken. I tore it into a few pieces and walked to the
edge of the sidewalk, dropping it into a sewer grate. Of course I'd never actually
harm the child (not intentionally, anyway), but he didn't need to know that.
"Yes, sir."
"How do you know the place is going to be raided?" I asked. I should've asked
earlier. If it was simply a hunch, I was going to be furious.
"One of LVPD's finest," he replied. "He fed the information to one of our guys,
who passed it along to me."
I eyed him warily. "Do you trust him?"
"Fuck no," he replied right away, looking at me incredulously. His tone struck me
wrong. I wanted nothing more at that moment than to knock the look off of his
face, but I contained myself. He was lucky we were in public.
"The officer has a gambling problem. Owes a loan-shark more than he makes in a
year, not including interest," he explained. I could tell by the tone of his voice
that he knew I was annoyed with him. That, and the fact that he refrained from
saying anything vulgar for once. "The only reason he's still walking around is
because he gives us information."
He frowned as he spoke. I could tell he didn't like thinking about people being
murdered on his watch. Edward's hands were still clean of blood and I knew he
wanted to keep them that way, as unrealistic as it was.
"Just be careful," I warned him. "There's no one more desperate than a dirty cop.
They're the quickest to turn you in to save their own skin."
"I know," he replied. "I know what I'm doing, sir."
I stared at him and found myself actually believing that was true. He seemed
sure of himself, but I just hoped his confidence wasn't faked. After all, he was in
charge down here. If he didn't know what he was doing, the entire thing would
collapse.
"Get some people in here to clean this place out of anything incriminating," I told
him as my cell phone started ringing in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw my
wife's name on the screen.
"Yes?" I answered. Edward strolled a few feet away, leaning back against the
building as he started making calls.
"Where are you?" Esme's voice was gritty. I could tell she'd been asleep. There
was a hint of something else there, though, a bit of panic, and for a brief second
my stomach dropped. I should've called her before I left town.
"Vegas," I replied. "I had to come take care of some things."
She sighed, a dramatic sort of sigh that told me my answer wasn't good enough
for her. "I was worried. I woke up and you still weren't home. You can't do that to
me, Alec."
Esme and I had been married for over twenty-five years and she still hadn't
gotten used to my line of work. Every time I left the house I saw her fears
playing out in her eyes, although she always smiled and pretended everything
was fine. She was a strong woman and I appreciated that about her. She trusted
me completely, even though I probably didn't deserve it after everything I'd done
in my life.
I knew all there was to know about Esme. I knew her favorite color was a deep
shade of red. She secretly loved American food, especially hot dogs, more than
the Italian cuisine our familiesgrew up on. She listened to the BeeGees when she
cleaned and her first crush was on Andy Gibb. She wished she were a few inches
taller, which was pretty much the only reason she ever wore high heels. She'd
always wanted to be a veterinarian, but one that only worked with cats because
she was once bitten by a dog. She was afraid of crickets. She hated thunder.
But as much as I knew Esme, it wasn't until I moved to Chicago, as an adult, that
I finally truly saw her.
Esme had her mother's looks, but besides that she inherited little from her family.
She was compassionate, something both of her parents lacked. Her father was
the Boss at the time and her mother was one of the strictest women I'd ever met.
The fact that both of them approved of me dating their daughter should've been
her first clue to stay as far away from me as possible.
People feared me. They revered me. They respected me. Some envied me, and
even more hated me. But Esme? Esme was the only person to ever really love
me.
Love was something I knew little about. There was none in my family. My parents
had an arrangement, and my sister and I were created simply to keep the
bloodline flowing. That was the extent of it. So the feelings that existed when I
was with Esme were foreign to me. I wasn't an ignorant man, far from it, but
those things didn't exist in my world.
Not until she came into it.
She only knew a fraction of the things I'd done and I sometimes wondered how
she'd feel about me if I told her all of it. Would she still love me if she knew how
many men I'd killed and not lost any sleep over? Could she still love me, for that
matter?
To be frank, I wasn't sure how she loved me as it was. I most certainly didn't
deserve her devotion. But I had it, and because of that I'd fight until the day I
died to be what she needed... even if I undoubtedly would fail, time and time
again.
"It was a spur of the moment thing," I explained. "I didn't mean to worry you."
"I know," she replied. "How's Edward doing?"
"He's alive."
Another dramatic sigh. "That doesn't answer my question," she said. "That just
tells me he's still doing. It doesn't tell me how he's doing."
Ever the technical one. I glanced behind me to ensure Edward couldn't hear
before responding. "He looks as if he hasn't slept in weeks, but he's still
functioning. For now, anyway."
"Did you tell him?" she asked. She didn't have to elaborate. I knew exactly what
she was referring to. It was ridiculous.
"Now isn't a good time."
"When is?"
It was a question she knew I had no answer to, yet she asked anyway. "I need to
go, Bellissima," I said, having no intention of discussing the matter there. "I'll call
you when I'm on my way home."
She let out her third sigh in a minute, the sound washing through me and setting
my nerves more on edge. She was still frustrated. I was heading for a record. "Be
careful," she said, the worry back in her words.
"Always."
I hung up the phone and slipped it into my pocket as Edward approached.
"They're on their way," he said, eyeing me warily. "Ten, twenty minutes at most."
I nodded and we stood quietly for a moment, the air around us growing awkward.
Under the lights of the street, the bags aligning Edward's eyes seemed more
prominent. His gaze intently scanned the crowds nearby, on guard, assessing for
threats. He was trying hard to be attentive, to impress me, but I could tell he was
growing weary. His eyes burned red and I felt a small twinge of sympathy for
how he was feeling.
"You can go home," I said. "I can oversee this."
I regretted the words the moment they cut through the silence. I was doing what
I couldn't allow myself to do... I was seeing that boy lying in that hospital bed
again, suffering because he was unfairly caught up in our world, when I needed
to see the number. The rank. The Mafioso.
He looked at me with surprise and I could tell he was considering it. He was
desperate to go. He wanted nothing more than to be on the highway out of Las
Vegas, on his way to Blue Diamond, to the sanctuary of his home. Away from the
violence and anger, back to the comfort and security.
Instead of doing just that, however, he shook his head. "I'm alright," he said.
"It's my fault you're here. I should see this through."
I nodded again and turned away from him. Although a lie, his answer was a
relief.
"This was nice," Esme said as I pulled up in front of her house. "Thank you."
"No, thank you," I replied. I'd wanted to take her somewhere respectable, but
she'd insisted on a low-key afternoon. "I'm just glad you said 'yes'."
"Me, too," she said, smiling as she gazed at me. I cut the engine of the car and
started to open my door so I could walk her inside, but she grabbed my arm to
stop me. "Not yet."
I looked at her questioningly. "Something wrong?"
"No. Well, yes." She glanced down at herself and groaned. "I just want a minute.
Dad's home. He's going to be pissed about my clothes. I'm not ready to deal with
him yet."
So I had been right. I knew my Boss quite well. He'd snap knowing she went
outside looking like that, probably even punish me for taking her around in
public. "I thought you were an adult?" I asked. "You don't need his permission for
things."
She narrowed her eyes at me and I smirked. She wasn't as intimidating as she
thought she was. "You think you're funny, don't you?" she asked, pushing me
playfully. "You know how he feels about appearances. 'No daughter of mine will
go in public looking like a streetwalker'."
I laughed at her feeble attempt at an impression. "How did you even get out of
the house looking like that this morning?"
"He was still asleep, so it wasn't that hard," she said, shrugging. "I guess I didn't
plan ahead, though."
"I guess so," I replied. "Next time you should just take a spare set of clothes
along with you, just in case."
She looked at me with surprise. "Wow, you're pretty good at this being sneaky
thing."
"Yeah, it sort of comes along with the job."
"I bet. Do you like it?" she asked. "Your job, I mean."
"It's not so bad," I replied. It was the first time anyone had ever asked me such a
thing. "It keeps me busy and that I like."
She laughed and I stared at her, unsure of what she found so funny about what
I'd said. "You need a life, Alec. You sound like an old man with a nine-to-five
office job. You're only eighteen. Live a little. Take some risks. Break some rules."
My brow furrowed. "You do know what I do for a living, right? I take risks and
break rules every day."
She rolled her eyes. "You do what you're told to do, Alec. You follow orders. I'm
not taking about breaking the law; I'm talking about breaking your own rules.
Step out of your comfort zone."
"I did," I replied. I was starting to get defensive. "I asked you out."
"Yeah, and it took you long enough," she said. "We've known each other for over
a decade. You're slower than a turtle. At this rate, you won't have the guts to ask
me out again until I'm already married."
The mere mention of her marrying someone made my heart race again and I
clenched my hands into fists of rage. There was no way I'd let that happen.
"You're wrong," I said, shaking my head.
"I'm always right," she said. "I told you to get used to it."
"Yeah, well, you're wrong this time," I replied. "I don't just do what people want
me to do."
"Prove it to me," she said. She stared at me, her expression serious. It sounded
like a dare. I never backed down when someone challenged me, and certainly
wasn't going to balk for her.
"Fine," I replied, pushing open my door and climbing out. I walked around to her
side and opened her door, helping her out. "Come on."
"What are we doing?" she asked as I started toward her front door. There was
panic in her voice. Served her right.
"Bending rules," I replied. I got to the front door and pushed it open, glancing
around. The foyer was empty, as was the hallway. In the den I could hear the
television playing.
"Esme, is that you?" Antonio called out. Footsteps started in our direction almost
immediately and she stiffened.
"Go change," I whispered, motioning toward the stairs. She smiled as she bolted
up them and I started toward the den to distract her father.
It was then, as I helped her deceive my Boss in order to try to prove her wrong,
that I realized I was actually proving her right. I was doing exactly what she'd
wanted me to do. She'd pulled my strings and played me like a puppet. She was
calculating. Manipulative. Cunning. She'd managed to get one over on me, and
no one did that. She knew me better than I knew myself.
How did she do that?
She had me wrapped around her finger and I knew it right then. I knew what that
ache in my chest meant. I knew why I acted so irrational about her. I knew why,
despite everything, I couldn't be mad.
I was falling in love.
IV - Zero Tolerance
December 1970
7 years old
Phoenix, AZ
Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.
Why was there always screaming?
"Where's the money? You promised you'd have it and I need it! You're a fucking
liar!"
My mother's voice was so high-pitched I was surprised it didn't shatter our
glasses. I cringed. The sound hurt my ears.
"Is that all you care about? Money?"
My father was calm. He sounded defeated. I honestly couldn't recall a time when
he didn't sound that way, though.
"What, you expect me to care about you? You can't even take care of your
responsibilities! You shove them off on me! I didn't want them, you did!"
Responsibilities, I knew, was her code for me and Jane. I glanced across the table
at my sister. She had her elbow propped up in front of her, her face in the palm
of her left hand. She shifted the food on her plate around with her fork, not
eating any of it. To most people she probably would've looked bored, but I knew
better. Moments like this were the only time Jane ever really showed any
emotion. It was the only time she even seemed human to me. Looking at her,
seeing the hurt in her eyes, I almost felt bad. Even if she was cruel, she was just
a kid.
But then again, so was I, and I didn't let it get to me. If only the screaming would
stop. It was giving me a headache.
"I'm not going to fight with you about this. I told you, I'd get it when I could. I
just sent you money last week. What did you do with it all?"
He'd clearly asked the wrong question because my mother slammed her hands
down on the table, shaking it from the force of the blow. Her wine glass flew
over, spilling the red liquid out as she started screaming even louder. I glanced
beside me, watching as it ran across the wood table and over the side, dripping
onto the floor.
"What did I do with it all? Are you kidding me? You send me pennies and you ask
what I did with it all?"
The wine was starting to pool near my chair, the red liquid seeping into the wood
floor. My mother was going to be furious. Elizabeth would have a hard time
getting it up.
"Pennies? I sent you thousands!"
You'd expect there to be passion behind his words, but it was like he didn't even
care. He knew he wouldn't win the fight. My mother always won, even when she
was wrong.
And usually, she was.
"Two thousand. Two. That's it! That doesn't even cover the bills!"
"It would if you wouldn't live so extravagantly."
Again, wrong thing to say. She shoved her chair back as she stood up and
grabbed her plate, lunging it across the table. Jane and I both ducked out of the
way but my father didn't even flinch as it flew right past him. It smashed against
the wall, the sauce from the lasagna leaving a red smear on the white paint.
Elizabeth was going to have trouble cleaning that up, too.
I suspected she hated these days as much as we did. It always ended up with a
disaster for her to fix.
"You call this extravagant? You're not even a man, you little dick piece of shit!
You're pathetic! I should've never married you!"
Present Day
Las Vegas, NV
The Mafia worked like every other lucrative business. There were processes we
went through, rules and protocol that were followed to ensure things ran
smoothly. Everything was meticulously planned down to the smallest detail, very
little left to chance. Everyone played a role and had their specialties, the things
they benefited us most by doing. The more specialized you were, the more
valuable you were, and the more you profited from your work.
I started out like everyone else - a low ranking soldier, a peon. I equated it to
being a personal assistant. If the Boss wanted something done, you did it - no
questions asked. My first year I did everything and anything required of me, from
running petty errands the entire way up to finally committing murder. It was after
my first hit that my "specialty" was discovered and the calls for food and dry
cleaning ceased, my phone only ringing when the most serious situations arose.
Unlike Edward, or even Carlisle for that matter, I was never coerced into joining
the Mafia. I made the decision willingly, voluntarily, and pursued it. When it came
down to it, it really wasn't a choice for me. I was simply made to be made.
I didn't particularly enjoy the violence. I wasn't the kind of person who got off on
the power, who got a thrill or rush from ending another life. I was just the kind
that could compartmentalize and not feel the adverse emotions that usually went
along with it. We were all good at things. Isabella was good at art. Edward was
good at music. Carlisle had been good at medicine. I just happened to be good at
murder.
Being at the top, now I delegated those things to the ones below me. Instead of
the errand boy, grabbing lunch, I was the CEO, standing back, making sure
everything ran like a well-oiled machine. I was Simon, waiting to catch people
trying to jump out of turn.
Edward and I stood at the corner, watching as the crew he'd called exited the
club after cleaning it out. My visit with the manager was more of a warm-up act.
The actual show didn't happen until after I was through and the 'employees'
came in to do what they did best. They were trained to look for the same things
the police would search for, and it was their responsibility to ensure it would no
longer be there when the police actually arrived.
Time was passing swiftly and I knew the sun would soon be rising in Chicago, but
the sky here was still pitch black. I'd officially been awake for over twenty-four
hours.
"Time change fucking with you?" Edward asked when I looked at my watch for
what was likely the twentieth time in twenty minutes. His voice was sluggish, the
words slurring together as if he'd been drinking. I wondered how long he'd
actually been awake. Likely longer than me.
"Always does," I replied. "Your Red Bull wearing off?"
He smirked slightly. Even his smile was tired. "Always does," he repeated my
words.
"Let's get out of here," I said, clapping him on the shoulder when the last man
exited the club. It wasn't necessary for me to stick around so long, but it had
been awhile since I monitored how efficient the crews down here ran. "It's been a
few hours. I should check on Benjamin."
The reminder of the boy caused Edward to scowl.
The crowd on the streets had finally begun to thin. We started strolling toward
the casino, approaching a small diner along the way with a couple standing in
front of it. At first glance they appeared normal, a boyfriend and girlfriend maybe,
but I pinpointed exactly what they were quickly - a streetwalker and her pimp.
The girl's face was covered in outlandish makeup and her red dress was so small
it barely covered her privates. She was short, around five feet, but had on high
heels that caused her to appear taller. She looked like pretty much every other
streetwalker in the area, nothing substantial about her appearance, but the
longer I gazed at her, the younger she seemed. At first glance I thought
eighteen, but the disproportion of her body suggested she was still going through
puberty. Sixteen maybe.
She had her back pressed against the brick building and the male stood in front
of her, leaning close and speaking quietly. Verbally assaulting her, from the look
on her face. After we passed the male grabbed a hold of her by her hair, yanking
her around the corner and into an alley. Edward froze abruptly at the sight,
confusion and panic playing out in his eyes. He started to turn in that direction
but I stopped him before he could go after them. "What do you think you're
doing?"
"Did you see that? He's hurting her!"
"And?" I asked, raising my eyebrows questioningly. His expression shifted again,
the confusion giving way to anger.
"What the fuck do you mean 'and'? She was just a kid!"
"I saw that," I replied. "But what exactly are you planning to do about it?"
"I'm going to get her the hell away from him."
"What's the point?" I asked. "She'll be right back here again tomorrow night."
He narrowed his eyes. "You can't know that."
"I can and I do," I said. "There are plenty more like her out here, Edward."
He flinched from my words. I knew I sounded cruel, and I didn't like having to
say those things, but it was the truth and sometimes the truth hurt. He lived in
the biggest hub for human trafficking in the country. Hundreds of children were
trafficked in Las Vegas every month. I wasn't sure what he expected. He certainly
couldn't save them all.
"But she..."
"But nothing," I said. It was a word I wished I could wipe from my men's
vocabulary permanently. Nothing irritated me more than when I spoke and the
first word out of their mouth was 'but'. As if I didn't know what I was talking
about. "Mind your own business. Now come on."
I started walking again but Edward stayed frozen in spot. I shot him a pointed
look, silently warning him not to disobey, but he refused to budge and let out a
sigh. A sigh. He had the audacity to sigh at me. What is it with the Cullens and
their dramatics?
Stepping back in his direction, I grabbed the collar of his shirt, yanking him to
me. A few people looked in our direction, startled by the altercation. More
startled, it seemed, than when the man had just done it to the girl. "If you know
what's good for you, you won't test me," I said. "I'm tired and don't have the
energy to deal with you right now."
I could see the dilemma frantically playing out in his eyes as he debated between
turning his back to the girl or risking my wrath. "We don't harm innocents," he
said. "Women and children... it's a commandment."
"We aren't harming her," I said. "He is."
"But..." he started. I raised my eyebrows as he spoke the word and his voice
failed him briefly. "That's, uh, what you all always said about Isabella, too. I
guess I thought turning your back to the shit made you just as guilty."
"So, what, you want to go after the girl? Rescue her? You're willing to risk your
own safety for her? How do you think Isabella would feel if you got hurt and
didn't come home? Don't you think she'd be upset?"
"Yes," he replied. "She'd be just as upset if she knew I did nothing, though. I
mean, that girl... she's just a fucking kid, Alec. She's someone's kid."
I glared at him when those words sunk in, realizing he was trying to appeal to my
paternal side. He was taking a page straight from my wife's playbook, attempting
to get me to see her as a victim. I suddenly wanted to punch him again, but at
the same time had to give him credit. He was learning fast. Well played, Cullen.
My mother grabbed the bottle of wine before storming out of the dining room,
stomping her way to the kitchen. I heard her bark at Elizabeth, who quickly
scurried into the room where we were. She dropped to her hands and knees
beside me on the floor, blotting at the wine with a white towel. I watched her for
a moment, seeing the cloth turning red, and hoped bleach would take it out or
else she would be in even more trouble.
I considered telling her that, but figured it was pointless. It was already done.
She couldn't take it back.
My father sighed, the sound exaggerated. He sat his fork down and I could sense
his gaze on me, but I didn't look up. I didn't need to see his expression to know
there was pity in his eyes, shame for how our lives were, and anger at my
mother. He'd be frowning, biting the corner of his lip. He always did that when he
was deep in thought. I didn't know what there was to think about. The same
thing happened every time. Nothing new about it.
"I have to go, kids," he said quietly, standing up. He stayed in Chicago most of
the time, even had his own place there, and only came to Phoenix every few
weeks. I didn't blame him, really, and part of me was glad for it. At least with
him gone, there wasn't so much screaming.
