Chapter 29

Debbie’s water broke on a Thursday afternoon, exactly one week before she was due to give birth.

One minute she was standing in the kitchen making a grilled cheese sandwich on the stovetop, and the next she was gripping her stomach as a painful cramp rippled through her abdomen. She didn’t think anything of it at first—she’d been cramping all morning—until she felt a rush of liquid between her legs.

For a moment she just stared down at the puddle at her feet, wide-eyed and unblinking. Then as realization dawned, a chill slid up her spine. Fear curdled in her stomach. She’d been starving just a few minutes ago, but now she felt hot and shaky, and like she might vomit.

No.

Horrified, she slowly backed away and glanced at the calendar on the wall, zeroing in on the circled date.

No, no, no, not yet.

“Tiny!” she called, her voice trembling. “Tiny! Help!”

There was a crash inside the bathroom, followed by shouted curses. Tiny was still zipping up his pants when he came flying into the kitchen. “What? What’s wrong?”

Debbie pointed at the puddle on the floor with the spatula in her hand. Tiny squinted at the mess. “You spill somethin’?”

“My water,” she whispered.

“You spilled your water?”

“Tiny! My water broke! The baby!” She gestured frantically at her belly. “The baby!”

Tiny stared at her. “The baby,” he repeated dumbly. “The baby…” His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “Jesus fuck, the baby?” Panic filled his plump features. “It’s comin’? Like, right now? Jesus!” Hands in his hair, he glanced wildly around the kitchen. “I’ll go get my bike!”

Debbie squeezed her eyes closed, fighting for calm. “I can’t ride on your bike,” she hissed. Tossing the spatula into the sink, she pushed passed him. “You go call Preacher. I’m going to go change.”

Inside the bedroom, Debbie changed out of her nightdress and into one of the many shapeless maternity shifts Sylvia had loaned her. Finished, she glanced around the room, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror.

Her shaking hands went to her stomach. She was nothing but stomach—as if the baby had taken her over completely. She was ridiculously pale, too—her wide eyes looked glaringly dark against her too-white skin. Staring at herself, she shook her head slowly.

She couldn’t do this. She wasn’t ready.

Biting down hard on her bottom lip, she breathed in deeply through her nose. And then out a moment later. Air raced through her lungs, cold and cutting, doing nothing to lessen her fear. Every breath felt like an extra helping of dread until her lungs felt too full and her breathing turned shallow.

Abruptly, Debbie turned away from the mirror and took a seat on the bed. Staring helplessly at the bare, cream-colored wall, she placed her hand on her chest and attempted to breathe normally.

This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t time yet.

Oh God, she needed Preacher.

Covering her face with her hands, she breathed noisily into her palms. She needed Preacher. He should be here with her. She couldn’t do this without him. He wanted this baby—not her.

“Please no,” she mumbled. She dropped her hands and looked helplessly around the room to the wall. “Please God, no. I can’t do this.”

She definitely couldn’t do this with Tiny.

Another cramp rippled through her, worse than before. Pain radiated from her back to her front and she rolled onto her side, clutching her stomach. Once the discomfort subsided, she blinked blearily across the room.

“Debbie?” Tiny appeared in the doorway, scratching at his head. His nervous gaze flicked nervously around the room before landing on her. “Preacher ain’t at the club and Max says he don’t know when he’s gettin’ back. Want me to grab a taxi?”

“No!” Debbie cried, violently shaking her head back and forth. “Call Sylvia!”

She wasn’t going anywhere without Preacher. She would stay right here until he showed up.

Tiny looked as scared as Debbie felt. “But, uh…” He swallowed hard. “Shouldn’t we get you to the hospital?”

“Tiny! Call Sylvia—right now!”

Eyes wide and head bobbing frantically, Tiny disappeared down the hallway.

Minutes passed, maybe hours; time had ceased to exist in Debbie’s current state. Panic continued to worsen her nausea, causing her to periodically dry heave. Her contractions persisted, coming closer together. Several times Tiny poked his head in to ask her if she needed anything, and she’d only managed to groan in response.

“Where is she?” Sylvia demanded.

Debbie jolted at the sound of Sylvia’s voice and cried out. A moment later Sylvia rushed into the bedroom.