He walked around the table, pausing briefly beside my chair. "Elizabeth,
sweetheart, you might want to throw that towel away when you're done," he
said. "Bury it deep in the trash. Don't let her see it."
"Yes, sir," she said quietly, her voice shaking. She seemed surprised that he'd
suggest something to help her, but I wasn't. My father was just that kind of
person. He was the opposite of my mother, with her cold nature. He wasn't
exactly nice, but he wasn't heartless. He helped when he could, whereas my
mother couldn't care less about the suffering of others.
I liked to think I was more like my father than my mother, but the fact that I
hadn't told Elizabeth to get rid of the rag suggested otherwise.
My father pulled out his wallet and counted out some cash, sitting it down on the
table beside my plate. "Hold on to this in case you need it," he said before patting
me on the head. He meant it as a warm gesture, but it annoyed me. I pulled
away. I wasn't a puppy. I didn't need to be pet like one.
He started for the door as I slipped the money in my pocket and Jane jumped up,
sprinting right for him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and his footsteps
faltered yet again as he hugged her, patting her back gently. "Don't go," she
said. Her voice was a whisper, but I heard her plea. I was disturbed she'd resort
to begging. It was a waste of time. He wouldn't stay.
He never did.
"If you want to save her, save her. But he'll never let her go willingly," I told
Edward, glancing at the alley where the girl had disappeared with the guy. "You'll
have to kill him."
Edward blanched, just as I knew he would. "I can't..."
"You're right, you can't," I cut him off, not wanting to hear him actually admit it
out loud. "You can't just waltz into someone's territory and disband their business
because you don't like it. Who are you, the morality police?"
"Well, can't I just, I don't know, call the fucking real police?"
I stared at him in disbelief, shocked he had the nerve to suggest such a thing to
me."You want to be a rat?"
The moment I asked the question he seemed to realize he was dangerously close
to stepping over the line. "No, fuck no! I'm just saying..."
"The police don't care about these girls, Edward. To them, they're nothing but
criminals, clogging the streets, selling sex. It's pointless. There's nothing you can
do."
Again, he didn't like my response, and again, he was much too smart to argue
with me. "This is all fucked up," he grumbled.
"It is, but that's life. Now come on, before I pull you into the alley by your hair
and do to you what you can't do to him," I said, shaking my head as I let go of
him. "Ingrate."
I started walking away and he hesitated only briefly before following behind.
"Yeah, well, I love you, too," he muttered. My footsteps faltered as I turned to
look at him, eyeing him peculiarly. It was the first time he'd ever said such a
thing to me, even if it had been sarcastic.
"Love has nothing to do with it," I said.
"Does it ever with you?"
It was a harsh question, albeit a valid one. I had no answer for it.
When we made it back to the casino I called Benjamin's cell phone, but it went
straight to his voicemail without even ringing. "You'll have to go in and get him,"
I told Edward.
"Me?"
"Who else?" I asked. "I certainly can't. You know that."
He clutched onto a handful of hair as he stalked inside. I stood there, quietly
waiting, and the door behind me was shoved open after a few minutes.
Benjamin's voice struck me instantly, followed by the sound of female laughter. I
looked back and saw he had his arm slung around a woman in a blue dress with
curly brown hair, her skin tanned and almost leathery. She was older than him,
closer to my age, and the years showed in her expression.
Benjamin smiled lazily when he saw me standing there, his eyes slanted a bit. I
could tell he'd been drinking and the closer he got to me, the stronger the stench
of liquor was. "Hey, Boss," he said.
I cringed at how he addressed me in front of a stranger. He knew better than
that. "Benjamin," I said, nodding at him. I turned my attention to the woman
with him. "Your services won't be needed tonight."
Her face twisted into anger. I'd clearly offended her. "Who do you think..."
"If you're smart, you won't finish that question," Edward interrupted as he
stepped out of the casino behind them. He briefly glanced in my direction and I
could tell he was annoyed, his eyes shifting to Benjamin with discontent.
The woman stormed off, her high heels clicking angrily against the pavement.
"What were you thinking?" I asked, glaring at Benjamin.
"I don't know, man. I've never had a Cougar before," he slurred, not even looking
at me. He was digging in his pockets and pulling out cash, crumpled up bills
falling to the sidewalk. Unsteady, he swayed a bit as he tried to count out my
share, but he was too inebriated to focus. I lost my temper quickly, snatching all
of the money from his hands and shoving it in my pocket. "Hey!"
"Don't hey me," I snapped, grabbing a hold of him and shoving him back against
the building. "You reek of alcohol and I don't recall telling you that you could
drink."
"I, uh..."
"I didn't tell you to speak, either," I said, cutting him off. "I'm fed up with this
disrespectful behavior and I'm not going to continue to tolerate it. Do you
understand me?"
He opened his mouth to respond but snapped it closed again quickly, thinking
better of it. He nodded and I let go of him, turning away. I caught sight of
Edward standing off to the side, smiling as he watched the exchange in
amusement. "Wipe that smirk off of your face," I said. "I don't find anything
funny about this."
He straightened out his expression right away. "It's just, you know, that's usually
me," he said, motioning toward Benjamin.
"It is," I replied. "I don't know why I surround myself with such incompetence."
Edward didn't respond, but I could see a hint of that smirk threatening to
resurface. He was too cocky for his own good. "I should head home," he said. "I
mean, that is if we're done here."
"We're done," I said. He nodded and started to walk away, but I called his name
to stop him. "Be available in the morning. There's something we should discuss."
His panic flared. "What?"
"If I told you now, speaking tomorrow would be unnecessary," I said, waving him
off. "I'll see you in the morning."
"Yes, sir."
"Where are you, you little bastard?"
She was drunk again. I didn't move, hoping she'd get distracted and go away if I
stayed quiet.
"Your father should've taken you with him, that pathetic son of a bitch. But
noooo, he always leaves you behind for me to deal with," she yelled, her words
slurring together. She'd definitely had the whole bottle of wine, maybe even
more. She was a mean drunk. She was always mean, really, but drunk she was a
monster.
"He doesn't want you little shits, never did. He just forced me to have you to
torture me," she said, letting out a sharp, bitter laugh. "He fucking loves torturing
me. That's all he's good at, you know. He sure can't fuck or take care of what
needs taking care of."
She grew quiet, but I could hear her footsteps as she came down the hallway. I
strained my ears listening. You could never let her sneak up on you when she
was like this.
Once, when I was younger, I woke up in the middle of the night with her standing
over me. She was drunk, swaying unsteadily, and held a pillow in her hands as
she glared at me in the darkness. She told my father she was just checking on
me, making sure I was comfortable, but I think she would've tried to smother me
if she hadn't been caught.
My arm hairs stood up when her footsteps grew closer, pausing in the doorway
behind me. "Are you ignoring me?" she asked. I ignored her, figuring that would
be answer enough, but she didn't accept it. "I asked you a question, Alec Michael.
I expect a goddamn answer."
"No, ma'am," I said quietly.
"Liar," she said, strolling into my room. "Now give it to me."
I looked at her, confused, and saw she had her hand held out. "Give you what?"
"You know what," she snapped, grabbing the back of my chair. She yanked it out
from under the desk and snatched a hold of me, pulling me to my feet. I stood,
frozen, as she started rooting around in my pockets, laughing bitterly when she
found the money. "You're just as bad as your father, keeping money from me."
She shook her head as she stuffed the cash in her shirt before shoving me back
in my chair. She raised her hand like she was going to hit me and I flinched,
throwing my arm up to protect myself. I braced myself for the blow but it never
came, in its place bitter laughter.
"Do the world a favor, Alec," she said as she started to walk away. "Don't have a
family. You'll only fuck them up, just like him."
V - Blessing in Disguise
July 1972
8 years old
Forks, WA
"This is stupid," Jane said, wading in the small river that ran behind the house. It
was early in the morning, our first day in Washington. We'd arrived by plane the
night before with one of my father's friends to stay with the Cullen family. I
guessed they were my father's friends, too. I didn't know. No one really bothered
to explain. "I wish I was at home with Mom."
My mother had refused to come, saying she wouldn't let anything put a damper
on her plans, but I had a feeling she just didn't like the idea of being stuck in the
middle of nowhere with me and Jane. She could barely seem to stomach us in
Phoenix and she didn't even have to see us much there.
The water from the river came up mid-calf, soaking Jane's socks and shoes. "Your
new shoes are getting wet."
She looked at me and rolled her eyes, groaning loudly. "Thanks for stating the
obvious, Sherlock," she said. I shook my head. If it was so obvious to her, why
hadn't she taken them off? "And that's all you have to say? Your new shoes are
getting wet? What's wrong with you?"
"What do you want me to say, Jane?" I asked, annoyed.
"I don't know," she said, groaning again. "Say something!"
"Something," I muttered.
She shot me an evil look. "Smartass," she seethed. She was lucky our mother
wasn't there to hear her speak that way. She would've knocked the teeth right
out of her mouth. "You aren't even sorry, are you? It's your fault we're here in
the first place!"
"How is it my fault?" I asked. I hadn't started the fighting. I hadn't killed anyone
or stolen anything. I didn't say anything bad about anyone else. I had nothing to
do with it.
"Because, you suck," she said matter-of-factly, as if that answer made sense.
"And because Mom doesn't like you."
"She doesn't like anyone."
"She likes me," Jane said defensively. I wanted to laugh, because it was crazy.
Unless Jane was made out of money and laid golden eggs, our mother didn't care
about her.
I didn't bother responding. If blaming me was going to make Jane feel better
about the situation, so be it. She could blame me all she wanted. It wouldn't
change the truth, though.
We were there because no one really wanted us and they never would.
Present Day
Las Vegas, NV
I sat in the stiff red booth in the back of the diner, haphazardly stirring a cup of
coffee. I'd only been there for a few minutes so the drink was still hot, steam
steadily rising from the cup. Benjamin was in a cheap hotel room a few blocks
down, sleeping off the alcohol he'd drank, but I had too much on my mind to
even try to rest.
I took a sip of the coffee, so as to actually appear interested in it. The liquid was
thick and extremely bitter, the taste unbearable. I sat the cup back down and
pushed it away, disgusted.
"How much?" I asked, fighting the urge to cringe. My skin crawled just asking the
question.
The girl shrugged as if she weren't sure herself, greedily eating the sliver of pie
I'd gotten her. From the looks of it, it was the first thing she'd eaten all week.
"$200 an hour," she replied finally. I gaped at her, mortified by her response. The
girls in Vegas went for upwards of a few thousand an hour. I'd never heard of one
going for that low, unless they were drug addicted and desperate.
She seemed to take my expression of disapproval as a sign she was too
expensive and corrected herself. "$150. I can't go less than that."
"That's fine," I replied quickly before she could go any lower. "And for that, you'll
do anything I want?"
She nodded, the fact that my question caused her to grimace not escaping my
notice. I could only imagine the things she'd been asked to do out on the streets.
And for a measly $200, at that.
If my wife knew I was in a dingy diner at six in the morning, negotiating prices
with a teenage prostitute, she'd divorce me. Or slaughter me. Likely both,
actually. She wouldn't even wait for an explanation.
Up close, it was clear that even sixteen had been over estimating the girl's age.
There was a roundness to her features, a softness to her face that hinted she was
more in the area of fourteen. Not old enough to drive a car, yet out in the streets
doing things most grown women wouldn't even dream of doing.
She kept her gaze on her pie as she continued to eat, unable to even look me in
the face as she agreed to sell herself to me for an hour. I was used to people in
her position being uncomfortable around me, but it was usually because they
knew who I was. But she didn't know me from any other man out on the streets.
I was just another John, another pervert, another customer... another number.
I suppose she and I made it through life the same way, when it came down to it.
Detachment.
The waitress walked over, holding a pot of coffee in her hand, and offered me
some more. I waved her off and she walked away without even acknowledging
my company, obviously knowing precisely what she was. The police weren't the
only ones that ignored the girls trapped out on the streets. It seemed most
people did.
"We should, um, you know," the girl said, pushing her empty plate aside when
she finished. She took a drink from the glass of ice water and stood up,
awkwardly tugging on her dress to try to cover more skin. I sighed and stood up,
tossing some bills on the table for a tip before leading the girl out of the diner.
She didn't speak as we made our way down the street, her arms crossed over her
chest, her stance defensive, but her eyes were situated nervously at her feet.
"Here's my car," I said when we reached the rented Mercedes.
"Are you a cop?" she asked suddenly, eyeing the car. "If you are, you have to tell
me. Otherwise it's like, entrapment, or something."
I frowned at her naivety. Her pimp hadn't been very good if he wasn't even smart
enough to explain that was a myth. The only thing they couldn't do was break the
law, which was why we forced our men to do precisely that before initiating. A
cop could lie all he wanted, but he certainly couldn't murder in the line of duty.
"There's nothing in the law that says a police officer can't trick you. It's only
entrapment if you're coerced into doing something illegal that you wouldn't have
otherwise done on your own, so this wouldn't count," I said. "But no, I'm not a
cop."
I got into the car and she hesitated, staring at me with surprise. Likely trying to
decide if I was being truthful or not. She slipped into the passenger side after a
moment, apparently having decided to give me her trust. I started the car up,
pulling away from the curb without another word.
"So, do you want to go to a hotel somewhere or, you know, just park?" she
asked, her voice hesitant. I could tell my behavior was making her uncomfortable
but I couldn't find it in me to pretend to be interested in her in that way. It was
sickening just thinking about it.
I glanced at her and she gave me a forced smile, but I could see the
apprehension. She already regretted getting in the car with me and was worried
how she was going to survive the hour in my presence, even though I'd been
abnormally kind to her. Nothing came without a price and she knew that. She just
feared what she was going to have to endure to pay me back for my generosity.
"I know of a spot," I replied, finally answering her question.
She turned to look out of the window as I drove through the streets, the air in the
car awkward. She fidgeted the ten minutes it took for me to get to the Plaza, her
anxiety irritating me. I breathed a sigh of relief as I pulled into the parking lot of
the Hotel and Casino, parking the car toward the back. She surveyed the massive
building with awe, likely having never been inside of it. She'd actually probably
never been inside of hotel in Las Vegas that didn't charge by the hour, and
unfortunately for her, she wasn't getting her chance tonight either.
"Do you have a name?" I asked.
"Ginger," she said, still staring at the Plaza. The sign atop the building was lit, the
flashing gold and orange lights illuminating her young face. It made her seem
even more child-like.
I shook my head. "Your real name."
She hesitated, turning to me. "Are you sure you're not a cop?"
"I'm certain."
"Ashley, then," she said. "My name's Ashley."
"Do you have a last name, Ashley?"
"Clark."
"And where are you from?"
She sighed. "Can't we just, you know..."
"You said I can have anything I want," I said sharply. "And what I want is to
know where you're from."
"California," she answered. "Bakersfield."
"Do you still have family there?"
A pained look flashed across her face. I'd touched a nerve. "A grandma."
"Is she a good person?"
"Yes," she replied. "She raised us."
"Us?"
"Yeah, my sister, Hannah, and me."
"Ah, you have a sister?" I asked. "Younger or older?"
"She's a year younger, but everyone always thought we were twins," she said,
her face lighting up at my question. I imagined no one ever asked her about her
family anymore. No one cared enough to find out about her life. Sad, really,
especially considering I didn't even really care. "We look just alike."
"So, you're close to her and your grandmother?"
"Yes," she said. "Well, I mean, I was. I haven't really talked to her since I left."
The pained look returned. I was certain there was a story behind that, but one I
frankly had no interest in. I already knew more about her than I'd ever wanted to
know.
"Good," I said, opening my door and getting out of the car. She followed my lead
and went to take a step toward the Plaza, her brow furrowing when she saw me
starting the opposite direction. She stood frozen in spot momentarily before
following behind as I made my way across the street.
"Hi!" I turned around at the sound of the unfamiliar squeaky voice and saw a girl
standing there, watching me and Jane. She looked about our age and had long
brown hair that was braided. She was smiling and looked happy. "I'm Esme."
"Esme? What kind of name is that?" Jane asked, still wading in the river. Her
clothes were soaked from splashing now, too.
Esme shrugged. "The kind my parents gave me."
"Well, it's a stupid name," Jane said. "I'm glad my parents didn't name me that."
Esme seemed taken aback by my sister's response, but it wasn't anything out of
the ordinary. Jane never had a nice thing to say about anything. "Well, what's
your name?"
"Jane," she replied. "Just like Jane Fonda. She's the best."
"I don't like her that much," Esme said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I like
Faye Dunaway."
"You would," Jane snapped. She was angry. I could hear it in her voice and see it
in the way her hands clenched. Jane didn't like people disagreeing with her.
"Because Faye Dunaway's stupid and stupid people like her!"
"Takes one to know one," Esme retorted right away. She wasn't backing down
and Jane looked at her with shock, stunned someone would have the nerve to
talk back to her. People at school were afraid of Jane. Elizabeth was afraid of
Jane. No one ever talked back to her.
"You… you… you… I hate you!" Jane snapped, trudging up the bank of the river.
She stormed right past me and Esme, heading for the house. Her shoes were
caked with mud. I wasn't sure the Cullens would be happy about her getting it all
over their house.
"She's crazy," Esme said once Jane was gone. She turned to me cautiously, I
guess expecting me to defend her.
All I could do was nod.
Like the rest of Las Vegas, the Greyhound terminal was bustling. Buses were
running at all hours, the flow of traffic in and out of the city steady. Ashley didn't
say a word as we weaved through the crowd of people, heading straight for the
ticket agent inside.
"Can I help you, sir?" the lady working asked as I approached the desk.
"I need a ticket to Bakersfield, California."
Ashely gasped behind me. "What?"
I ignored her, watching as the lady punched the destination into her computer.
"We have a bus leaving in a few minutes that goes to Los Angeles with a transfer
to Bakersfield, but the next straight route isn't until later tonight."
"The first option is fine," I replied. She could endure a layover. It was a small
price to pay for a second chance at life. "How much is it?"
"After tax is $49.02," she replied. I nodded, reaching into my pocket and pulling
out a fifty dollar bill. I handed it to the lady and she printed out the ticket, giving
me my change. I thanked her before walking out of the building, Ashley right on
my heels. I stopped, dropping my loose change into the paper cup a homeless
man clutched right outside the door, and she nearly ran into the back of me.
"Why did you just do that?" she asked, panicked. She seemed to be on the verge
of tears, her voice shaking.
"Because you're going home," I said, holding the ticket out to her. She shook her
head frantically, her panic escalating.
"I can't," she said. "He'll kill me!"
I sighed, not in the mood for more dramatics. I'd had enough for one day. "Does
he have a name?"
She recoiled as if I'd slapped her. Human trafficking victims were a lot like Mafiosi
in the sense that their silence was golden. No matter what happened, if you
wanted to survive, you never told on the person at the top. It was the reason
people found the business to be so productive, and why there was very little risk
of criminal prosecution. Victims made reluctant witnesses, and without a victim
there was no case. She may not have liked her life, but she was still so young
that it was preferable to death.
After a moment of deliberation, she started backing away from me. "You're
crazy."
She went to turn around, trying to leave, but I grabbed her arm to stop her.
"Don't want to go to Bakersfield? Fine. Don't go," I said. "I'll still pay you for your
hour and you can be on your way."
Skepticism clouded her face. "Are you toying with me?"
"No, I don't play games," I replied. "If you want to go back to him, go."
She held her hand out to me, as if she were testing me, expecting payment. I
reached into my pocket and grabbed some cash, handing it to her. I didn't even
count it, not caring how much it was. It was nothing but petty change to me in
the grand scheme of things. "I'd give you a ride back to the diner, but I'm afraid
I'm not going that way," I said. "You see, since this ticket is non-refundable, I
figure I might as well use it."