“I’m here, I’m here!” Sylvia was breathless as she dropped down on her knees beside the bed. Her hands covered Debbie’s—cold against Debbie’s sweat-drenched skin. The familiar, overly sweet scent of Sylvia’s perfume filled Debbie’s nostrils, causing her stomach to roil.

“My water broke,” Debbie moaned.

Sylvia smoothed a hand over her forehead. “Oh Debbie, that’s the least of it. From the looks of it, you’re in labor.” She glanced around the room. “Now where’s your bag?”

Debbie blinked at her, confused.

“Your bag,” Sylvia repeated. “Your hospital bag? Clothes for you and the baby?”

Debbie shook her head. “I forgot.”

She hadn’t really forgotten; she just hadn’t done it. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to do anything baby related. Everything the Sylvia had purchased for the baby was piled inside the closet, still wrapped in its store packaging.

Sylvia smiled at her—a kind and gentle smile that looked out of place on the always-scowling Italian. She squeezed Debbie’s hands. “Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of it.”

Debbie watched through blurry eyes as Sylvia hurried around the bedroom, grabbing handfuls of things from inside the dresser and shoving them into Debbie’s canvas backpack. Throwing open the closet, Sylvia began yanking items off hangers. W

Finished, she turned to Debbie. “We gotta get you to the car now, okay? Can you walk?”

Debbie’s tears spilled over. “Sylvie,” she whispered frantically, “I’m scared. Please, I don’t want to do this. Please…”

If Sylvia answered her, Debbie didn’t hear it. Another cramp pulsed through her, ten times more painful than the last. Eyes squeezed shut, Debbie twisted the bed sheet in her grip.

“Breathe, Debbie, breathe!” Sylvia shouted. “Like this! Remember how I showed you?”

No, Debbie did not remember. And even if she could remember, she couldn’t fathom how anyone could expect her to breathe through this god-awful pain.

“Oh God,” she panted, rolling onto her back. Clutching her belly, she blinked up at Sylvia’s looming face. “It feels like I’m falling apart!”

“Oh Debbie, that’s normal.” Sylvia smiled anxiously. “They tear us open coming out and then their sweet faces put us back together.”

Not wanting to hear about babies and their sweet faces, Debbie turned her head. “No,” she moaned, pushing herself further across the bed, away from Sylvia.

“Oh God, oh God, it hurts so bad.” She clutched her belly. “I can’t do this, Sylvie. I can’t do this—not without Preacher.”

“Of course you can! Women have been givin’ birth since the dawn of time. It’s like pushing out a watermelon! And I’ll be right there with you. And then Preacher will—oh shit, Debbie you’re bleeding!”

Debbie felt Sylvia’s hands on her legs, pushing them apart. She heard a gasp, and then, “Tiny! Tiny! We need to get her to the car, now!”

• • •

Pulling on his leather riding gloves, Preacher strode inside the warehouse, Rocky beside him. Dark and damp with humidity, the crumbling structure stunk of mildew and rot.

They turned the corner into a larger, somewhat lighter area, the shattered windows letting in what little light the overcast afternoon offered. The smells were different in this room, metallic in nature, along with the pungent aroma of gun smoke.

A half dozen or so bodies littered the large space—Rossi foot soldiers. Blood seeped from various wounds, pooling around the dead and dying men, further discoloring the stained cement.

Somebody groaned— a wet, gurgling chest rattle that pinged distractedly through Preacher’s thoughts before lodging firmly in his consciousness.

He would always remember that sound. It was the sound of death—live and in stereo.

Preacher passed Frank, who was standing among a handful of Road Warriors. Then Joe, who stood alone, a gun in his hand and body at his feet. He passed more Road Warriors and more of his men. He didn’t look at a single face, either living or dead. His sole focus was on Hightower, and the man kneeling at his feet.

Rocky veered off, leaving Preacher to continue on alone. The blade at his side was heavy—a freshly sharpened piece of stainless steel that had once belonged to The Judge. It banged against his hip in time to his steps. In time to his heartbeat. In time to the quickly forming lump pulsing inside his throat.

Reaching Hightower, Preacher peered down his nose at the man on his knees. With a head full of white hair, a face full of wrinkles, and wearing a pressed black suit with a red pocket square, Salvatore Rossi looked less like the head of the Rossi crime family and more like an impeccably dressed grandfather.

Salvatore’s ancient eyes flicked up, meeting his, his expression blank, his demeanor strangely calm. “Damon,” he greeted him, his Italian accent rolling and thick.

Preacher blinked at him, not comprehending Salvatore’s cool composure. It was hardly the attitude Preacher would have expected from a man who had to know he was about to die.

Especially when his own heart was flapping wildly inside his chest.

It was also another thing Preacher would never forget. Much later in his life, when his body count was plentiful and he’d long forgotten what it felt like to solve his problems with mere words, he would still remember the look on Salvatore Rossi’s face.

 “Are all my boys dead?” Still so absurdly, unnervingly calm, Salvatore raised one bushy white eyebrow.

Preacher dropped down on one knee and stared into the old man’s eyes. “Your sons, your grandsons. All of ‘em.”

Weeks ago Preacher had finally managed to appropriate the Rossis’ Columbian connection right out from under their noses. With the Road Warriors now under Preacher’s control, and ready to form Silver Demon clubs all over the country, the Columbian’s potential to increase their revenue by 200% was too lucrative an offer to refuse.

Then today, after months of strategic planning, putting every player in place, the Silver Demons and the Road Warriors had taken out the Rossi underboss, each Rossi caporegime, and any foot soldiers that had been with them at the time of their ambush. With only scattered foot soldiers remaining, the Rossis wouldn’t be recovering from this anytime soon—if ever.

Ending the life of the Rossi family Mafioso, Salvatore Rossi, was Preacher’s job. A blow he’d long been dreaming of delivering personally.

The corner of Salvatore’s mouth quirked. “I knew you’d do great things, Damon. You always were a hungry boy. I could see it in your eyes.”

Preacher’s nostrils flared. His chest caved and his heart quaked. “You killed them.”

Salvatore’s expression didn’t change. “No. I did not. But that doesn’t matter anymore, eh?”

Preacher jumped to his feet and snarled, “No, it fuckin’ doesn’t.”

Pulling his blade from its sheath, Preacher moved to stand behind Salvatore. Gripping a handful of the old man’s hair, he wrenched his head back and pressed the edge of the blade to his throat. A thin red line welled amid his wrinkled, sagging skin.

Salvatore didn’t make a sound, didn’t move a muscle. Neither did Preacher.

Preacher had gotten into countless fights during the course of his life. He’d broken men’s bones and beaten men into unconsciousness. He’d done some sketchy things in prison to ensure his own safety—things he wasn’t proud of.

 But he’d never killed a man before.

The finality of this moment barreled into Preacher like a freight train. There would be no going back, no do-overs, no time to press pause and just drift along while he sorted through his bullshit.

He made the mistake of glancing up. All across the room, all eyes were on him, waiting for him to finish it. He knew he couldn’t look weak, not in front of his own men, and especially not in front of the Road Warriors. Not if he expected to take control of them, to lead them.

So he did the only thing he could think of to do. He flipped his fucking switch and let it all back in—everything he’d long shut out.

He let his mother’s face fill his memory.

And he thought of his father.

He saw the smear of blood on the trailer door.

And then he recalled the day he was forced to watch as their matching coffins were lowered into the ground.

And just when he wanted to scream… he slid the blade across Salvatore Rossi’s throat instead.

The mob boss slumped to his side, wide-eyed and clawing at his throat. Both horrified and fascinated, Preacher watched as thick, dark blood spurted and gushed from the gaping wound in his neck.

“It’s done, then? You’re gonna patch us in?” Rocky’s booted feet drew precariously close to the blood creeping across the floor.

Preacher cleared his throat and prayed his voice didn’t shake. “I need you and your boys to lay low for a while, wait and see if we get any blowback. But yeah, it’s done.”

Rocky started to smile, and Preacher turned his attention back to Salvatore. The old man had gone still, though his mouth still worked soundlessly.

Preacher was suddenly struck with a memory.

When his he and his brothers were little, The Judge would take them fishing at the pier. He taught them all sorts of things—various fishing line knots, and what bait worked best for which fish. The fish they’d catch, The Judge would slap across the dock, killing them instantly.

They should never be needlessly cruel, The Judge had told them.

Again Preacher saw the smear of blood on the trailer door—an image that would never leave him.

And then he walked off, leaving Salvatore gasping for air.