"What? Why?"
I shrugged. "Something to do. You know, maybe I'll run into your little sister
while I'm there. Hannah Clark, right? I'm sure I'll recognize her, since you said
she looks just like you. I might even get to see your grandmother. Pity, really,
what's going to happen to them. How their house is going to catch on fire in the
middle of the night and, by some stroke of bad luck, all of the smoke detectors
will malfunction. Such a tragedy. I can't even imagine what it's like to burn to
death."
She stared at me with horror. I could see the tears in her eyes, her body
trembling. "Why are you saying that? Who are you? What do you want from me?"
"I told you what I wanted. I want you to get on that bus and go home."
"I can't! He'll kill me, I told you!"
"Yes, but if you don't go, I'll kill them."
It was cruel, but I knew it was really the only way. The only thing more important
than her own survival was the survival of the only people in the world who loved
her. The ones who knew the real her.
I knew this, because I was the same way. There was a lot I'd kill for, but only one
thing I'd willingly die for.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Why was I doing it? For Edward? For Isabella? For Chelsea? For Esme? For
Elizabeth? Was I doing it simply for something to do or because, if she were my
family, I hoped someone else would?
I wasn't even sure.
After going back and forth for a few minutes, she finally conceded and we worked
out some things before she boarded the bus. I stood in the parking lot, watching
as it pulled from the station, on its way out of town. I could see her through the
window, huddled to herself and crying. I wondered if any of the tears were
happy, or if it was simply her fear that made her such a mess.
It's didn't really matter, though. She was leaving town. I'd done all I could do -
the rest was up to her. I'd never check up on her, nor would I probably ever think
of her again. She'd be wiped from my mind within days, another person I'd
encountered along the way.
I strolled back across the street to the Mercedes, pulling back out of the parking
lot as I headed across town. When I turned onto Willis Street on my way to the
hotel, the first thing I noticed was the flashing of the sirens. I drove slowly,
cautiously, and watched with interest as I passed the Gentleman's club. It was
surrounded by police cars, a few men in uniform lingering out front. They were
being raided and patrons filtered out, both excited and terrified by the sudden
police presence.
Edward had acted just in time. I wasn't sure whether to be proud of him or
admonish him for cutting it so close.
I pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, parking the car near the front. I cut the
engine before climbing out, slowly making my way to the room. It was left
unlocked so I flung open the hotel room door and it slammed against the wall,
shaking the cheap painting hanging nearby. Benjamin lay snoring in the middle of
the bed, spread eagle on his back and still fully dressed. The noise from my
entrance didn't seem to disturb him a bit so I proceeded to kick the bed, jolting
his sleeping form roughly.
His eyes popped open, panicked. He looked sick. "What the..."
"Get up," I said, cutting him off. He groaned and instantly sat up at the sound of
my voice, running his hands down his face. He'd been asleep for less than two
hours so I knew he was still somewhat intoxicated, but I didn't have time to wait
for him to completely sober up.
"Shit," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. He looked over at the window and
squinted at the morning sun streaming through the blinds. His eyes were
bloodshot and he still stunk like cheap liquor. "What time is it?"
"Here or there?"
He glanced at me with confusion. "What?"
"Las Vegas or Chicago time," I clarified, annoyed. "And why are you still just
sitting there? I told you to get up."
"I'm up," he grumbled, barely able to pull himself to his feet. He swayed
unsteadily and had to lean against the wall for support. "Uh, here. Or there. I
don't know, Boss."
"It's a few minutes past seven here, which means it's after nine in Chicago. I'd
like to see my wife at some point today, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't hold me
up."
"Yeah, alright," he said, trying to straighten himself up. "I'm awake."
"Good, because I have a job for you," I said, pulling a small slip of folded up
paper out of my pocket. Unfolding it, I read the address that Ashley scribbled on
the lines in the feminine juvenile scrawl before getting on the bus.
"A job?" Benjamin appeared stunned. "What kind of job?"
I tossed the paper down on the stand beside him. "There's the address of a guy
by the name of Roger. He's Caucasian, mid-thirties, around six feet tall and
twohundred
pounds. He has short dark hair, a scar on his left cheek and his arms are
covered in prison tattoos. He walks with a limp from a blown out knee and carries
a .45 caliber Glock 21. He usually has breakfast at a diner near there every
morning at around this time but today he's probably out on the streets, looking
for something he lost."
"What did he lose?" he asked with confusion, picking up the paper. He squinted
as he attempted to read it, but I imagined his vision was still hazy.
"A girl," I replied. "He's not going to be happy about it, either."
"Uh, okay," he said, eyeing me suspiciously. "Do I want to know what this is
about?"
"No, and you aren't going to," I said. "Just get it done and meet me back here.
Check out time is at eleven, so that gives you about four hours."
"Wait, four hours to do what?"
I sighed exasperatedly. "To take him out."
"Whoa, you want me to kill this guy?" he asked. "I don't even know who he is!"
"I just told you who he is," I said impatiently. "I gave you everything you need to
get the job done - a name, a description and a location. I did most of the work for
you. Are you so incompetent you can't finish it? Is this going to be a problem?"
"No, of course not," he said quickly, shaking his head. "I got it, Boss."
"Good," I said as I started back out of the hotel room. I sincerely hoped he meant
it. "Don't disappoint me, Benjamin."
"Did you kids want some ice cream?"
I looked around, seeing Jane and the two Cullen kids nod excitedly. Mrs. Cullen
smiled at their eagerness and got up from the table, disappearing into the
kitchen. I continued to pick at the food on my plate. Even though I hadn't eaten
since leaving Phoenix, I wasn't really hungry. It was too foreign to me.
It was strange, being with these people. They weren't yelling. No one threw
anything. It was like one of those television families. They even said a prayer
before they ate, holding hands and thanking God.
The only person my mother ever thanked was whoever invented the Martini.
"You're quiet."
Esme's voice was low and immediately I knew it was directed at me. I didn't
bother looking at her or saying anything. It wasn't as if she'd asked a question,
anyway.
"He's an idiot," Jane said. My eyes snapped to her and she smirked. "So it's
better he doesn't talk, really. He'll just bore you to death."
"That's not nice," Esme said, glaring at Jane. "He's your brother. You shouldn't
talk about him like that."
"Would you rather me talk about your brother?" Jane asked.
Esme tensed. "You leave my brother alone."
"Or what?"
"Or… I'll smack you silly!"
Mrs. Cullen stepped into the room at that moment, a horrified look on her face as
she stared at her daughter. "Esme Cullen! How dare you speak to our company
that way!"
"But, Mom, she…"
"No buts! It doesn't matter what she did. That was uncalled for. No ice cream for
you!"
"Jane started it!" Carlisle blurted out in defense of his sister.
Mrs. Cullen glared at him. "Did you not just hear me, young man? I said it didn't
matter! You respect our guests, period. None for you, either. You kids are
seriously a disappointment."
Carlisle gasped, appearing stunned. Mrs. Cullen ignored him and dished out some
ice cream for Jane, who smiled to herself as she started greedily eating it. "Alec,
would you like some?"
I shook my head but before I could say a word Jane interjected. "He doesn't like
ice cream or anything good, really," she said. "He won't even eat chocolate."
"Is that right?" Mrs. Cullen asked, glancing between us. "Why is that?"
I shrugged and Jane laughed. "I already said why. He's an idiot."
Mrs. Cullen looked at her with surprise as she insulted me but shrugged after a
moment, not bothering to scold Jane. She retook her seat, the table remaining
silent. It was tense. It was like she didn't care that her children were upset, or
that they'd been wronged.
Maybe it wasn't so foreign, after all.
VI - Flesh and Blood
July 1982
18 years old
Phoenix, AZ
We all sat in the dining room at the house in Phoenix, gathered around the table
with glasses of scotch in front of us. The room was smoky from the vast number
of cigars lit. My eyes burned. The air was hard to breathe.
Everyone was celebrating, excited, but I was more annoyed than anything. It
wasn't that I was unhappy - I wasn't. I was engaged now and grateful that Esme
had actually agreed to become my wife. But coming back to Phoenix and having
to spend time in this house, after finally getting out of it, was nearly insufferable.
I glanced at the doorway to the room when movement caught my eye and
spotted Carlisle. I watched him curiously as he listened to our conversation,
standing on the sidelines because he hadn't yet been invited in. I was never
really sure what to make of the boy. He was gutsy sometimes, maybe even too
much so, but other times he seemed almost inherently weak.
"This is a good day," Antonio declared, pulling me back to the moment as he
slapped me on the back. "I'm proud. Hell, elated, even. You're loyal. Strong.
Smart. A damn fine man. It's truly going to be an honor to be able to call you my
son."
Those words struck me hard. It was the first time someone had ever said
something like that to me, but my own gratification was diminished when I saw
Carlisle's reaction. He looked like someone had slapped him and he hunched
over, his posture showing his defeat. I'd just been given the one thing he yearned
for most - his father's approval.
There was a commotion at that moment, a loud clattering in the kitchen. We all
looked up, our conversation ceasing, as my mother's voice echoed through the
house. "What the hell's wrong with you?"
"Sorry, Mistress," Elizabeth said, sounding panicked. "I didn't mean it. It won't
happen again."
"It better not, or so help me God you'll regret ever being born."
I shook my head, pretty sure she already regretted that some days, and my eyes
fell upon Carlisle once more. His back was stiffened, his hands clenched into fists.
He wasn't disappointed or feeling sorry for himself anymore. He was murderously
angry. He looked to be fighting hard to control his emotions and just like that,
without saying a single word, he'd told me his entire story. He told me what he
was thinking and how he was feeling. He told me what he wanted and what he
feared most. He told me where his vulnerabilities were and how I could exploit
them. In the span of a minute, just in body language, he told me exactly how to
destroy him.
He'd never be a good made-man. He didn't know how to bluff. I could see right
through him.
Present Day
Blue Diamond, NV
It took less than thirty minutes for me to get to Blue Diamond from Las Vegas. I
drove through the barren roads quickly toward the new two-story house Edward
and Isabella had built. It was nice, fairly large, with an immense back yard full of
grass and trees. It somewhat reminded me of the place in Forks. Isolated, but yet
it didn't feel completely cut off from society.
I pulled up in front and parked beside Edward's black Mercedes. I was surprised
he hadn't traded it in for something different after moving out of Chicago,
considering I knew he wasn't particularly fond of the car. Judging by the condition
of it, however, I figured he probably hadn't given it much thought. It was dirty,
mud and dust coating it in a thick layer so it almost appeared a brownish color.
I climbed out of the car and made my way onto the porch, seeing a small black
cat sitting near the top step. It cocked its head to the side as it stared at me,
eyeing me up. I didn't like it but resisted the urge to kick it, just in case it
belonged to Isabella. I certainly didn't want to disrespect her, especially in her
own home.
The front door was open and I could faintly hear the sound of the television
playing inside so I tapped on the screen door and waited. It only took a few
seconds for Isabella to appear from the living room, still wearing pajamas with
her hair casually pulled back. The moment she saw me confusion passed across
her face, which was replaced quickly with alarm. Edward obviously hadn't warned
her I was coming. She worried he was in trouble.
"Uh, hey, Alec, sir," she said nervously, opening the door for me. "Please, come
in."
"Isabella," I said, nodding in greeting. "I apologize if I'm interrupting."
"Oh, not at all. I was just, you know..." She motioned toward the living room, as
if that was answer enough. She appeared exhausted, like she barely had time to
breathe, but from where I stood the house looked immaculate. I wasn't surprised,
considering she was the type of person who could multi-task. In a twenty-four
hour day, Isabella could squeeze out forty hours worth of work. It was a pity
women weren't allowed in La Cosa Nostra. She would've been a good asset.
"Edward's asleep upstairs. I can get him."
"That's not necessary," I said. "I can wake him myself."
She started to nod but tensed, shifting gears quickly to shake her head. "Oh, you
don't want to do that," she said, slightly panicked. "He's not, um... you know,
decent."
She whispered the last word, her face turning red from embarrassment. She was
a grown woman and I was, unfortunately, quite aware of their active sex life, but
she acted as if she were indulging me in some great secret.
"Then I suppose it would be best if you got him, in that case."
She nodded, her eyes darting back to the living room in deliberation. "I, uh..."
she started, pausing as she turned back to me.
I motioned toward the stairs. "Go on."
"Okay," she replied. She started up to the second floor and I stood there for a
moment before slowly making my way to the living room. I froze at the entrance
when I spotted the pink blanket on the wooden floor, a baby girl sitting on it. Her
bright green eyes were fixed in my direction. Reddish-brown curls stuck up all
over her head and she wore nothing but a white shirt and a diaper, looking a lot
like how I recalled Edward appearing when he was a child.
In fact, if I were being honest. she sort of looked similar to how he'd appeared
last night.
Besides pictures that my wife insisted on showing me every chance she got, it
was the first time I'd ever seen the girl. She'd been born about six months ago, if
I recalled correctly. Elizabeth was her name, but they called her Libby. Her
middle name was Brianna, which had been Renee's name at birth. Her free name.
Named after both of their mothers. They would've been honored.
It was no secret that I wasn't a fan of children. They were demanding creatures
that required a lot of time and attention, and I simply didn't have the patience to
deal with them. Chelsea had been mostly self-sufficient by the time she came to
be with us and I still had a hard time adjusting to her presence. It was difficult,
having to consider another person in my day-to-day life. I had enough to worry
about, between La Cosa Nostra and my wife, and they were both strong enough
to stand on their own. I couldn't imagine adding something completely helpless to
the mix.
Having said that, however, I had respect for those who chose to do it. Even
though Carlisle had been insistent that he failed his family, I always admired that
aspect of his life. He was dedicated to them. They were his driving force, his
reason for getting out of bed every morning. They were his life. What did I have?
I had money. I had power. I had respect. Yes, I had the love of my wife, but so
did he. He had everything I had, and even more. He'd created life. A part of him
lived on, and as difficult as it might've been considering them in everything he
did, at least he had a reason for his actions. He initiated for them. He killed for
them. He stole for them. He lied for them. I envied him that. I had Chelsea to
consider now, but it didn't erase the twenty years I spent murdering, stealing and
lying, just for the sake of doing it.
Not to say I regretted any of it, or to give the impression that I had a hard time
sleeping at night. That was far from the truth. If I could go back in time, I would
do it again. I would've done a few small things differently, of course. I would've
stood up for Elizabeth and Carlisle, so he didn't have to stand up to his father all
alone when he wanted to marry her. I would've helped Elizabeth when she asked
me to, so she wouldn't have spent her last years fighting for Isabella with no
help. She might have even lived, had I helped her when she asked. But
regardless, after everything, I would've still become exactly who I became. And I
wasn't ashamed of who I was.
But standing there, looking at the little girl on the floor and knowing Edward had
purpose, I almost envied him as much as I had his father. That was, until her
expression shifted and the child let out a piercing scream.
I cringed, the noise hurting my ears, and instantly took a step away. She balled
her hands into fists, her face turning red as her wails echoed throughout the
house. She was clearly furious. The angel had turned into the devil, from heaven
to hell in a fraction of a second.
I wanted nothing to do with it.
I turned around, planning to retrieve Isabella, and spotted Edward stepping off of
the stairs. He was still half-naked, wearing only a pair of pants, and appeared
even more disheveled than he had hours earlier.
"Bella!" he yelled, grimacing from the screams. "She's crying!"
"I can hear, Edward," Isabella called from upstairs, not sounding at all concerned.
"Do something about it."
He groaned, brushing right past me without even acknowledging my presence.
Was he even awake? Leaning down, he picked up the little girl from the blanket
and held her carefully. "Christ, come on, baby," he grumbled, patting her back.
"Daddy's fucking tired here. You can't be doing this shit now."
"Should you be cursing at your child?" I asked. I immediately thought of my
mother and her vulgar mouth, the way she'd curse me every time she drank. I
forced those thoughts away quickly as I felt the anger brewing inside of me. It
was dangerous dwelling on those things.
He glanced at me and shrugged. "Probably not, but I think it's obvious I have no
clue what the hell I'm doing."
"I wouldn't go that far. You seem to be doing quite well," I said, motioning
toward the baby. She was quiet now, her eyes drifting closed as she lay against
his chest. It only took him a matter of seconds to placate her. He almost made it
look easy.
He glanced down at her and sighed. "Pure luck."
"You? Lucky?"
"Yeah, maybe it's my Irish side."
I grimaced at the mention of Irish. Times had changed, and years had passed,
but our rivalry with the Irish still remained intact. "I don't think so," I said,
shaking my head. "It seems to be instinctive, so I'd say its the Italian in you."
"I thought you said my instincts were shit these days."
"Well, yes, your street smarts do leave a lot to be desired."
He chuckled. "Shit, here I thought you were actually complimenting me for once.
But, whatever, I'll work on it."
"I know you will," I said. "And it was a compliment, Edward. You're doing as well
as to be expected."
He looked at me with surprise. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," I said. I wasn't sure why he was thanking me. I only spoke the
truth.
There were footsteps on the stairs and I looked over, seeing Isabella had changed
her clothes and fixed her hair. She smiled politely at me, before her gaze shifted
to Edward, her expression softening. She stared at him with wonder, her devotion
to her family evident in her eyes.
"Would you like some coffee?" she asked, turning back to me again.
"If you have some, yes," I said. I tried to be careful when answering Isabella's
questions. She was still trained to serve, but Mafia wives weren't supposed to be
treated that way. She was to be respected like royalty, especially considering she
was essentially my niece.
It was still strange to think. I recalled seeing her as an infant at the Swans and
being ashamed for everyone connected to the situation, ashamed that their son
had made a child with their slave. That they had to live with the stigma that they
were a part of her family. I even judged my sister for marrying into the group.
But now, years later, Isabella was my family, and I'd kill anyone with the
audacity to think that was shameful.
"We always have coffee," Edward said. "And Red Bull. And Adderal. Gotta stay
awake somehow in this motherfucker."
"I hope you're joking about that last one," I said. "Unless you have a prescription,
of course."
"Of course," he grumbled.
"Yes, he's joking," Isabella said, rolling her eyes as she returned with a ceramic
mug. She handed it to me and I thanked her, taking a sip of the drink. It was
fresh, the soothing warm liquid coating my throat before settling in my empty
stomach. I couldn't recall the last time I ate anything and almost as if she could
read my mind, Isabella spoke again. "How about I make some breakfast?"
"Oh, you are fucking heaven-sent, tesoro," Edward said, leaning over to kiss her.
"I'm starving."
She looked at me apprehensively, her cheeks once again red due to Edward's
display of affection. "Breakfast would be nice," I assured her. She smiled,
relieved, and set off for the kitchen.
"We can talk in the living room," Edward said, turning in that direction. I
followed, taking a seat on his couch as he lay his daughter down on the pink
blanket. The moment his hands left her, however, her eyes popped back open
and she started whimpering.
"Fuck," he said, picking her right back up. He seemed to be having some sort of
internal battle going on as he stood there before he just shrugged and took a
seat beside me, still holding her to his chest. He looked at me nervously. "This
isn't a problem, is it? I can do something with her if you don't want her here, but,
I mean, it's not like she can say shit about anything."
"It's fine," I said. His lack of rest was messing with his common sense. "I like to
wait until they're at least able to talk before I make them take the vow of
silence."
He stared a me blankly for a moment before cracking a smile. "Was that a joke?"
"You tell me. Was it funny?"
"Not really," he replied honestly. "You should probably keep your day job."
I laughed, shaking my head. "Good advice. I do believe I'll follow it. Now, would
you like a piece of advice?"
"Sure," he replied, eyeing me curiously.
"If your Boss is coming to your house, it would do you well to tell your wife in
advance."
He groaned. "I meant to tell her, but I was so tired when I got home that I didn't
even wake her. I just passed the fuck out."
"If that's the case, why weren't you decent when I got here?" I asked. Was he
lying to me? What was the point?
It took a moment for him to register what I meant and he laughed. Loudly. "Fuck,
I wish I had the energy for that. I stripped when I got home and was just too lazy
to put on any goddamn clothes."
"Enough said." It was way too much information as it was. "Anyway, to the point
of my visit."
His demeanor changed rapidly, from relaxed to paranoid. If I didn't know any
better, his paranoia would make me think he was high. "Did something happen?"
"No. Well, yes, but nothing you don't already know about," I replied. "Quite
frankly it's none of my business, but your aunt is insistent that I tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"Last week some bones washed up ashore around James Island, near La Push.
They haven't made a positive identification yet, but I'm sure you can guess who
they will likely belong to when or if they do."
He looked almost like he was going to be sick for a moment. "Shit."
"There's no cause for concern. That most that will come of it is they'll want to
reinterview
the two of you. I wasn't going to say anything but Esme thought you
should be aware of it, considering he was once your friend."
"Uh, yeah," he replied, appearing dumbfounded. He'd known Jacob was dead,
had witnessed it, but I was quite sure he never knew what actually came of the
body. I could sense his guilt and felt as if I should say something, but I had no
words for him. It was the reason I hadn't wanted to tell him in the first place, but
no one else did either.
When there's no one else, it's always left to me.
"Will you be okay?" I felt like an idiot asking the question, knowing he would be,
but it seemed like something people said at a moment like that.
"Yeah, fine," he replied. "Can we, uh, not tell Isabella right now?"
"Yes, but you should tell her at some point," I said. "Don't keep more secrets
than you have to from your wife, if you trust her. She can't ever be forced to
testify against you and if she ever does it willingly, you know, we can just have
her taken out."
He flinched and there was a flash of anger, but he managed to control his
temper. I knew I came off as cold but I didn't intend to sound so harsh. I just
told it as it was, or how it could be. Pointing out the worst case scenario didn't
make me cruel or soulless. It made me a realist.
Plus, if I were honest, it was entertaining watching their reactions. They were
primal, fierce. Instinctive. It told me a lot about their character.
"That would never happen," he said through clenched teeth.
"I know. I wouldn't have ever vouched for her if I thought it would," I said. "Call
it another unfunny joke."
"The worst joke you ever fucking told," he muttered. "So, is that it? I thought for
sure you were coming over here to yell at me for something I did or didn't do.
Maybe to tell me I was fired."
"I don't fire people, Edward. You know that," I said. "If I wanted you gone, I
would've just sent Benjamin over in the middle of the night to get rid of you."
I could practically see his guard go back up. He sat up a little straighter, his hold
on his daughter a little tighter. There was a look in his eye that reminded me of a
predator, his defenses on high alert. If he was Homeland Security, he'd be
declaring a code red.
"So where is Little Man Tate?" he asked, his tone clipped. "Shooting some dice in
an alley somewhere?"
"I certainly hope not, considering he's supposed to be doing a job right now."
"Now? Here?" he asked, the spark of panic returning when I nodded. I had
another man working in his territory. That threatened his very being. "What's he
doing?"
"Nothing that pertains to your job, don't worry."
Even though I told him not to, I could still see his concern. He didn't completely
trust me and probably never would, but I didn't blame him. I had killed his father
in front of him, after all.
Isabella appeared at that moment, wielding a spatula. "How do you like your
eggs?" she asked hesitantly, like she was worried she was interrupting.
"I'm not very particular," I replied. "However you choose to make them, I'm sure
they'll be great."
She smiled and disappeared back into the kitchen again, and I turned to address
Edward before he could question me about Benjamin any further. "I would
appreciate it if you showered and shaved before breakfast. Otherwise, you'll ruin
my appetite."
He not-so-stealthily rolled his eyes as he stood up. Something about being in his
own house, outside of the city limits, made him brave. It wasn't smart of him,
though. There was no one watching here. I wasn't above punching him now.
"And make me copies of all of your files, while you're up there."
"Yes, sir," he muttered, starting to walk away, but his movement halted after a
few steps. Before I realized what he was doing, or even had a chance to react, he
quickly turned back and placed the child on my lap. I grabbed a hold of her so
she didn't fall and he backed away from me, holding his hands out defensively.
"I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Edward Anthony Cullen," I warned, glaring at him. She wiggled in my lap, her
eyes opening as she started whimpering. "I swear, if you don't get this child right
now..."
"You'll what?" he asked. "Kill me?"
"Don't tempt me."
He smirked, clearly amused by my discomfort. "I'm just following orders, sir," he
replied, walking away. I watched his retreating form, stunned, before glancing
back down. Libby stared at me with awe, her eyes scanning my face as if she
were studying me, with not an ounce of anxiety in her expression. I couldn't
recall the last time someone looked at me so intensely without worry or
trepidation.
I didn't like it. Not a bit.
After a moment her face contorted and I tensed, preparing for her to start
screaming, but instead a laugh sounded through the room. She smiled widely,
showing me her toothless mouth, and kicked her legs excitedly as she reached
her hand up toward my face.
And for the first time in years, someone made me nervous.
My mother was grumbling to herself when I walked into the kitchen, a bottle of
wine in one hand as she threw dishes into the empty sink with her other. I could
tell she was already somewhat intoxicated and was glad the guests had mostly
left, because the last thing I needed was the entire Borgata witnessing one of her
drunken rages.
My father had done a good job of keeping that part of her secret over the years,
since she was isolated from everyone living across the country. I didn't want his
facade of a decent marriage and happy family to be ruined, especially so late in
his life. He deserved to die with respect and honor, even if it wouldn't remain
intact for long after he was gone. After all, she was bound to throw a fit at the
funeral when she found out he'd already transferred all of his assets to me.
He was sick. So sick, in fact, that I doubted he'd live to see the wedding. They
gave him about six months. Stage four lung cancer, likely from all of the cigars
he'd smoked at parties just like this. I wasn't sad about it. I was actually happy
for him, in a way. He would die naturally, by God's hand, and not by the hand of
another man. Not many of us would be so lucky to accomplish that in our life.
"I'm leaving," I announced. My mother didn't even turn to face me. She'd barely
looked at me all night, and the few times she did her face was laced with disgust.
"I'm not surprised," she said, shaking her head. "All of you are the same. You all
leave. None of you give a shit about me. You don't give a shit about anyone but
yourselves."
"That isn't true," I said. "But I have a life I need to get back to."
"Well go on then," she said, throwing her hands in the air. Some of the wine
splashed out of the bottle, onto the floor. She glared at it angrily, like it had
somehow wronged her. "You're all worthless, every single one of you. There's a
fucking mess, a mess you and this sham of a party created, and that little bitch
Elizabeth is nowhere to be found. I don't even know why she's still here. She
does nothing but eat my food and use my water and take up all of my oxygen.
It's like having three kids. You and Jane never did anything but take up space,
too."
I ignored the insult. I was used to it. "Elizabeth gets her work done."
She laughed dryly. "Yeah, you'd know, since you spend so much fucking time
here," she said sarcastically. "I ought to just get rid of her. Find someone useful."
"She's been with the family for a long time."
"So? If you think she's so damn great, you take her," she said, taking a swig of
wine straight from the bottle. "Call it an engagement present. A shitty present for
a shitty son. May you be as happy as me."
She took another drink and as horrid as she was, I had the overwhelming urge to
thank her, anyway.
"Thank you, Isabella," I said, pushing away my nearly-empty plate. The food was
heavy in my stomach and there was no way I could take another bite. "It was
wonderful."
She smiled with relief where she stood across the room, rocking the baby in her
arms as she fed her from a bottle. She had retrieved the child quickly after
Edward went to shower and apologized profusely for what he'd done. I told her it
was no burden, not wanting to stress her any further, although those had been
some of the most unnerving moments of my life. "You're welcome. And again,
really, sorry about earlier."
She glared at Edward, who snickered from his seat across the table. "Yeah, I'm
sorry," he said, no genuine remorse to his voice. He'd had the time of his life
knowing I was squirming.
"I'm sure you are," I replied, glancing at my watch. It was nearing half past ten
already, time passing swiftly. "I hate to eat and run, but I need to be getting
back."
"It's understandable," Isabella said, likely relieved to be getting me out of her
house. She was never comfortable with me nearby. "Thank you for coming.
Maybe next time you can bring Esme along."
It was unlikely, considering I hated bringing her with me on business, but I
nodded anyway. I stood up, holding the files Edward had given me, and started
for the door. I hesitated as I passed Edward, grabbing his shoulder and squeezing
hard. He cringed, cursing as he tried to pull away from me. "Don't do this to me
again," I said, my voice low. He nodded and grabbed his shoulder when I let go,
eyeing me warily.
"Yes, sir."
"I can't believe your father didn't even come down," my mother said, shaking her
head. "Guess even you aren't important enough to inconvenience him."
"He's sick," I said. I wasn't in the mood to play her blame games. "He wasn't well
enough to entertain, you know that."
She laughed bitterly. "Yeah, he's sick, alright," she said. "Sick of us. He probably
prayed for this to happen just to get away from his family. I wouldn't put it past
him. He never wanted to take care of us. He never even wanted you, Alec. That's
the reason he isn't down here. Not because he's sick. He isn't here because he
doesn't give a shit."
I didn't respond. It was pointless. My mother truly believed she was the victim in
everything. My father had left Chicago weeks ago, planning to spend some time
in Phoenix with my mother while he had the chance. I wasn't sure why he
bothered. Redemption, possibly. Nostalgia. Shame. Yearning. There was no
telling, but I suspected the radiation might've warped his senses.
My mother always complained he was gone, but now that he was there she didn't
want him. He couldn't win. "I should check on him before I leave," I said.
"Yeah, you do that," she said. "Go kiss his ass. Everyone else does."
I shook my head and walked away, quickly making my way upstairs to the
bedroom. I tapped on the door, not wanting to disturb him if he was sleeping, but
his voice called out right away. "It's open."
I pushed the door open, seeing him sitting on the edge of the bed. He glanced
over at me, his expression one of disappointment. "That was the weakest knock
I'd ever heard, Alec."
"I didn't want to wake you."
"Excuses," he said, shaking his head. "The only place excuses will get you is six
feet under, son."
"Yes, sir."
"So did you need something?" he asked. "I'm assuming so, since you're here."
"I just wanted to check on you before I left."
He shook his head quickly. "Don't treat me like I'm an invalid, Alec."
"I'm not," I replied. "I'm treating you like you're my father."
He seemed surprised by my response. He stared at me for a moment, his guard
dropping as his expression softened. "Thank you, son."
"No need to thank me."
He smiled gently. "Go on and get out of here. I'm feeling a bit better, so I think
I'll be heading back to Chicago soon. Maybe we'll get together and do something.
Catch a Bears game this fall."
Now it was my turn to be surprised. It was the first time he'd ever actually
showed interest in spending time with me. We never had father and son days.
There were no fishing trips, no bonding... the closest we'd come was the day of
my initiation. "Maybe."
"Good," he said, nodding. "I'll see you later, son."
I nodded and walked out, avoiding my mother as I slipped out of the house.
Something about the exchange had put me at ease.
Little did I know, it would be the last time I ever spoke to him. I had no way of
knowing, as I walked out that door, that a mere few hours later he'd be dead. He
stopped breathing in his sleep and everyone proclaimed he'd died in peace, but I
knew better. The moment I heard he'd passed, the memory of my mother
standing over my bed with a pillow came to mind.
VII - Against the Clock
September 2008
44 years old
Chicago, IL
I stood frozen in the doorway, watching the spray of bullets ripping through the
backyard. Carlisle stood in the middle of it all, firing at Aro, and on the sidelines
stood a shell-shocked Edward. Both men yelled to him, Carlisle imploring him to
run, while Aro demanded he fulfill his duties. Edward looked panicked, torn
between two worlds - the world he wanted to be in, with his family, where there
was peace, and the world he had to be in, where chaos and violence controlled
our lives.
It didn't take a genius to figure out which world would ultimately win.
He wouldn't run. As much as he loved his father and wanted to walk away, there
was no way he would. That October day in 1996, when his mother had begged
him to run and he listened, had sealed that decision long ago. He carried guilt
from that - guilt that he'd abandoned her. He ran, leaving someone he loved to
face the fight alone.
He wouldn't do it again, even if it meant certain death.
I raised my gun and pointed it straight at Edward, pulling the trigger. The bullet
flew from the muzzle and hit the side of his hand, blood pouring from the wound
instantly as it pierced the skin. He dropped his gun reflexively, the weapon
clattering to the concrete ground. He looked stunned. Horrified. Frightened.
Frightened of me, even though I'd just saved him.
I sprinted straight for him, knocking him to the ground to get him out of the way.
I told him to stay there as I stood back up, hoping he'd listened as I fired at
Carlisle. I aimed over his head so not to actually hurt him, but shot close enough
that Aro wouldn't be able to tell. Carlisle knew exactly what I was doing and fired
back, bullets whizzing right by my ear. He always had impeccable aim. Not once
did I fear for my life.
Carlisle's movements slowed eventually. I could see he was struggling, his
breathing labored. I knew he'd taken a few bullets, his hands covered with blood
as he clutched his chest.
The moment he took off his coat, exposing the Uzi strapped to him, I knew it was
all over. He bowed his head and did the sign of the cross, his mouth moving
furiously as he prayed. Edward's screams cut through the night and I cringed
from the sound, his pleas falling upon deaf ears. It was too late to stop it, too late
to take it back. What was done was done.
I wasn't surprised, not in the least. After all, we'd planned it that way.
Present Day
Las Vegas, NV / Chicago, IL
The moment I opened the hotel room door at ten minutes to eleven, Benjamin
jumped up from his spot on the bed. He was obviously on edge, fidgeting and
twiddling his thumbs. He looked strung out and his behavior worried me. He was
usually relaxed.
"Everything fine?" I asked.
He nodded. I could see he was trembling and it struck me at that moment that it
had been his first hit. I nearly felt guilty about it, having not adequately prepared
him, but there was no sense dwelling on what couldn't be changed. "Good," I
replied. "Get yourself together and let's get out of here."
I waited while he used the restroom and he returned after a moment, his hands
digging in his pockets. "Boss, do you know what happened to the money from
last night?" he asked, clealry not remembering how the night had ended.
"No," I lied. The money had paid for a young girl's freedom, but I wasn't going to
tell him that. Let him think he lost it. Maybe he'd learn something from his
irresponsibility.
"Damn, so I guess I still owe you $300, then."
"I guess so."
I checked us out of the hotel and drove to the airport, returning the rental car. It
took about an hour to get the jet prepared and Benjamin slept the entire three
hour flight back to Chicago, but I spent the time going through Edward's files. He
kept meticulous notes on everyone he had contact with, from personal
information about their lives to how much they were indebted, down to the
penny.
It didn't happen often, but I actually found myself impressed.
According to my watch, it was a quarter after five in the evening when we landed
in Chicago. I dropped Benjamin off at the house he shared with his parents,
telling him to meet me in my office at around nine, before setting off toward
home. My phone started ringing when I was three blocks away and I tensed,
realizing I'd forgotten to call Esme when I was on my way. I grabbed it, expecting
it to be her, but was surprised when it was instead Benjamin's father, Frank.
Numerous thoughts passed through my mind at that moment and I found myself
suddenly angry, convinced Benjamin had divulged details of our trip. Frank
Mancini had been a made man as long as me and he knew what went on, but no
man with an ounce of compassion wanted to hear of his own child being forced to
commit murder.
"Evanson, speaking."
I waited for him to confront me. I was prepared for his anger. I was ready to
remind him of his place. Unfortunately, however, I hadn't expected to hear
elation. "Guess who finally captured that canary?"
The sixth member of Mancini's crew, a man named Marcello, had gone rogue a
few weeks earlier after being caught getting out of the back of an unmarked
police cruiser on the south side of Chicago. There was no reason for his presence
there, no record of him being arrested, which only left us with one conclusion-he
was singing his heart out. I'd called him in for a sit down and he never showed
up, instead disappearing in the middle of the night. He'd clearly panicked, leaving
everything behind when he fled - including his wife and children. Rookie mistake.
A lesser man than me would've killed them.
"Usual spot," I told him. "I'll be there soon."
"Yes, sir."
I hung up the phone as I pulled into my driveway, realizing right away that my
wife wasn't home. In the spot where her car was usually parked was a familiar
jeep with two car seats secured in the back. I made my way in the house and
before I could even close the front door Carlisle appeared, running down the
stairs. He froze halfway down when he spotted me.
"Carlisle," I said, acknowledging him. It was odd for me, those moments where
he and I came face-to-face and I addressed him by his name. There was always a
spark of fear in his eyes, and I was used to seeing apprehension with people, but
it was different with him. It made me think of those final moments at Aro's house
and the look Carlisle had on his face when he put the gun to his head. The
inevitability. The fright. The ultimate resignment. It was that look that led me to
take my brother-in-law's life and it wasn't something I liked having to relive.
Carlisle sat back on his knees, struggling to breathe. The gunfire had ceased, in
its place the faint wail of sirens. They were approaching fast, growing louder as
the seconds passed.
Nine blocks.
Eight blocks.
Seven blocks.
Carlisle reached beside him, picking up his discarded pistol. "Carlisle!" I warned,
seeing his desolation. He glanced in my direction, his face ashen and eyes dull.
"It's time to see Lizzie now," he said quietly, his words garbled. I shook my head,
knowing exactly what he was thinking. He'd expected to die tonight - I'd expected
him to die - but not this way. It was wrong. It wasn't supposed to end this way.
He nodded defiantly, stubbornly, as the sirens grew even closer.
Six blocks.
Five blocks.
Carlisle raised his gun, pressing it to his chin. Edward screamed, horrified, but the
sound was muffled as my heart thumped wildly. Carlisle stared at me, his eyes
pleading for help. He'd never ask me to do it, he had too much pride. Too much
heart. But his expression spoke volumes. It always had. Decades later, even after
everything he'd endured, he still couldn't bluff.
Not with me, anyway.
Four blocks.
Three blocks.
We were running out of time.
I grabbed my gun as a flash of memory hit me.
"You want to date my daughter?" Antonio asked, staring at me with shock. I'd
told him I needed to speak with him about something important. He obviously
had been expecting business.
"Yes, sir," I replied. "I would like to ask her out."
He was quiet for a moment, deep in thought. "I like you, Alec. You're a great
asset to me. Not only that, but you have potential. Dating my daughter... It
complicates things. You know how it is. I'd hate to have to lose you."
By losing me, he meant killing me.
"So I'm going to ask you one more time, and I want you to think about this
carefully. We can forget this conversation ever happened if you want, otherwise
you need to understand there are serious ramifications to saying 'yes'. So I'm
asking, Alec. Do you really want to date my daughter?"
I nodded. "Yes, sir. I do."
He smiled. "That takes guts, Evanson. Guts no one else has shown," he said,
holding his hand out to me. "You have my blessing."
"Thank you, sir," I said, taking his hand to shake it. He squeezed mine firmly,
yanking me toward him.
"But if you do anything to break her heart - and I mean anything - I will make
you suffer. I don't care if I'm dead and rotting in a grave somewhere. I'll come
back for you, Evanson. It doesn't matter if you mean well. The road to hell is
paved with good intentions and that's precisely where you'll go if this ends
badly."
"I understand," I replied. "I swear on my life I won't hurt your family."
I closed my eyes, bowing my head. Seeing the plea in Carlisle's eyes, knowing
what he planned to do, I knew I had to break that promise. I had to do the one
thing that would hurt Esme most.