• • •

Inside the clubhouse, half his club trailing behind him, Preacher headed into the kitchen. Quickly peeling off his gloves, he tossed them onto the countertop and moved toward the sink. Behind him, his men filed in. Nobody said a word.

Turning on the faucet, Preacher cupped his hands and splashed several handfuls of cold water on his face. Dripping wet, he gripped the counter and bowed his head. Preacher’s arms began to quiver.

He’d done it. He’d actually fucking done it.

It was so fucking surreal, this entire day. He’d avenged his parents and effectively ended the Rossi family. Him. Just a no-good kid from the neighborhood.

“Preacher?” Frank leaned his elbow on the counter. “How you doin’?”

Preacher’s eyes slid to Frank. His longtime friend had killed men today with the same ruthless efficiency that he did everything else. He didn’t appear bothered in the least. In fact, he seemed almost… tranquil.

Preacher couldn’t even begin to comprehend that kind of calm. He was… hell, he didn’t know what he was feeling, exactly.

Killing Salvatore—it had felt horrible.

And yet, also exhilarating. Powerful.

Preacher ran a hand over his face and blew out a breath. “I’m good,” he lied.

Frank stared at him, his gaze full of speculation and doubt. Straightening, Preacher folded his arms across his chest. “I’m good,” he growled.

“Good. ‘Cause they aren’t.” Frank’s gaze shifted.

Preacher turned, facing the kitchen and the four men spread throughout. Still no one spoke or even looked at one another.

“Smokey and Jim come back yet?” Preacher quietly asked Frank.

“Not yet.”

Preacher nodded and pushed away from the counter. After grabbing two bottles of liquor from a nearby cabinet, he handed one to Hightower. “You okay?”

Hightower often bragged about his many kills in Vietnam. Still, Preacher couldn’t imagine that killing men in a firefight was anything like the carefully calculated, up close and personal hits they’d exacted tonight.

His expression unreadable, Hightower nodded slowly. “Right as rain, Prez,” he drawled.

Preacher clapped him on the arm and turned to Bullet. Unable to hold his gaze, Bullet stared down at his boots.

“I ain’t sweatin’ it, my brother,” Bullet muttered. “There ain’t nothin’ so bad in this world that a wet, warm pussy can’t fix.”

Suddenly laughing, Hightower wrapped an arm around Bullet’s neck and squeezed. “You know it!”

Across the room, Knuckles was seated at the dining table, pale-faced and staring at his hands splayed out in front of him. Joe sat beside him, staring vacantly across the room, an unlit cigarette quivering between his lips.

Setting the second bottle down on the table, Preacher gripped Knuckles’ shoulder and bent down beside him. “You did good today.”

Bloodshot eyes lifted and narrowed. “Yeah?” Knuckles’ voice was small and timid.

Preacher squeezed his shoulder. “Yeah, man. Real fuckin’ good.”

Knuckles let out a breath, then another, and then he grabbed the bottle. While Knuckles drank, Preacher pulled Joe into the hallway and lit his cigarette for him.

“Get some girls over here,” he said. “Smoke some shit, snort some shit. And you make sure you fuckin’ call me when Smokey and Jim get back.”

When Joe didn’t respond, Preacher slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Hey, you hearin’ me?”

Joe blinked several times. “Yeah, man, yeah. Get some girls over here. Call you when Smokey and Jim get back. Got it.” He continued to smoke—quick, successive drags. Sighing, Preacher turned to leave.

 “You headed home?” Joe called after him, “You gonna make me go home to Sylvie tonight, too?”

“I’m goin’ home. You do whatever the fuck you gotta do.”

“Preacher! Shit! Preacher!” Shouting excitedly, Max swung his long body over the first-floor stair railing. “Debbie had the baby!”

As if he’d been punched in the gut, all air fled Preacher’s lungs.

Max rushed down the hall. “Debbie, she had the baby! She’s at the hospital! Sylvie’s with her—Tiny, too!”

“She’s at the hospital,” Preacher repeated dumbly. His heart thudded in his chest. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Is she… okay?”

Max skidded to a stop and gripped Preacher’s shoulders. “She’s fine. They’re both fine.”

Preacher stared at his brother. “Both?”

Max grinned. “Yeah, both. Preacher, you’ve got yourself a daughter.”