I had to break her heart. It was the only way to save his.
Two blocks.
One block.
Out of time.
"Perdonatemi," I said. I aimed, my finger on the trigger, and for the first time in
my life I hesitated. He wasn't just another target, another kill. Another number.
He was my friend. My brother.
He was just like me.
The single gunshot tore through the air, dropping him instantly. Edward cried.
Sirens wailed.
I prayed he'd found peace.
Little Carlisle said nothing as I addressed him, rushing right past me after a
moment as he bolted for the dining room. I closed the door and followed him,
hearing multiple voices as I approached. Emmett and Rosalie sat at the table,
surrounded by their sons and Chelsea. Beside Chelsea were two other girls, both
of which were unfamiliar to me. They looked to be about Chelsea's age, eight,
and all three of them were strangely dressed the same in brown vests and berets.
"Why are other people's children in my house?" I asked, confused. If there was
one thing I hated, it was strangers invading my space.
Everyone looked over at me when I spoke and Chelsea rolled her eyes. "They're
my friends."
Friends. She practically sneered the word, although I think I was the only one
who actually noticed. Friends, to Chelsea, meant something entirely different
than what it did to most. She wasn't a trusting person, having spent years in the
foster care system fighting for attention. Survival to her meant standing out,
being better than the rest and having something unique that made people take
notice. She was cutthroat, highly motivated and determined. Kids her age were
her competition, every single one of them a threat to her success. Friends in her
mind weren't people who had her back. They were reasons to watch her back.
It wasn't that she was cruel. She was quite the opposite - a helpful child,
intelligent and compassionate. She was just constantly concerned with being
outdone and wouldn't let anyone get close enough to harm her.
"Do your friends have names?" I asked, looking between the two girls
suspiciously.
"Melody and Amanda," she replied.
"Last names?"
Chelsea rolled her eyes yet again. My questioning obviously wasn't welcomed, but
necessary. "Geez, they aren't spies."
I gave her a pointed look. "Last names, Chelsea."
"Johnson and Smith," she grumbled.
Clearly American. "Do I know their parents?" I asked. The names were so generic
I couldn't be certain either way. Children or not, some individuals had no
business being in my home.
"No, I don't think so."
"What do they do? Where do they live?"
"Ugh, not now, please," Chelsea pleaded, her voice low and whiny. I knew the
tone well. I was embarrassing her.
"Yo, they're cool, Unk," Emmett interjected. "Their parents know where they are."
He spoke like those words were supposed to be reassuring, when really it was the
opposite. Who in their right mind allowed their children to frequent my home?
Besides, I really couldn't care less about their safety. My concern was ours.
"Are you hungry?" Rosalie asked, attempting to change the subject. I let it go for
the time being.
"No," I replied. "I'm still full from breakfast this morning."
Emmett stared at me. "Please tell me Izzy Bizzy didn't cook for you."
"Isabella did, yes."
He shook his head. "Lucky bastard," he muttered. Rosalie shoved him, narrowing
her eyes in anger.
"Something wrong with my food?" she asked defensively.
"Of course not, babe," he said quickly, looking down at his plate. Hot dogs, tater
tots and macaroni and cheese. "It's just, you know, sometimes this shit gets
tiring."
I smiled, understanding completely. Between Chelsea and my wife, I was quite
sure my household personally kept Oscar Meyer and Kraft in business.
"How did you know I saw Isabella?" I asked.
"Esme said you were in Vegas," Rosalie said. "She didn't expect you back yet."
I frowned, realizing I'd forgotten to call my wife. Again. She was going to be
furious.
"So, how's my brother?" Emmett asked.
What was it with people trying to use me as a middle man? "Why don't you ask
him?"
"Like he'd really tell me," Emmett said, laughing.
True, I realized. Edward was trained to pretend to be in control, even when he
wasn't. "He's surviving," I replied.
Emmett nodded, as if that was all that needed saying, and turned back to his
food. He always took everything at face value, no need for unnecessary
explanations or reading between the lines. It was a reason I was fond of him. We
weren't very close, and there would be no fishing trips to bond in our future, but
he was a welcome presence in my life.
I didn't always think it would be that way, though. I was conflicted about Emmett
for a while. It was hard looking at him, knowing Stephan was his birth father. My
enemy's blood rushed through his veins, pumping his heart and sustaining his
life. The man had nearly killed me, and a part of him had found its way into my
family. In my inner circle. It felt like an invasion.
I wanted to tell Emmett the truth about his parentage, to clear the air, but Esme
had sworn me to secrecy. I found it strange, considering she'd insisted I tell
Edward what I knew. I pointed this out as hypocrisy to her but she disagreed,
telling me there was a big difference - Edward deserved to hear the truth,
whereas Emmett deserved not to be told. 'Hasn't the family been through
enough?' she asked. 'Can't we just be?'
I conceded and agreed to remain silent, although I wanted to tell her she'd
married the wrong man if she was looking for peace.
I left them to their food and went into my office to shred Edward's paperwork,
disposing of the evidence of our work. He'd keep the originals as long as
necessary, but eventually they'd be destroyed also. We never kept written
records for long, relying on our memory to keep track of things.
Which was sometimes unfortunate, considering people were prone to error. I
certainly couldn't safely say I'd never made a mistake.
Afterward I returned to the dining room, seeing everyone was finishing up and
the two girls were already gone. Probably fled the first chance they got. It
wouldn't surprise me if they never came back.
"I need to head back out," I told them.
"Have fun," Emmett said, smiling after he spoke. "Or not, I don't know. Don't
want to know, either."
"Yeah, you don't want to know," I responded, shaking my head. "Have a good
evening."
I started to walk out but before I could Chelsea stopped me. "Wait!" she yelled,
shoving her chair back as she jumped up. She ran out of the room and I stood
there for a moment, confused, before she returned clutching a paper. She held it
out to me. "I need to sell cookies."
"Okay," I replied, taking the paper from her. "Is it a fundraiser for school?"
"No," she said, crinkling her nose like my question disgusted her. "It's for the
Brownies. You know, my Girl Scouts troop?"
"Girl Scouts?" I asked, surprised. When had she become a Girl Scout? "How long
have you been a member?"
"A few weeks."
"Why did you join?"
"Uh, I don't know," she said, shrugging. "Everyone does."
I stared at her with disbelief. "You joined an organization just because everyone
else did?"
"Yes."
"And what did you have to do in order to be a member?"
"Nothing, really," she replied. "It was really easy. We just have to pay dues and
take some pledge when we first join."
"A pledge?" I asked. "You swore an oath?"
"Well, yes, I guess," she said, looking at me apprehensively. "It wasn't a big
deal."
"Not a big deal?" I asked, stunned. "What was the oath?"
She looked like she was going to ignore my question, but my expression told her
otherwise. She begrudgingly held up three fingers and mumbled, "On my honor, I
will try: to serve God and my country, to help people at all times, and to live by
the Girl Scout Law."
"There's a law?" I asked. "What is it?"
"Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously."
She sighed. "I'll do my best to behonest, fair, friendly, helpful, considerate,
caring, uh..." she paused. "...some other things. I'll be responsible for what I say
and do,
respect myself and others... Oh, and respect authority. Um, I'll use resources
wisely to make the world a better place, and I'll be a sister to every Girl Scout."
She looked downright proud that she'd mostly been able to recite it. "And you
agreed to that?"
"Yes."
"And what do you do with these people?" I asked. "Other than sell cookies,
obviously."
"Uh, we have meetings," she said. "And we go on missions and stuff."
"Missions? They give you tasks?"
"Yes, and we get badges when we do it right. The more badges, the better."
"So let me get this straight," I said. "You swore an oath to these people to live
how they think you should live, you give them money for belonging, you do what
they tell you to, and if you prove yourself, you'll move up in rank. Is that right?"
She nodded excitedly and I just stared at her, borderline horrified. She'd joined
the Children's Mafia.
"It's just the Girl Scouts," Emmett said, knowing exactly where my mind was
going. "They go camping and tie knots and braid each other's hair and shit.
Completely harmless."
"And sell cookies," Chelsea stressed. Back to the Godforsaken cookies again.
"Fine," I replied, holding the paper back out to her. "Go ahead and sell your
cookies."
She just stared at it. "You want me to do it?"
She wasn't making any sense. I was already missing the days where she just said
what she wanted, take it or leave it. The older she got, the more confusing she
became. I was beginning to think it was a trait that came ingrained in the female
population. "Aren't you supposed to?"
"Yes, but, I mean..." she stammered. "You really want me to go to people's
houses and ask them for money? Like, strangers?"
"Well, no," I said. There was no way she was going to a stranger's house, much
less to ask them for money. That sounded a lot like begging and we didn't beg.
Lie? Yes. Steal? Yes. Beg? Never. "Can't you just sell to your friends' parents?"
"No, they're all selling cookies, too."
"Then just sell to family."
"We don't have enough family."
"We have plenty of family," I insisted. "I'm sure Emmett will buy a box."
"Hell yeah," he said. "Maybe even two."
"See, there you go. Two boxes already sold."
She stared at me, horrified. "Two boxes?"
"I'm sure Edward would even send the money for one."
"Three boxes?"
"Yes. You've already got a good start."
"A good start?" she asked incredulously. "Three boxes is nothing! Amanda's mom
works at the hospital! Do you know how many people are there that'll buy
cookies? And Melody's dad works in a factory with, like, hundreds of people!
There's no way I'll win!"
"Win?" I asked. "Is there a prize?"
"Yes, of course," she said. "The person who sells the most gets a bike."
"You already own a bike."
"But this is a new bike!"
"I'll buy you a new bike."
She groaned. "It's not the same."
Her dramatics made my head spin. "What, do you want me to write you a
check?" I asked. "For how much? Ten boxes? Fifty boxes? A hundred?"
"No, that's cheating," she said, shaking her head. "They'll be mad if you paid and
I didn't actually sell any. You can't just buy first place."
I wanted to tell her she was wrong, but figured it wasn't the time for a lesson on
the reality of life. "Then what do you want, Chelsea?"
"To sell cookies to a bunch of people," she replied. "A lot of them."
She stared at me imploringly and I realized at that moment that it wasn't about
the bike, or even the cookies for that matter. It was about standing out,
succeeding. Proving herself.
If ever there was a child suited for me, it would be her.
"Fine," I replied, folding the paper and sticking it in my pocket. She was one of
only two people in the world who could argue with me and actually win. "I'll sell
your cookies, but I'm telling you now - you will see this through. You took an
oath. There will be no walking away from this when you get bored. Do you
understand me?"
"Yes, sir," she said, a smile curving her lips. "Thank you, Alec."
She never called me Dad, and she likely never would. She never even referred to
me as her father, but the sentiment was there. I was her protector. I supported
her. She needed me.
And, as much as I hated admitting it, I probably needed her, too.
"You're welcome."
"You're awfully composed for a man who just witnessed a mass murder."
I looked over at Agent DiFronzo and shifted my position, the metal handcuffs
secured to my wrists clanging against the table. "You're awfully composed for
having witnessed the carnage," I countered.
He shrugged casually, as if it hadn't really bothered him. It had, though. I could
tell. "Side effect of the job," he said. "I suppose it's the same for you, huh?"
I shook my head. "I don't see much death owning a nightclub," I replied.
"Occasional overdose, maybe. But other than that..."
"Cut the shit," he said, not even giving me a chance to finish. "If you're just a
business owner, why are you so calm right now? What's your excuse?"
"My excuse? Well, first of all, I didn't witness a mass murder."
He stared at me, torn between confused and angry. "Are you going to seriously
deny being there at all?"
"No, I didn't say I wasn't there. I just said I didn't witness a mass murder," I
replied. "What I witnessed was a shootout. There's a big difference. You should
know that, being a federal agent and all."
"Oh, yes, and a business owner such as yourself would be able to distinguish that
difference, huh?"
I shrugged. "I watch TV."
"I'm sure you do."
VIII -X Marks the Spot
July 2007
43 years old
Phoenix, AZ
I didn't think about it at all. There wasn't a single moment where I stopped and
thought, 'this is wrong.' There was no second-guessing, no hesitation. I just
reacted.
The moment Jane lunged at Edward, I pulled out my gun, aimed it and squeezed
the trigger.
The deafening sound of gunshots ripped through the barn and Jane's body
dropped instantly. She swung the shovel reflexively, slamming it into Edward with
the very last bit of life left in her.
Charles sprung into action, but he didn't get very far. I turned the gun on him,
pumping him full of bullets. He collapsed on top of Jane, his body a bloody heap.
Edward cursed, on the verge of screaming. He was panicked, irrational, emotional
and volatile.
It took everything in me not to turn the gun on him next.
I steadily checked my mirrors as I drove through the city, intentionally making
wrong turns and going out of my way as I weaved through traffic, making sure I
wasn't being followed. It took me nearly an hour to get to a run-down section of
the city that should've taken half that, maneuvering through back roads and past
the abandoned factories that people barely even looked at anymore. They'd been
shipped overseas long ago, the jobs taken from the locals and given to foreigners
willing to work for pennies on the dollar. The factories used to sustain the
surrounding neighborhoods, but now forced the people to steal just to be able to
feed their loved ones.
And the government claimed we ruined Chicago. They said La Cosa Nostra
destroyed families, degraded the people and made it hard for others to make an
honest living. They truly believed eradicating us would solve the cities problems
and bring down the explosive crime rate.
I think people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. Corporations, with the
governments help, put a hell of a lot more people out of commission than we
ever could. If they couldn't find a job, they had to survive somehow.
I pulled my car in beside the large warehouse, concealing it between two
buildings so anyone who happened to drive past wouldn't see. I slipped out and
quickly made my way inside, making sure to secure the main door behind me.
The place was dark, the few windows that existed boarded up. It smelled of mold
and stale cigarettes, trash scattered through out the place that had been there
for years. The building was infested with rats and I could see them scurry past,
ducking away from eyesight as much as possible, but there were more of them
than there were hiding spots.
I made my way to the back of the warehouse, to a sectioned off portion with no
exit to the outside. It had once been a break room or office, I assumed, from the
fact that the ceiling was lower and the area was enclosed in.
The moment I stepped inside I saw Frank Mancini, along with two of the older
guys from his crew. Frank was my age, mid-forties, and already starting to bald.
He'd been fit when he was younger, quite the ladies man, but his days of
womanizing were long gone. His stomach jutted out so far now I was certain he
couldn't see his feet anymore, much less his dick.
"Boss," Frank said. I nodded at him, doing the same to the other two when they
addressed me. I wasn't sure of their names, not even caring.
Huddled in the corner, frightened, was Marcello. He was dirty and disheveled,
wearing only a pair of pants. He looked quite pitiful and although he quietly cried,
I wasn't at all sympathetic to his pain. The truth was, he hadn't felt suffering yet.
"Marcello, the man of the hour, it's great to see you! I'm glad you finally decided
to come in."
"Boss..."
"Ah ah ah," I cut him off before he could get anything out. "You see, that's not
how this is going to work. Your opportunity to explain has already passed. You
missed your chance to talk when you tried to run. I'm not interested in your
excuses. All I want, Marcello, is penance."
He stared at me with horror filled eyes as I continued. "If you take your
punishment and I feel like you've adequately repented and you understand the
necessity of following my orders, you'll be forgiven. It's as simple as that. I'll give
you a pass and let you go on your way. But that's only if I'm satisfied and,
unfortunately, I'm not an easy man to please."
"I'll do anythi-"
Hauling my foot back, I lunged it forward, kicking him right in the face. He cried
out, trying to block himself defensively as he huddled further into the corner.
"No talking," I spat. "I thought we already established that time has passed."
He whimpered but otherwise didn't speak. I glanced around, looking for the
supplies, and Frank kicked the large black duffel bag toward me. He was
prepared for me, as usual. As the old saying goes - it wasn't his first rodeo.
I picked the bag up and tossed it on a worn wooden table that had been left
behind, unzipping it to pull out the large section of rope.
I motioned for the two soldiers to pull Marcello to his feet and I stood behind him,
tightly tying his wrists together. I left no wiggle room, the thick rope digging into
his flesh as the friction burned his skin. After ensuring the knots wouldn't budge,
I dragged him over to the center of the room. He provided very little resistance,
few ever fighting back when they reached this point. They knew fighting meant
certain death, whereas they still held the belief they were strong enough to
survive.
Too bad I'd never met a man that was.
Above our heads and along the walls of the enclosure, portions of the framework
of the building were exposed, leaving what appeared to be an elaborate maze of
steal beams. I took the loose end of the rope and threw it up over one beam
above us so it dangled down on the other side. Frank grabbed it, tugging just
enough rope to tie the other end to an exposed piece of steal along the wall.
"This might hurt a bit," I warned. Panic flared in Marcello's eyes as I motioned
toward the other two, signaling them to help. They pulled on the other end of the
rope that Frank had, giving him enough slack to tie it tighter. The more they
pulled, the further Marcello's arms were forced into the air behind him, and after
a moment Marcello had no place to go but up. Inch by inch his feet steadily rose
from the ground, his cries growing louder with every tug. The weight of his body
was being held by his wrists, most of the strain placed on his shoulders. Reverse
hanging, they called it, or simply "the ropes". It had been used to torture many
men over the years for information, the excruciating pain easily loosening
tongues.
The Viet-Cong had done it to Senator John McCain. He had been strong enough to
survive.
After he was a few feet from the ground I told them they could stop, all three
men breathing a sigh of relief as they secured the rope for the last time. Not
Marcello, though. There would be no relief for him.
"This position you're in is called Strappado. The more you move, the more
damage will be done to your arms. If you hope to ever be able to use them again,
you should probably stay still."
I pulled my pocket knife out and opened the blade, twirling it in my hands. "When
you took your oath, you swore your loyalty to us. In onore della Famiglia, la
Famiglia e abbraccio. In honor of the Family, I embrace the Family. Do you
remember those words? Do you remember promising silence, swearing to obey
the Omerta with love?"
He nodded ever so slightly, trying to remain silent despite the pain.
"Where was the loyalty when you were going to the cops?"
The blade against the right side of his neck, I pressed lightly, just enough to nick
the skin.
"Where was the honor when you turned your back on your family?"
I pressed it to the other side, a small drop of blood oozing from the superficial
cut.
"Where was the obedience when I called you in and you didn't show?"
I ran the blade down his chest, from the dip in his throat down to his navel.
"Where was the love, Marcello? Where was the heart?"
I sliced an 'X' over the spot his heart lay and he grunted, gritting his teeth as
blood streamed down his chest. I itched to plunge it in but kept my composure,
not wanting to kill him.
Yet, anyway.
Even though she was small in stature, Jane carried herself like she towered over
everyone. She liked to push people around and they would cower away from her,
fearful. There was no telling what she was capable of, because she was a loose
cannon. One minute she'd be fine, the next she'd be a runaway torpedo, and you
never knew exactly where she was going to strike. She portrayed herself as
tough, self-assured and indestructible. Invincible. Bulletproof.
Pity for her she really wasn't.
So as I carried my sister's lifeless body to the car, I was almost surprised by how
light she was. She seemed so fragile. Vulnerable. Harmless.
Hollow.
Maybe it was fitting, after all.
The truth was, Jane was always insecure. She lashed out and made everyone feel
low about themselves, because it was the only time she ever felt high. She
would've never admitted it, but she knew as well as I did that our being born had
been a mistake.
I sometimes wondered if we'd been born without souls. People with souls couldn't
hurt indiscriminately. People with souls had a conscious. They were empathetic.
They were good.
We were none of that.
Esme used to blame it on my mother. She said we became the way we were
because of how we were treated, that we'd learned to detach and to not care
about anyone else. Survival mechanism, she called it. I believed it was deeper
than that. There was some malfunction in our DNA, some gene that had been
given to us from my parents. A tainted bloodline, when mixed, created monsters.
It was a gene I'd certainly never pass on.
Esme claimed the fact that I refused to continue the cursed bloodline was proof I
was good. Proof that, regardless of everything, I wasn't empty inside. I always
thought it was just simple logic.
Logic. If I were really being logical, I'd say I was probably the way I was because
my mother stayed drunk the entire nine months she was pregnant.
The point being, as I situated Jane in the car, preparing to stage an accident that
would incinerate most of her remains, I felt not a twinge of guilt. There was no
remorse. No shame. I didn't grieve. I couldn't even care. She was my sister, my
flesh and blood. We'd shared a womb.
And I felt... nothing.
Where was my soul?
"You're a shame, a disgrace. You're pathetic, not an ounce of honor in you. If we
have nothing in this world, we at least have our word, but you don't even have
that. I can't trust it. You swore your life on something and then went back on it
like it meant nothing to you. Does it mean nothing to you? Are you that brazen?"
"No, Boss, I swear..."
I hauled my fist back to punch him in the mouth, losing my temper and wanting
his silence. When my hand connected with his jaw, the blade of the knife sliced
my palm and I dropped it. It hit the floor and I frowned when I saw the blood
seeping out of the cut on my hand.
"Are you okay?" Frank asked from across the room.
"I'm fine," I said, shaking it off. My exhaustion was taking it's toll and I was
getting sloppy, something I couldn't permit happening anymore. "I'm just sick
and tired of insolence. Why must people constantly test me? Do I look weak? Do
they think I'm ignorant?"
"Absolutely not, sir," one of the other guys said. "It's them that are ignorant."
Frank and the other man agreed quickly but I shrugged them off. I wasn't in the
mood to have my ass kissed. I just wanted to know the truth.
I picked the knife up again. "I heard you were laughing when you got out of the
car with that cop," I said, slicing the corner of his mouth, about a quarter of an
inch up his cheek. He cried out as I did the other side, forcing a smile onto his
face. "Laughing, like this is all just a big joke to you. Like I'm a joke to you. Is
that what it is?"
He shook his head frantically and I froze as the sound of snickering cut through
the air, but it didn't come from Marcello. I glanced past him, my anger
skyrocketing, and saw one of the guys with a smile on his face. "Is something
funny?" I asked him. "Do I amuse you?"
"Oh, no! It's just, you know," he said, trying to straighten himself out but he
cracked another smile. "Nevermind. Sorry, sir."
I shook my head as I closed the knife, returning it to my pocket. Reaching into
the bag again, I grabbed the Bernzomatic propane blowtorch and slowly
unscrewed the back of it to release the gas. The hissing noise registered with
Marcello's ears and he stared at me with horror as he started to cry again. "So
burns this saint, so will my soul," I recited another portion of the oath as I hit the
trigger on the blowtorch. The flame instantly ignited and I held it to his bare feet.
He screamed, the action ripping his face open along the cuts as the piercing
sound echoed through the vacant warehouse. He writhed, desperately fighting
against his restraints as the flame scorched him, the sickening stench of burning
flesh immediately surrounding us. He fought so hard both of his arms ripped from
their sockets, his body horribly disfigured within a matter of seconds.
Blood streamed down his face, coating his chest. "Please!" he screamed, sobbing
loudly. "Please stop! Please, God, I'm begging you! I'm sorry! I swear I didn't tell
them anything. Oh, God, it burns! It fucking burns!"
His feet started turning black as he grew even more frantic, his pleading turning
incoherent. The more he screamed, the more the skin on his face ripped, and the
more he tried to fight, the worse it injured his arms.
I turned off the blowtorch after a moment, screwing the back in again to stop the
flow of gas. Marcello continued to cry out, sobbing and begging for help as I
dropped the blowtorch to the ground and shook my head. "Blood in, blood out," I
said. "You knew the rules."
I turned away from him, unable to take the sight of the charred flesh. I could
only imagine how much agony he was in, knowing I, myself, had once been close
to that same fate. Had Aro discovered my involvement with Carlisle in the
Isabella cover up, I likely would've ended up hanging in a warehouse somewhere,
too.
"What do you want to do with him?" Frank asked after a moment.
"Please let me go," Marcello begged. "You said you'd give me a pass! I'm sorry,
God, I'm so fucking sorry!"
I shook my head. "Let him die."
Marcello's cries grew even louder upon my words. "Why? God, please! Why?"
"You want to know why?" I asked. He nodded frenetically, blood and snot and
tears covering his face. The sight of it made my stomach churn and I felt dizzy for
a second, almost as if I were going to pass out. I regained my composure quickly,
though, not letting it show as I answered. "I told you not to talk. That's why."
I turned and started to walk away, needing to sit down. I heard the gunshots
immediately as Frank put a bullet in Marcello, silencing his cries. "Why the hell
did you laugh?" Frank chastised the other man, his voice scathing. Frank was his
boss and he knew that when it came down to it, he was accountable for all of
their actions. He already had one man go astray. He couldn't risk another.
"Sorry, Frank, I didn't mean any disrespect," he said. "It's just, that scene in
Goodfellas with Tommy DeVito and Henry Hill, where Tommy asks him if he
thinks he's funny like a clown. Man, I loved that shit. He just reminded me of it."
The moment those words registered, something in me snapped. I reached into
my coat and pulled out my gun, turning back around toward the room. The man
didn't have time to react or even realize what I was doing, for that matter. I
aimed and pulled the trigger, a bullet ripping right through his skull within a
fraction of a second. He dropped to the ground instantly while the other two
cursed, backing away quickly in shock.
"Does anyone else have something they'd like to say?" I spat, looking between
the men. "Thomas DeSimone, the man Tommy Devito was modeled after, was
despicable, and Henry Hill was a rat! This isn't a movie! This is real life! I won't
tolerate people comparing me to that!"
They stared at me with shock, flinching as I waved the gun around. "I agree,"
Frank said, holding his hands up defensively. "He was out of line."
I lowered my weapon when my senses came back to me and returned it to my
holster, glancing around the room. "Clean this up. Thoroughly. I don't care what
you do but I bled in here."
"Absolutely, sir," Frank said. "I'll handle it."
I walked out, seeing the sun had set while I was inside. I climbed behind the
wheel of the car and sat there for a moment, taking deep breaths as I tried to
center myself. Before I could start the car up, my phone started ringing and I
pulled it out, seeing the phone number for the club flashing on the screen.
"What now?" I grumbled.
The hot Phoenix sun was blinding and made my eyes hurt. I was sweaty and
exhausted, both mentally and physically. I needed a break, a rest, but I knew
that time would have to wait. There was still too much left to do.
I pulled up in front of the large house and climbed out of the car, straightening
my tie as I headed for the door. I knocked when I reached it, hearing the
aggravated voice yelling instantly. It took less than a minute for her to appear,
her expression a mask of confusion when she saw me standing there.
"Mother," I said in greeting. "How are you?"
"Spare me the bullshit. You don't care," she said. "Why are you here, Alec?"
"I have something I need to speak with you about."
She looked curious. Hopeful, even. "Good news?"
Depends on who you asked, I thought. "Uh, not particularly, no."
"Why am I not surprised?" she muttered, shaking her head. "Bad news seems to
follow you around, like a black cloud. You suck the life out of everything."
"Maybe we should go inside," I suggested, not in the mood for her theatrics. "You
might want to sit down."
"Why?"
I groaned. She wasn't going to make it easy. "Can I come in or not?"
She laughed bitterly, stepping aside and motioning for me to enter. "By all
means, come on in. After all, it is your house, isn't it? Who am I to say you aren't
allowed? I'm no one, nothing."
I stepped past her into the house, not bothering with a response, and she
slammed the door behind me. Her footsteps were hard against the wooden floor
as she followed me into the large den. I lingered by the door as she took a seat in
my father's favorite leather chair, a bottle of wine on the table in front of her. She
grabbed it, tipping it over and pouring the last few drops into a glass. The empty
bottle clattered to the floor, discarded. She started to drink from the glass but
hesitated, looking at me.
"Oh, did you want some?" she asked, holding it out to me. "It's all I have left but
you may as well take it. I mean, you took everything else from me - my money,
my house, my life, my slave."
She sneered the last word. After all this time, she still held a grudge. "You told
me to take her."
"Yeah and look what you did with her! You just let that Cullen boy take her!"
I shook my head. We'd been through it a dozen times and she would never
understand. She couldn't understand, for that matter. "I'm not here to argue with
you about Elizabeth."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because something has happened," I replied. "There's been an accident."
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "What kind of an accident? What happened?"
"It's Jane," I said. "She's been in a..."
Before I could finish my statement she jumped up and started screaming. "What
did you do, Alec? Huh? What did you do to her?"
"Calm down."
"Calm down? You expect me to calm down? Where is she? What happened?"
"There was an accident."
"Enough with the bullshit," she spat. "I've been a part of this world longer than
you. I know what goes on, so don't tell me there was a fucking accident because
there wasn't! What did you do? Tell me!"
I shook my head. "There was an accident."
The moment I said the words she threw her glass at me, the wine splashing out
all over the floor as it flew to my right. It hit something and shattered, but I
didn't bother looking. I didn't even flinch. She didn't intimidate me anymore. She
was weak. A coward. A selfish wench. I could snap her like a twig, strangle the
life from her and, much like Jane, not feel an ounce of regret.
"Is she dead?" she asked, her voice bordering on screeching. "Tell me, damnit! Is
she dead?"
"Yes."
"You piece of shit," she spat, lunging at me. "You killed her, didn't you? You
fucking killed her!"
I grabbed a hold of her to restrain her, pinning her arms at her side. She fought
me with all she had, her voice scathing as she screamed at me. She called me
every name imaginable, things that should never come from a lady's mouth
echoing through the house.
She managed to break loose after a moment and spun around to face me,
swinging her arm. Her hand connected with my face. Anger surged through me
and she must've known from my expression, because she suddenly panicked. She
stared at me with horror, the color draining from her face. She took a step back,
almost upon instinct. A step away from the predator. A step toward safety.
Stumbling, she nearly fell, but I grabbed a hold of her to keep her upright. I
grasped her by the throat, squeezing tightly. She choked, struggling for air as she
started pawing at my hands, trying to pry them off. I walked her backward
toward the couch, refusing to loosen my grip. Her fake fingernails dug into my
hands, tearing at my skin.
"There was an accident," I said coolly. "That's it. An accident. And if you ever tell
anyone differently, you'll find yourself with the same fate. Do you hear me,
Mother?"
She nodded, her eyes frantic. I let go of her, shoving her back onto the chair. She
gasped loudly, grasping her throat as she forced air into her lungs. She looked
horrified and burst into sobs, her body shaking. "How could you?" she cried. "How
could you do this to us? To our family?"
"Family?" I asked. "Now you call us a family? You wanted nothing to do with us
our entire lives, and suddenly you want to act differently? You can't have it both
ways. You can't call us a family after what you've done."
"What I've done?" she asked incredulously. "Look what you've done! You've
ruined everything! My daughter! Oh God, my poor baby girl!"
I stared at her with disbelief, shaking my head. She had nerve, I had to give her
that much. "Spare me the bullshit," I said, throwing her worlds back at her.
"Don't act like you care."
"You're sick!" she cried. "I can't believe you'd do this! You're worse than your
father was! I should've smothered you in your sleep when I had the chance! I
wish you would've never been born!"
I laughed dryly as I turned around and started to walk away. "So do I, mother," I
said. "So do I."
IX -A Fool and His Money
March 2008
44 years old
Chicago, IL
The ringing of my cell phone cut Esme off, a tense silence falling over the table.
We were having dinner together for the first time in nearly a week. I'd promised
this evening to her, just as Aro had promised the evening to me. There weren't to
be any interruptions. No work tonight. No one was to stop by. My phone wasn't
supposed to ring.
I should've known better.
I ignored it at first and Esme sighed loudly, dramatically. "Go ahead and get it,"
she said. I could hear her disappointment. It bothered me.
"No," I replied. "They can wait."
The phone continued to ring. "It could be important," she said.
"What's more important than dinner with you?"
She sighed. Again. "What if it's Edward?"
"It's not Edward," I said. "He wouldn't call me. If he was in trouble, he'd call
you."
He hadn't been in Chicago long and we all knew he was a complete wreck. Aro
wouldn't send him on serious jobs alone yet so I wasn't that concerned about him
out in the streets. The only trouble Edward would find was personal trouble, and
he was much to smart to ask me to bail him out of binds. If he got himself into it,
he could get himself out of it.
"But what if it's someone calling about him?"
"It isn't," I said. At least, I hoped not. "He's fine, Esme."
The ringing stopped. I turned back to my food but she just stared at me. "Aren't
you at least going to look?"
I groaned when I realized she wasn't going to drop it and grabbed my phone. I
glanced at the screen, figuring it would be someone like my mother, but instead
was met with the last name I ever expected to see.
Isabella Swan.
I blinked a few times, certain there had to be a mistake. "I was right," Esme said,
seeing my expression. "It's important, isn't it?"
"Yes," I replied. Isabella wouldn't call me for no reason. She would avoid me at
all cost, unless she was left with no other choice.
She laughed humorlessly. "See? I knew it. How many times do I have to tell you
I'm always right until you finally listen?"
"At least once more," I replied, glancing at her cautiously. "I should probably
return the call."
"Go ahead," she said, waving me off. "Do what you need to, but I get a rain
check on this dinner."
"Of course you do," I replied, standing up from the table. I headed into the
hallway as I dialed her number, listening as it rang and rang. I was about to give
up, annoyed she wasn't answering my call, when the line picked up.
"Sir."
"Isabella? Is there a problem?"
"Yeah. I mean, Uh, yes, sir. I'm really sorry to bother you."
"It's fine. Just tell me what happened."
"Well, I was at the park, and there was this man. He seemed like a good person.
He was talking to me and I was trying to be nice. I didn't think it would hurt
anything. I thought he was harmless."
She was rambling. I didn't know where she was going with the story, but it was
obvious she wasn't going to get there fast.
"Did he harm you, Isabella?" I asked, hoping to speed things up. "Were you
assaulted?"
"Uh, no. I mean, um, he didn't touch me or anything. It's just, he asked me for
my cell phone and..."
"You were robbed?" I asked. If I were thinking rationally, I would've known the
answer to that without asking. She'd called me from her cell phone, so clearly she
still had it. But her nervousness was frustrating.
"What? Oh, no. He didn't take it, he just borrowed it. I thought it was okay, but
then Dr. Cullen showed up."
"Carlisle was there?" I asked, stunned. Nothing about the conversation made
sense. Why was Carlisle in Seattle?
"Yes, I don't know where he came from but he was mad. He yelled at the guy for
bothering me."
"Okay," I replied. "Is that it? Some guy bothered you and Carlisle intervened?"
"Well, sort of," she said. "Dr. Cullen said he was supposed to leave me alone
because he promised."
"Promised? Who was it, Isabella?"
There was a tense silence and I knew the answer before she even said it. "He was
an officer. A federal agent, sir."
I'm a fan of horror movies. Friday the 13th, Nightmare on Elm Street, Halloween,
Psycho, The Exorcist, Night of the Living Dead, Texas Chainsaw Massacre... you
name it, I've seen it. There was something about a plot driven solely by
suspense, that played on the average person's worst fears, that intrigued me.
People feared the unknown, the monsters that lurked in the shadows, pouncing
when they least expected it. It got their adrenaline flowing, their heart pounding.
It was thrilling watching them panic.
None of it scared me, though. I feared no monsters. Nothing caught me off guard
anymore. No one pounced when I didn't expect it.
Having said that, however, there was one movie that did frighten me -
Groundhog Day.
The idea of a day that never ended, one that constantly played out again and
again until you got it right, tapped into one of my only fears in life - the fear that
this was it. That I would just continue as I was, no rest, no end in sight. It was
the one thing about being a made man that unnerved me. There was no retiring
from the Mafia. There was no opportunity to someday get it right. We didn't age
out of the system. When we grew old, we were simply disposed of.
It was something we had in common with slaves. We lived the life we had, until
someone decided we shouldn't have it anymore.
Part of the reason I vouched for Isabella is because it was what my family
wanted, what they needed, but that wasn't the entire reason. It wasn't even the
main reason. No, I vouched for her because I realized I had a chance to give
someone else the one thing I couldn't have. Between my money and power I
could have nearly everything I wanted in life... Everything, that was, except more
life. A second chance at living. Another day. A different day.
Someday, I'd be killed. There was no doubt in my mind about it. I hoped it was a
long time from now, but that wasn't guaranteed. It could have been any moment.
Every breath could've been my last and it would have been my own doing. That
didn't scare me. The dying didn't frighten me. Living, with no tomorrow, did.
It was how I felt some days, how I felt at that moment, as I pulled my car into
the parking lot of the club. Sonny and Cher didn't play on my radio, but the song
was the same, anyway.
I parked near the entrance and climbed out, starting toward the door. I happened
to glance down at myself before reaching it, seeing the small splatter of blood on
my white shirt. I froze in spot, quickly buttoning my jacket up to conceal it before
going inside.
It only took me mere seconds to find who I was looking for. He sat at the end of
the bar, a glass of ice water in front of him. His eyes scanned the place
attentively. He was watching. Listening. Hoping. Pity for him-he'd find nothing.
He spotted me as I approached, his expression a mixture of arrogance and
annoyance. He hated me, loathed my existence, but a part of him loved the fact
that he was untouchable to me.
Or so he thought, anyway. I couldn't publicly intimidate him, couldn't use my
power, but there was nothing stopping me from breaking into his house while he
slept and slitting his throat.
And that was a fact that I loved.
"Federal Agent DiFronzo, what a surprise to see you here. Is there something I
can do for you?"
I didn't have to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking - I could go to
Hell, that's what I could do.
"Mr. Evanson," he said in greeting. "I'm just enjoying a drink."
"Of water? You can have water anywhere. Why don't you try some of our Scotch?
Or maybe an Aperol Spritz? You'd love it. You are one of us, after all." Rage
flashed in his eyes, the sight thrilling me. I enjoyed getting under his skin. "I
meant Italian, of course."
"Of course," he replied tersely.
I motioned for the bartender. "I'd like a double Scotch and bring Agent DiFronzo
here the same."
"That's not necessary," he interjected.
"Nonsense," I replied. "It's on the house."
"I shouldn't," he said.
"You should," I replied. "Unless, of course, you're working. This isn't business, is
it?"
He gave me a knowing look and I smiled. Of course it was business. It always
was.
"What business would I have here?" he bluffed.
"You tell me," I replied. "I was audited six months ago, my club surprise
inspected last month, and last week they tried to take my liquor license. It seems
the government has it out for me, so I wouldn't be surprised if the justice
department was the next to harass me."
"Well, I assure you, Mr. Evanson, we don't harass people. We only involve
ourselves in situations if there's just cause."
"Good, because, as flattering as it may be, I've done nothing to warrant the
attention. My employees are well paid and even have health insurance. Better
insurance than your government probably supplies you with, actually."
"You must do a lot of business to be able to afford that," he replied, glancing
around at the other patrons. There were maybe a dozen at most. "This must be a
slow night."
The bartender returned with our drinks and I picked mine up. "I do quite well for
myself, but yes, it's a slow night," I replied. "It's Sunday, the Lord's day. The only
people who find themselves at a bar today are degenerates and sinners."
"Says the man holding a Scotch," he said.
I smiled again. He might have been a nuisance, but at least he was sometimes
entertaining. It was a pity I would probably have to kill him someday. "Have a
good night, Agent DiFronzo," I said. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again."
"Oh, definitely," he replied as I walked away.
"We need to have you relocated for awhile, just until this passes," I said. "Is
there anywhere you've wanted to go but haven't been?"
"California."
The answer came quickly. I had expected her to say Chicago. "Okay. I doubt
anyone will think to look for you there."
"No, no one knows I wanted to go there," she said. "Well, I mean, except for..."
"Edward's not a concern," I said, knowing where she was going with it. "He won't
try to contact you."
"You're right," she said quietly. "He won't."
Her voice was strained, like my words had hurt her. I shook my head. I never
quite understood people who put themselves in that situation. They were their
own undoing and for what? What was the point? Edward and Isabella were both
struggling because of the way their lives were. Why not just struggle together? At
least then there wouldn't be so much unnecessary suffering.
It wasn't any of my business, though. It wasn't my life - it was theirs. If they
wanted to torture themselves, so be it. Who was I to judge?
"I'll make some arrangements for you," I said. "Find a place for you to live and
get you some paperwork. Do you have preference on a name?"
"A name?"
"Yes, you'll need a new name."
"I can't keep Isabella Swan?"
Her question was strange to me. "Why would you want to?" I asked. "Swan was
your fathers name. I wouldn't think you'd want to keep it."
"Yeah, but it was my mother's, too," she said. "The one I knew, anyway. My
name was kind of the only thing she ever gave me."
I almost felt sorry for her. "Well, you can keep Isabella because it's fairly
common, but Swan will have to go. How about Smith? It's not too far off, easy to
remember."
"That's fine," she said. She didn't sound like it was fine, but that was the best I
could do for her for the time being.
"Good. Is there anything else you need?"
"No, sir." She paused before backtracking. "Well, there is one thing."
"What's that?"
"School," she said. "Will I still be able to go?"
I could hear her hope, her yearning. It was important to her. She didn't have
Edward, nor did she have any family. She was leaving her friends. Would I have
to take this from her, too?
"It won't be a problem," I said. "I think I can figure it out for you."
"So, I was thinking," Benjamin said from his seat across the room. Much to my
surprise, he'd actually shown up to my office twenty minutes earlier than I told
him to. I thought for sure he'd pass out when he got home and not show.
"That's your first mistake," I said. "Or your second, actually. Your first mistake
was speaking without permission."
"And my second was thinking?" he asked. He sounded partially amused, but
equally confused.
"Yes," I replied. "Thinking gets people into trouble. Your job isn't to brainstorm."
"What is it?" he asked. I looked at him, not entirely sure what he meant by that.
"My job. What is it?"
"If you don't know by now, we have a serious problem."
He laughed, even though there was nothing funny. "Don't worry, Boss. I get the
big picture. It's just, not many are lucky enough to get to hang out in your
presence. Most of the ones who do see you, well, it's because their luck ran out.
So I was just wondering..." he paused. "Nevermind, I'm not supposed to be
talking. Sorry."
"It's fine. You were wondering how you got so lucky?" I asked. I suspected it was
another case of sarcasm but I didn't blame him for it. I wasn't exactly the
greatest company.
"Yes. I wondered if maybe it was because my father..."
"It has nothing to do with who your father is," I said before he could even
suggest the notion. "Frankly, I don't care who anyone is related to in this
business, not even my own flesh and blood."
"Really?" He seemed genuinely surprised and that aggravated me. What did he
take me for, a pushover? "Because Edward was down in Vegas, I just thought..."
"You thought I gave him that job because he was family? That I showed
favoritism?"
"Uh, well..."
"There's nothing easy about Edward's job," I said. "Here people follow my orders.
That's it. I say jump, they jump. I say go, they go. I say answer, they answer.
There's no room for interpretation, no need to think. They just have to act.
Maybe it's difficult, having me constantly telling you what to do, but imagine how
difficult this job would be if you didn't have it. If you had to guess what I would
want and react on your own, hoping you were doing the right thing. I tell you to
do something, you know you're making me happy. Edward, he does things and
just hopes like hell I don't get mad. It's not easy at all."
Benjamin seemed stunned. "I didn't..."
"You didn't think about that? I'm not surprised. It isn't really your strong suit,
Benjamin."
"But it is Edward's," he said. "Sorry, Boss. I get it now."
No, he didn't, because he was wrong. Thinking wasn't Edward's strong suit. Far
from it, considering he was too emotional and irrational to be logical. His courage
was his strength. He was brave enough to make those decisions and later face
me for judgement, where others would cover their tracks and hide to avoid my
wrath. My wife thought my decision to relocate Edward was solely to protect him,
but she was wrong. I was protecting myself, too.
"Out of sheer curiosity, Benjamin, what was it you were thinking to begin with?"
"Oh, I was just thinking if you ever needed someone new in Vegas, you know..."
"You'd be the man for the job?" I asked. He nodded. "And do you still think that?
Do you think you'd like to be the one to have to pull me away in the middle of the
night when you messed up?"
He shook his head. "Not at all."
The sound of knocking echoed through the room and as expected, it was weak. I
shook my head and glanced at my watch. Four minutes until nine. He was cutting
it close.
I ignored the sound, glaring at the door. I didn't have time for insolence today.
He either needed to man up or leave, because I wasn't going to wait for long.
Benjamin laughed when the second round of knocks came. "Talk about deja vu.
This sorta reminds me of that movie, you know..."
"Shut up, Benjamin," I said, closing my eyes in frustration. These people were
driving me to a breakdown. "I'm tired of hearing your voice. Make yourself useful
and get the door, before time comes and goes and I have to kill someone else
today."
He cringed at the mention of killing and opened the door so the boy could step
inside. He was nervous again, fidgeting more than he had been the day before.
He paused in front of my desk, eyeing me warily. "Boss," he said.
"Do you have something for me?" I asked. He nodded, reaching into his coat to
pull out an envelope. It was significantly larger than the one from yesterday. He
held it out to me, his hand shaking violently. I snatched it from him, annoyed.
"Do I frighten you?"
He blanched. I could see his dilemma. Does he admit it and face being marked as
a coward, or does he deny it and risk offending me? "Sometimes, sir," he said
hesitantly, taking the middle ground.
"You should be frightened," I replied, opening the envelope and pulling out the
cash. It wasn't as organized as the day before, just stacks of crumpled up bills
loosely place together. He'd obviously gathered it in a hurry and I wondered
where he got it from, but decided not to ask. I suspected whatever his answer
was would only annoy me further.
"It's all there," he said as I started counting it.
"And you expect me to trust your word after you tried to rip me off?" I asked,
looking at him pointedly. "Do you think I'm stupid?"
Just once, when I asked that question, I wished someone would say "yes". It was
clear some of them believed so, considering the things they tried to pull. I wasn't
sure what I'd do if someone ever did, to be honest. I would probably be torn
between the need to kill them and wanting to shake their hand.
"No, sir," he said, remaining quiet as I counted out the rest. It took me about ten
minutes and I had to start over twice, having lost count due to my exhaustion.
The boy stood in place while I did it, each passing second seeming to put him
more on edge.
"$36,502," I said when I finished, shoving the money back into the envelope. I
opened the bottom drawer of my desk and tossed it onto a pile with a few others,
each similar and stuffed full of cash. Someone would hit the jackpot robbing my
office, as there had to be a few hundred thousand in there, but no one would
ever be brave enough to try. Or stupid, I supposed. Robbing me would be the
stupidest thing a person could ever do. "Don't ever do this again. You won't get a
second try next time. You cut me out of a deal, and I'll cut you. Period. You got
me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good," I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the paper Chelsea had
given me. I unfolded it and sat it on my desk. "Now give me $10."
"What?" He seemed genuinely confused. Rightfully so, but it annoyed me,
nonetheless.
"Did I stutter?" I asked. "I said give me $10."
"Uh, I'm not sure if I have it," he said, reaching into his pockets. He fumbled
around and pulled out a few crumpled up dollar bills, looking at me nervously as
he counted them out. "I have eight."
"I suppose that's fine," I replied, holding my hand out for it. He handed it over
and I pocketed the cash, hesitating briefly as I grabbed a pen. I stared at the
paper, realizing I still didn't know his name. I wrote an S on the line and marked
a one in the quantity column before waving him off. "Get out of my sight."
"Yes, sir."
He practically ran from the office and I sat the pen down before leaning back in
the chair. I gazed over at Benjamin, who was watching me apprehensively. His
expression was conflicted, like he had something to say but he was too frightened
to open his mouth. "What is it, Benjamin?"
He hesitated. "The number was wrong."
"What number?"
"The money," he clarified. "He owed you $36,562.50. He only gave you $36,502."
My brow furrowed as I tried to think back, but I couldn't recall the exact figure.
Everything was hazy. My memory was failing me. "Are you positive?"
"Absolutely."
"Why didn't you tell me when I was counting it?"
"You told me to shut up, Boss."
Smart ass. That was why he'd never make it in Las Vegas. He couldn't tell which
was the lesser evil in situations. "You know what happens to my employees when
their registers come up short, Benjamin?"
"They die?"
I groaned. It was irrational of me to be aggravated, but I was low on patience
and he was on my nerves. "I make them pay. It doesn't matter how much it is,
from fifty cents to thousands of dollars. They don't leave until I get what I'm
supposed to get. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes," he replied. "If someone rips you off, they have to pay."
"No, that's not what I'm saying. Will you listen for once?" I asked. "I'm saying
everyone has something they're responsible for. The people out there in the club,
running the registers, are responsible for that money. If they make a mistake,
they're held accountable, because that's their job."
"Ah, makes sense."
"Good, I'm glad. Because, you see, I'm sixty dollars and fifty cents short now.
And do you know what happens when my money's short and the employee
doesn't pay?" He shook his head hesitantly. "Then they die, Benjamin."
His expression was blank for a moment before the point of the conversation
seemed to dawn on him. He quickly stood up and walked over to my desk, pulling
out his wallet. He handed me a fifty dollar bill and I snatched it. He hesitated
before pulling out more cash, counting out $300. "Here's what I owe you from
last night, Boss."
I considered letting him keep it, since he didn't technically owe me, but the
simple fact that he couldn't remember that annoyed me. I took the money and
sat it down, holding my hand out for more. "$10. No, actually, for you it's $20."
He stared at me with confusion as he pulled his last twenty out of his wallet.
"That's all I have."
"That's fine," I said, taking it. I scribbled his name down on the paper and
randomly checked two boxes, not caring which they were. "The Girl Scouts
appreciate your business, I'm sure."
His eyes widened with surprise. "You're selling Girl Scout cookies?"
"What part of that was confusing?"
"Uh, none of it. It's just surprising."'
"I'm glad I can keep you on your toes," I replied.
"Wow, so they're ten dollars a box? That's ridiculous."
"No, they're something like three or four dollars."
His brow furrowed. "Why'd you say ten, then?"
I glanced at him, quirking an eyebrow. Did he really not know? "I always get a
taste, Benjamin. Always."
He laughed at my response. "You're siphoning money from the Girl Scouts? That's
kind of funny."
"I'm glad you see the humor, but no, I'm not taking their money. I'm taking
yours."
His expression fell quickly when he realized I was telling the truth. The Girl
Scouts would get their share and be none the wise. He was the one being ripped
off. "Oh."
"Not so funny now, huh?"
"No, not at all."
"Didn't think so," I said, shaking my head as I stood up and grabbed the paper.
"Now get out of here."
"Yes, sir."
He started out of my office but hesitated after a few steps. "You didn't mark me
down for Tagalongs, did you?"
"Excuse me?"
"The cookies. They weren't Tagalongs, were they?"
"What does it matter?" I asked. I didn't even know what a Tag-a-long was. I'd
never eaten a Girl Scout cookie in my life and didn't plan to start now.
"Well, I'm allergic to peanut butter, Boss," he said. "I can't have Tagalongs."
It took me a moment to understand what he was getting at and I laughed -
genuinely laughed - for the first time in quite awhile. My sides hurt and tears
came to my eyes as I tried to catch my breath. He was worried about the cookies
killing him, when he should've been more worried about me.
"I was wrong about you, Benjamin. You are funny, after all," I said, shaking my
head. "I never said you were getting the cookies. I told her I'd sell them. I said
nothing about actually delivering them."
"Delivery guy is here," Esme said as the sound of the doorbell echoed through the
house.
"Okay," I replied. Why was she telling me? Did she think I couldn't hear?
She stared at me for a moment as the doorbell rang again and I turned to her,
seeing the expectant look on her face. She saw my expression and shook her
head as she stood up. "Don't worry, Alec. I'll get it."
"Okay," I said again. "Thanks."
She groaned. "Sometimes I just don't know about you," she grumbled, grabbing
her purse as she headed for the door.
I smiled. If she wanted me to get it, all she had to do was ask.
She returned a moment later with the pizza and placed it on the coffee table
before sitting back down on the couch. I grabbed a slice. "This counts as your
rain check, you know."
She shook her head. "No, it doesn't. We're not even sitting at the table."
"So? There are no rules. You didn't set any criteria. You said dinner - this is
dinner."
"It doesn't count as a real dinner if we don't have plates or forks," she said.
"Yes, it does."
"No, it doesn't."
"Then what is this, if not dinner?"
She shrugged. "Call it a snack for all I care. It doesn't count as dinner."
"Then what's for dinner tonight?"
"Nothing," she said. "We're not having dinner tonight."
"Who doesn't have dinner?" I asked.
"We don't," she said. "Not when we order pizza."
I shook my head. She was one of the most stubborn people. "You're wrong."
"I'm right," she said.
Before I could counter, my phone rang. I tensed at the sound and Esme laughed.
"Okay, maybe I'm wrong, after all. Your phone's interrupting, so it must be
dinner."
I frowned. Sometimes it seemed she just enjoyed giving me a hard time. "I won't
answer it."
"You will," she said. "What if it's important?"
Same old argument. "It can wait."
"What if it's Edward?"
"It's not."
"What if it's about Edward?"
"It's not," I insisted, grabbing the phone and looking at it. I froze when I saw the
name on the screen-Edward Cullen.
As usual, she was right.
"Like I said, this doesn't count as my rain check."
X - Drop of a Hat
June 1982
18 years old
Chicago, IL
"Come on," Esme said, grabbing my hand and tugging on it. "It'll be fun."
I stood firmly in place and shook my head. "No way am I going in there, Esme."
"Why not?"
"Because, I'm just not."
She pouted, poking her bottom lip out. She looked completely absurd but
something about it made my chest tighten. "You sound like a petulant child."
"You look like one."
She rolled her eyes, essentially proving my point. "Oh, come on."
"No."
"I'll give you a Scooby snack."
My brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"
She laughed at my expression, tugging on my hand again. "You're so ridiculous
sometimes, Alec. Just for a little while. We won't stay long."
I hesitated before shaking my head. "I'd rather not."
"Please? For me?"
I stared at her, stunned. "Are you seriously begging?"
"Yes," she said, matter-of-factly. "What, do I need to get on my knees?"
She started to kneel in front of me and I quickly grabbed a hold of her, pulling
her back to her feet. I stared at her, horrified she would do that in public. Did she
not know what people would think? "What are you doing? You can't do that!"
She laughed. Again. I found nothing funny about it. "Well, I'm going in," she said,
letting go of my hand. "You can stay here if you want."
She started walking away and I glanced at my empty hand, something about it
feeling strange. I looked back over at Esme, who was casually strolling toward
the entrance. I debated briefly, part of me stubbornly planted there, while
another part was yearning to go after her. After a moment she glanced over her
shoulder at me, the feeling intensifying. Groaning, I shook my head. "This is
absurd," I grumbled, starting toward her.
She paused at the ticket booth and I jogged to catch up to her. "One please," she
said.
"Two," I quickly corrected her, pulling out my wallet.
"I can pay for my own," she said.
"Over my dead body," I stated, handing some cash to the woman working. She
gave me my change and I turned back to Esme as I stuffed it back in my wallet.
"Thank you."
I shrugged. "It was only $5."
She smirked, looking satisfied with herself, and grabbed my hand again. "Not for
paying," she said, leading me into the county fair. "For conceding."
Present Day
Chicago, IL
There's always this brief moment, whenever I finally come face-to-face with my
wife after going away, that it feels like I'm seeing her for the first time all over
again. My chest tightens and the air is suddenly thick, making it impossible to
breathe. We're suspended in time, nothing existing except for us. There's no
anger or hatred, no violence. No worry about the future or what will happen
tomorrow. It's only then and there, and it's only us.
My heart stalls that moment, when our eyes connect, before pounding so hard
that I can feel the blood surging under my skin. I get dizzy and my vision blurs
from the intensity as my body grows flushed. I worry, for a split second, that I'm
going to pass out, every ounce of strength and resolve I fight so hard to maintain
in my life disintegrating in an instant. I'm weak, vulnerable with my chest cracked
open, leaving me completely exposed.
It hurts, more than I ever expected such a thing to hurt. It feels like my body is
giving out on me. Rebelling. Revolting. It feels like I'm dying.
I've never felt more alive.
But, it's only a moment. A simple moment where, for once, I feel normal. I feel
peace. I feel like maybe, just maybe, the world isn't so horrible after all.
It's a pity it can't last.
As soon as I pushed the front door open at a quarter after ten, the first thing I
saw was my wife's brown eyes. Her expression was blank, her face a mask of
indifference, but those eyes told an entirely different story. She kept her cool, her
gaze almost icy, but inside she was frantic. Her worry quickly gave way to relief
as I stared at her, love and desperation screaming from behind those eyes. I
could practically feel her emotions from across the room, the sensations seeping
through my skin and into my bloodstream, infiltrating my system.
"You didn't call," she said. Her voice was low, her tone clipped.
"Sorry," I said. I meant it, too. Sorry wasn't a word I said often, and certainly not
one I took lightly. There was very little I allowed myself to feel remorse for, but
upsetting the one person who loved me was where I drew the line. She deserved
that much from me. "I didn't mean to worry you."
"But you did," she said, frowning. "We just talked about this, Alec. You can't do
this to me. I had no idea what was happening. You could've been hurt for all I
knew, or dead..."
"Not tonight, Esme," I said, shaking my head and cutting her off as I shut the
front door. "Please. I can't do this now."
She sighed, but otherwise remained quiet. I looked away from her when I saw
the flicker of disappointment, unable to deal with it. I hated being bad for the
only good thing in my life.
I headed upstairs to the bedroom and pulled off my jacket, tossing it in the
hamper as I slid out of my shoes. Esme stood in the doorway behind me,
watching as I undressed. She was already ready for bed, wearing a blue
nightgown with her hair pulled back. The tension radiating from her was palpable
and made the hairs on my neck stand up, an uneasiness in the pit of my
stomach.
I started unbuttoning my shirt as I turned back around to face her. "It's been a
long day," I said, feeling the need to try to explain before her frustration built up
to the point where she exploded. It didn't happen often, as she was the most
understanding person I'd ever met, but I could tell from the atmosphere that we
were getting dangerously close to that point.
"You're telling me."
"I really am sorry."
"I know you are, Alec," she responded. Her voice was softer, her expression
shifting. I pulled my shirt off and she held her hand out for it. "Give it here. I'll
get rid of it."
I glanced at it, confused, before remembering the blood. She must have seen it. I
hesitated too long for her liking and she grabbed it from my hand, muttering to
herself as she started to walk out.
She'd dispose of it downstairs, burning it to ash so it would be like it never
existed. Much like Marcello, all traces gone and no one would ever know except
for those involved.
I sometimes wondered if Esme understood what she was doing. She'd been an
accomplice after the fact more than once, helping me cover my tracks. It
sickened me to think about the fact that I involved her in my world as much as I
did, but Esme was not the type of woman you shielded from things. She wasn't
fragile or oblivious. If I ever tried to protect her from something dangerous for
her own good, I likely would need someone to protect me from her.
I unzipped my pants as she paused in the doorway, her forehead wrinkled. She
eyed the shirt cautiously and I knew what was coming next before it even
happened. "This isn't my nephew's blood, is it?"
I couldn't count how many times she'd asked me that question over the years.
"No."
"Thank God," she said, disappearing into the hallway. I was convinced the day I
had to answer "yes" to that would be the day my marriage ended.
I sincerely hoped that day never came.
I stripped down to my boxers and sat down on the edge of the bed, running my
hands down my face. After a moment I lay back and closed my eyes, too
exhausted to put on any clothes. I laughed when that thought registered,
remembering Edward expressing the same sentiment. Except, he'd been
exhausted because of the life he'd created. I was exhausted from the ones I'd
taken away.
"I want that one," Esme said, pointing at the large stuffed bear hanging at the
very top.
"Why?"
She shrugged. "I don't know, I just do. It's cute. Can you get it for me?"
"I suppose," I replied, looking at the man standing behind the booth. He was
massive, his forearms covered in colorful tattoos and a blue bandanna on his
head. "How much?"
"A dollar a dart," he said. "Throw 'em at the balloons. Pop one, get a small prize,
three gets a medium prize and five for a big one."
"So $5," I said, pulling out some cash. I held it out to him and pointed at the
giant bear she wanted. "That one."
"You gotta throw these first and see how many balloons you hit," he said,
counting out five of the darts. "Then you see how many more you need."
I shook my head. "I won't need anymore."
He laughed like what I said amused him. "Whatever you say, man. I've been
working this booth for three years now and I've never seen anyone hit five in a
row."
"Well, you won't be able to say that after today," I replied, picking up one of the
darts. I glanced at Esme. "Pick a color."
"Uh, blue," she said. I turned back to the booth and threw the dart forcefully, the
metal tip instantly piercing the thick latex of the blue balloon.
"Next?" I asked, picking up the second dart.
"Yellow," she said. I threw the dart, popping a yellow balloon toward the top of
the board.
"Orange," she said, not even waiting for me to ask. The third dart busted the
orange balloon.
"Pink." I could hear the smile in her voice. She was enjoying it. I threw the forth
dart, popping a pink balloon. I picked up the last one, twirling it between my
fingers as I waited for her to choose. "Blue again."
I threw the dart, hitting a second blue balloon dead center. It popped and the
man stared at me with shock. I wasn't sure why. I'd already told him that was
going to happen. "That one," I said, pointing at the bear again. He nodded and
grabbed it, pulling it down.
"Man, you've got killer aim," he said, sounding awestruck. I nodded, taking the
prize from him and handing it to Esme.
If he only knew how true that was.
"So what now? Anything else you want me to shoot or throw?"
She laughed. "No, I'm good. How about we share a funnel cake."
"A what?"
"A funnel cake," she said. "You know, the deep fried goodness smothered in
powder sugar?"
I shook my head. "I've never heard of them."
She looked almost horrified. "How can that be? What do you eat at fairs?"
"Nothing," I replied. "This is the first time I've been to one."
She gasped. "You're shitting me?"
I laughed at her crass language. "No, I'm not shitting you, Esme,"I said. "My
mother wouldn't take us to these sort of things."
"So you've never ridden a ferris wheel?"
"No."
"Eaten cotton candy?"
"No."
"Bumper cars?"
"No."
She smiled, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I lied earlier," she said. "I think
we will stay for a while. I'm popping your fair cherry."
As strange as it sounded, all I could do was laugh.
"What's so funny?"
I opened my eyes quickly, seeing Esme had already returned. "Just thinking
about Edward."
"Yeah?" she asked, strolling over to sit down beside me. "Did you get a chance to
see their new house?"
"Yes."
"Is it nice?"
"Yes."
"Did you see Libby?"
"Yes."
"How is she?"
I never understood the expression 'there are no stupid questions.' People asked
me stupid questions all the time. My wife, for example, was notorious for it. Of
course she believed they were valid things to ask, but I had to disagree.
Libby slept. And ate. And shit. And cried. She had no responsibilities. No worries.
No expectations placed upon her. How did she think Libby was?
"I don't know," I replied. "She didn't say."
Esme stared at me before laughing, the light hearted sound warming me from the
inside. "You think you're funny, don't you? I can tell you've been to Vegas with
that mouth."
I smirked, grabbing a hold of her and pulling her down onto the bed. "You like my
mouth," I said, leaning in to nuzzle in her neck. I kissed her skin, tasting her
flesh and inhaling. She smelled delicious, sweet with a hint of spicy, like a
cinnamon sugar blend.
"Ahhh, busted. I do," she replied. "I missed you."
"Hmmm, did you miss me... or my mouth?" I asked playfully, kissing across her
neck. She tilted her head back to give me more room, her hands running through
my hair. A chill ran down my spine.
"The mouth," she answered, her voice breathless. I laughed lightly, continuing to
kiss her skin. My hands explored her body, caressing her bare thighs and running
up under her nightgown. I stroked her hip, feeling the lace of her under
garments. My hand made its way up, across her stomach and to her breasts, my
fingertips grazing across her nipples. She moaned as I pinched one, rolling it
between my fingers. It perked up, her skin pebbling under my touch.
I shifted my position, quickly sitting up and grabbing the end of her nightgown.
She moved so I could pull it off of her and I tossed it across the room before
climbing off of the bed. I dropped to my knees on the floor in front of her,
running my hands up her thighs again before grasping the lace. She lifted her
hips, squirming as I finished stripping her of her clothes.
She spread her legs as I came up between them, licking and kissing at her flesh
as I went. Her hands found their way back into my hair, her grip holding me
there as I leaned in to taste her. The moment my lips came into contact with her
sensitive spot she shivered. "Definitely the mouth."
Another talent, I supposed. Another specialty. Unlike murder, however, this one I
was actually proud of.
I pushed two fingers inside of her, looking for her spot, as I sucked and nibbled
around her clit. I knew I had it when she gasped, gripping onto my hair as she
pulled me closer to her. Her moans echoed through the room as I drove her
closer to the edge, and it didn't take long for her to reach that point. She cried
out when an orgasm took hold of her, her body going rigid as she arched her
back.
She relaxed after a moment, collapsing back onto the bed as I pulled away from
her. "Fuck," she mumbled when I sat back down beside her, running my hands
across her naked body. She was all natural, no part of her altered. She wasn't
perfect, but she carried her imperfections with pride, and that, to me, was
beautiful. In fact, she was just as beautiful to me now as she had been the very
first time I saw her this way.
"Dirty girl," I said, brushing my fingertips across her plump lips. I was already
hard, my dick throbbing, and hearing her talk that way was making it worse. I
leaned down and kissed her, her mouth warm and minty. She slid her hand down
the waistband of my boxers and I groaned as she wrapped her palm around my
dick, her grip firm.
Unlike Edward, I was never too tired for sex with my wife. Amateur.
She slid back further in the bed as I pulled my boxers off, climbing on top of her.
I didn't hesitate, pushing her thighs apart as I grasped myself, stroking a few
times to get ready. I positioned at her entrance, groaning and tossing my head
back as I filled her.
"Bellissima," I whispered, slowly pulling back out before pushing in again. "You
feel so good."
She closed her eyes as she wrapped her arms around me. I moved agonizingly
slow, cherishing each second of being inside of her, savoring the sensation. My
skin tingled, chill bumps coating my body. I felt a lot of pain in life. It wasn't
often I got the luxury of pleasure.
"More," she said after a moment, urging me on. I sat up a bit to change the angle
and increased my pace. Her breathing grew strained as I filled her deeper, her
walls wrapping around me tightly like we were made to be this way.
"Harder," she said. At her word I slammed my hips into her with as much force as
I could conjure up, filling her entirely. She cried out, her finger nail digging into
my back. "God, yes."
"You don't have to call me God," I said as I kissed her, nipping at her bottom lip
with my teeth. "My name will do just fine."
"Jackass," she muttered. "Be quiet. You're killing the moment with your
cockiness."
"I thought you liked me cocky."
"I like your cock," she said. "Big difference."
I laughed. "It is big, isn't it?"
She rolled her eyes as she clamped a hand over my mouth. "No talking," she
said, smiling mischievously. "Just fucking."
I groaned. She was trying to kill me.
Minutes passed. Hours passed. Days passed. Months passed. I wasn't sure. It
could've been years and I probably wouldn't have noticed. Time stood still when
we were like this, the room continuously filled with the sounds of our ecstasy.
Sweaty skin slapping together, our bodies merging and groans in harmony. It
was a whirlwind, being swept away from it all, the musky scent of sex that
surrounded us was intoxicating. I was on a high, the adrenaline surging through
my body pushing me forward.
"Deeper," she demanded. That was one thing I loved about Esme, that I loved
from the start. She wasn't too shy to say what she wanted and with me, that was
sometimes necessary.
I grabbed her legs, lifting them over my shoulders, and slammed into her hard.
The change in position caused her cries to get louder as I drilled into her deeper,
her body tensing. She was close again so I reached between us to rub her clit. I
watched in awe as her face scrunched up, her body seizing as another orgasm
swept through her.
Watching her come was one of the most satisfying experiences of my life. Seeing
her pleasure, knowing I'd caused it, was invigorating. I felt good. I felt
worthwhile. I felt right.
I felt powerful.
It didn't take long after that for mine to hit, pleasure rushing through me. I
grunted, thrusting hard and fast to prolong the feeling. She clung to me tightly,
whispering in my ear as I spilled inside of her. Chills shot down my spine from the
sensation and I collapsed on top of her, unable to take anymore.
I was spent.
We lay there for a moment in total silence, me still inside of her, both of us trying
to catch our breath. She eventually pushed me off of her when my weight got to
be too much and snuggled in my arms, her head on my chest.
"Alec?"
"Yeah?"
"I was wrong," she said, her fingers stroking my stomach hair. "I missed all of
you."
I smiled. Afterward, in bed, was when she always seemed the most vulnerable. "I
know, Bellissima. I missed you, too."
Silence surrounded us once more and I started drifting off to sleep when she
spoke again. "Alec?"
"Yeah?"
"Who'd you choose?"
"Huh?"
"The hostess job. Which one did you choose?"
I opened my eyes when that question registered. I knew I'd forgotten something.
"Why don't you pick?"
"Me pick?" she asked. "You mean you didn't hire anyone yet?"
"No."
She groaned, but this time it wasn't in pleasure. She was frustrated. "I asked you
to do one thing," she said. "That's it. One thing. You run off to Vegas in the
middle of the night, you don't call, you make me crazy with worry, and I go with
it. I do whatever you need me to do, but I ask you to do one thing and you don't
do it."
I frowned. "I got sidetracked."
"With what?" she asked. "What did you even do today?"
It was a question she rarely asked me.
I flew across the country. I broke up a prostitution ring and threatened a man's
daughter. I saved a human trafficking victim and rid the world of her enslaver,
which would likely save others from succumbing to her same fate. I was
assaulted by a baby. I tortured a traitor before killing another. I warded off a
federal agent. I ripped people off. I taught a boy a lesson that would hopefully
help him survive. I sold Godforsaken Girl Scout cookies.
So what did I do today? It didn't matter, because I didn't do the one thing I'd
promised my wife I would do. I disappointed her.
"I failed," I replied.
She sighed. "Did you at least try?"
"Of course I did," I said, although it didn't matter. If it wasn't a success, it was a
failure.
"Then I forgive you."
I had no response. I didn't deserve her forgiveness. I never did, but she gave it
to me time and time again.
Just as I was finally on the verge of unconsciousness, desperate for the sleep that
had alluded me, she spoke again.
"Alec?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
I smiled, kissing the top of her head. "Ti amo."
"I had fun," Esme said as we walked toward her house. She was still lugging
around that massive stuffed bear, picking at the last of her pink cotton candy.
"I'm glad."
She glanced at me curiously. "Did you?"
"It was okay."
"That's not what I asked," she said. "Did you have even the tiniest bit of fun?"
I paused where I was, a few houses down from the Cullen residence. "Yes, I did,"
I replied, "because you were there."
Her smile was radiant as she gazed at me. She stood up on her tip toes after a
second, pressing her lips to mine. She tasted sweet, sugary. I never liked sweets
before, but suddenly I wanted more.
I deepened the kiss and she moaned into my mouth, the sound giving me chills. I
shivered and pulled away from her to take a breath, a flash of metal catching my
attention as I opened my eyes. It was familiar, a sight I knew well. I tried to
react, to stop it before it started, but it was too late.
There were two of them, both wearing all black. One had dark skin, the other
white, but their tattoos and style immediately told me it wasn't personal. They
certainly didn't belong to the Irish, the two of them simple street thugs. It was
random. Unplanned. They were trying their luck on whomever they came across.
Unfortunately for them, that person was me.
The dark one grabbed Esme from behind, shoving his gun into her throat.
"Cooperate and I won't hurt her," he said.
I looked at Esme, seeing the fear in her eyes. "Listen to them, Alec," she said,
her voice shaking. I held up my hands slowly, so as to show them I wasn't going
to fight. The second guy grabbed a hold of me and I gritted my teeth as he dug in
my pockets, pulling out my belongings. He grabbed my wallet and smirked,
handing the rest of the stuff to the guy who held Esme.
"A Mercedes," he said as he eyed my keys. "Where's it parked?"
I didn't answer right away and he shoved the gun into her harder, making her
yelp. It took all I had to stay still, not wanting to be hasty and get her hurt.
"Down the street," Esme said, her voice frantic. "A block or so."
The man pocketed the keys, smiling excitedly. He figured he'd just scored himself
a nice car and wouldn't even have to hot-wire it. "Gimme the watch," he
demanded, motioning toward my wrist. Begrudgingly, I took it off and held it out
to him as the second one started rifling through my wallet. He took out the cash
and discarded the rest on the ground, not interested in it.
They took Esme's jewelry from her and she didn't fight, relief flashing in her face
when the man let her go. She grabbed a hold of me, panicked, her body
trembling as he pointed the weapon at us. They started backing away, happy
with their take, and for a brief second I considered letting them go. She was safe
and that was all that mattered. For her, I would've given them money and
jewelry. She was more important than the car.
But, as one final act of defiancy, they took the one thing I couldn't let them take.
The Godforsaken stuffed bear.
The moment he ripped it from her hands, I lost my composure. I pushed Esme
behind me and reached into my coat, grabbing my gun. The fool hadn't patted
me down, oblivious to it. Fear flashed across both of their faces as I went toward
them. They froze, panicked. Neither stood a chance.
I didn't pull the trigger. I didn't even flip the safety off. But I beat both men
unconscious, neither moving by the time I was done. My temper had gotten the
best of me and controlled my every move. I was blinded by rage.
I turned to Esme when my senses came back. She stared at me with wide eyes.
She was in shock. I waited for her to be horrified. I waited for her to be sickened
by me. I expected fear. Anxiety. Disgust. I anticipated anger.
But never, in my wildest dreams, did I think I would see lust.
"Wow," she squeaked out, her cheeks flushed. "That was kind of hot."
I couldn't even respond. I had no idea what to say.
Sirens wailed in the distance and she panicked, quickly grabbing our things
before grabbing me by the hand. She yanked me across the street and I didn't
resist. Stunned by her reaction.
Instead of heading for the porch, she pulled me around the side of the house.
"That was crazy," she said, pacing the small area in front of me. "Seriously, that
was just... wow... that was crazy."
"Are you okay?" I asked, worried about her.
"Thanks to you, yes," she replied."Jesus, Alec, is it always like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like... that," she said again, as if I were supposed to understand. "The
adrenaline, the blood flowing, the pure craziness. My heart was in my throat. I
felt like I was going to pass out but i felt high. I felt, I don't know, alive! Does it
always feel that way?"
No, I thought. I felt anger a moment ago, but usually there was nothing. No
emotion. Numbness. She wouldn't understand that though, but I understood how
she felt - it was how I felt with her.
"Yes," I lied.
She smiled and right there, along the side of the house, she dropped to her
knees.
This time I didn't stop her.
Public Enemy Number One: An EP Novella
"Flash back to September seventh
When Tupac was murdered in Vegas
He said that he predicted his own death
Let us never forget it or should we ever live to regret it
Like the day John F Kennedy was assassinated in broad day
By a craze lunatic with a gun
Who just happened to work on the same block in a library book depository
Where the President would go for a little Friday stroll
Shots fired from the grassy knoll
But they don't know or do they?"
Eminem - "Public Enemy Number One"
Epilogue
On October 14, 2006, at three minutes past midnight, I died for the second time.
Al Capone passed away at the age of 48 from cardiac arrest caused by a stroke,
likely a complication from his advanced syphilis. John Gotti was 61 when he
finally succumbed to his cancer. Both relatively lucky, given the way they lived.
Peaceful deaths, natural even. No blood. No violence.
I was only 43 at the time of my death. I died from multiple gunshot wounds to
the abdomen, received in an abandoned warehouse in the south side of Chicago -
gunshot wounds I suffered while trying to save Isabella Swan.
My heart wasn't beating when I reached the hospital. They said I'd been down for
nearly 5 minutes, my brain completely deprived of oxygen. Brain cells started to
die around that time, hope for any sort of recovery slim.
The staff at Chicago Memorial Hospital considered me a lost cause. A few
wouldn't even try to save my life. Some just walked away. The streets were
better off without me, they thought. Why help a man who only hurt others?
There was one single doctor, a young man fresh out of medical school, who
refused to give up. He told the rest of them that by walking away, they were no
better than the mobster lying on the table. By refusing to help, they'd be the one
hurting others.
At nine minutes past midnight, thanks to that doctor, I was revived.
You see, Edward was right. Turning your back on someone in need did make you
just as guilty. When everyone else walked away, claiming it was none of their
business, it took courage to be the only one to stand up. It was the type of
courage few had, but the type of courage I could respect. Carlisle had it,
especially in his final days. Elizabeth possessed it, sacrificing her life in order to
end the suffering of another. It was the type of courage they'd instilled in their
children.
It was a courage I lacked most of my life.
I was in a coma for nearly two months following the shooting. Esme stayed at my
bedside and that doctor checked in on me every single day. He told Esme not to
expect much. The longer I was down, the less chance I'd ever come back. He
warned her there could be paralysis, mental issues. The right side of my brain
showed damage so they expected problems - sensory sensitivity, inability to
express emotions. He said I could lose my sense of humor, forget names, become
socially inept. I'd lack communication skills, probably make people
uncomfortable.
Little did he know, I had been that way since birth.
Dying changed a part of me - as much as I could change, anyway. I found that
courage I lacked, and I found it because of that doctor, and because of Isabella. I
was still myself, but I got it now. I understood. I realized doing what was right
sometimes meant breaking your own rules.
Esme tried to teach me that at a long time ago. It was a shame it took dying for
me to finally get it.
After I was released from the hospital, I sent the doctor a check to show my
gratitude. It was returned a few days later with a note, saying he appreciated the
gesture but he didn't accept blood money. I wasn't offended. I laughed, actually.
It was funny to me. Considering his profession, I ventured to guess a lot of his
paycheck actually came from spilled blood.
My wife once asked me what I saw when I died. She wanted to know if my life
flashed before my eyes, playing out in my mind like a story. Did I witness those
births and deaths again? Did I relive our love? Did I see those tragedies? Was my
life like everyone else's, a string of events with mediocrity in between?
I told her it was. I told her I saw it all.
I lied.
There was nothing but blackness.
I was almost another number, another statistic. Almost another body in the
morgue. But I was spared. It was the closest I'd get to another chance at life.
Closest I'd ever come to a reprieve.
I was alive to see another day. Another day just like the last.
I hadn't yet decided if that was a blessing or a curse.