Aedan
“Wait here,” I tell her, but she won’t listen. Dammit, fucking dammit. My head feels like it’s just been punted like a football, just punted over and over until all thinking is ten times as difficult. First Dad was giving me a little speech, starting to make me feel that maybe one of these days he might show me something approaching affection, and then along comes Livia, seemingly from nowhere. And now... Gunshots, in The Clover, what the…
As I run from the backroom, I’m all too aware of Livia at my side. I want to tackle her, force her to stay hidden, but there’s a devil in her eyes and I know there’s nothing I can do to stop her. She’s fierce, I think, the thought making me ache. She’s fierce. And she could’ve been my fierce lady. Hell, maybe she still could be... But I can’t think about that right now. I’m aware, too, that the backroom is empty. The other hitters must be in the bar.
I kick open the door, reaching for my gun—and then immediately raise my hands in the air.
Around twenty Mexicans, all of them holding assaults rifles, shotguns, or submachine guns, stand around the bar, weapons aimed at the Irishmen, who have all got their hands raised like me. The bar suddenly seems tiny, everyone squashed into this little space. Livia pulls up beside me, panting. I look at her, feeling like the biggest piece of shit in the world for not locking her in that cupboard.
“Raise your arms,” I say.
Livia does as I say, which is a damn good thing because the man himself has two pistols aimed at us, one at my head, the other at Livia’s.
Carlos Rio is a huge man, far bigger than any man I’ve seen before. He’s at least seven and a half feet tall, but he’s thick, too, giving him the overall appearance of a tank. His neck is thick, his arms are thick, even his face is thick. He wears a bulletproof vest over a bare chest, his tribal-tattooed arms on display, arms five times the size of most men’s. A jagged scar runs down the left side of his face, from his forehead to the corner of his lip, and his head is shaved bald. Even his men, Mexicans with vests and tattoos, some of them with bandanas or balaclavas, glance at him in fear. He’s grotesque.
“Lock the doors,” he says to no one in particular, and half a dozen Mexicans run to carry out his order.
He gestures at me and Livia with his pistols.
“I am the surprise man,” he says, grinning. His canine teeth are capped gold, glinting. “And who is this? I know you. You are Aedan O’Rourke, and this man is Patty, your father—your bastard father.” He laughs, and the sound is girlish and damn strange coming from his mouth. The Irishmen, all of them on their knees in front of the bar now, the Mexicans tying their hands behind their backs, gasp when they hear that Patty’s my dad. One of the Mexicans whispers something in Carlos’ ear, which entails the man standing on his tiptoes and stretching up like a giraffe. “Oh, really?” Carlos’ grin gets wider. “This is Livia Russo. What an unexpected delight.”
Dad, on his knees at the front of the group, stares daggers at me. “Livia Russo!” he roars, and then looks at her. “Yes, it is. Dammit, Aedan! What a disappointment you are!”
“I couldn’t let you hurt her, Dad,” I say quietly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Livia smile. Just a little smile. A scared smile. But a smile all the same and at the moment that’s worth more to me than gold.
“Sweet, sweet, sweet,” Carlos sings, hopping from foot to foot. He’s so big, the tables around him tremble; a glass slides to the floor and shatters. “Tie them up and put them at the end of the line and make them watch. I want them to see what I am going to do to them, when it’s their turn.”
Five Mexicans seize us, pressing guns into our faces, into our chests. I hear Livia breathing desperately beside me, sucking in big mouthfuls. When we’re pushed to our knees and our arms are tied behind our backs, I glance at her. Her face is red and her lips are parted. Even now—even when the world’s gone crazy—I can’t help but feel a swelling in my chest when I look at her. The sight of her scared terrifies me, but it also reaffirms how much I care for her. I wouldn’t give a shit if she was scared if I didn’t care, after all. I can’t let them hurt her. I glance at Dad, a few heads down, and then back to Livia, and something strange happens. I choose Livia. Right now, I choose her. If it comes between saving Dad and saving Livia, well...
You evil boy! Mom cries. You scum!
No, I think. No, not now. Not this time. Livia can’t die. I won’t let that happen, ever. I’m sorry, Mom. But I choose her.
Mom keeps screaming in my head, but all it takes is one look at Livia and I forget about all that, forget about the pain and the self-loathing and the desire to please a dead woman. Dad doesn’t really love me; the realization hits me like a truck. He doesn’t and he never will. But Livia, maybe, over time... maybe she could feel something. And Bruno; I can’t kill him. I swallow, feeling like a changed man. I’ve picked a side.
Now it’s time to save her, I think.
The thing about tying a man’s hands behind his back is that most men are damned shit at it. A couple of loops of rope, and they think that’s enough. Anyway, it’s not like any mad bastard is going to try anything with twenty Mexicans in the room. I smile to myself, working the knots as Carlos paces up and down the line.
“You are a weak people,” he says, scowling and grinning, his mouth somehow capturing both in the same mad twist. “Very weak. I take your corners, take your stores, and you give me a few bodies in return. A few! How many of you people do I have to kill to get a real fight? How many of you do I have to kill to have a little fun?” Carlos darts down and grabs a man by the collar. It’s Mikey, one of the low-lever hitters, a twenty-year-old with a tuft of red hair and a tiny moustache on his upper lip. He squeals as Carlos heaves him up and carries him in one massive paw to a table. I work at the rope, widening my arms, tensing my muscles. Beside me, Livia lets out a little moan.
I’ll protect you.
Livia screams as Carlos casually blows Mikey’s head off, his brains and fragments of bone scattering across the room.
I work at the rope, again and again, thinking, You fucking Mexican bastards. Make my woman scream. You fucks. You won’t touch her. You won’t.
Carlos giggles, leans down, and scoops up a piece of Mikey’s brain, holding it up to the light and grinning at his friends. But even they look worried, freaked out that they’ve aligned themselves to this giant madman. He flings the brain across the room, and then walks up and down the line again, muttering under his breath, “Who shall I take? Oh, who shall I take? Who’s the lucky boy today?”
The Mexican’s don’t know that there’s a shotgun above the bar, hidden behind a false portion of wall. Smash the lever—the shotgun falls, already loaded. I strain at the rope. I’ve almost widened the loops enough now to slide my hands free. I just have to keep going, and then I’ll be able to make something happen. I feel a stab of guilt when I think about taking Livia to safety while Patty remains behind, but I’m the sort of man to stick to his choices once he’s made them. Most of the time, anyway. In any case, this is a goddamned choice I’m going to goddamned stand beside.
Then Carlos stops in front of Patty and all my resolve seems silly and small.
“You were the big man, weren’t you, Mr. Patty?” Carlos says. A few of his men laugh at that, the idea that this wiry clean-suited man could be any kind of big man too much for them. “The big man, Patty. The big scary Irishman. The man who leads New York. You come to Mexico, my friend, and I will show you big scary men. You look like the man who delivers my post.” Another round of laughter. Carlos grabs Patty by the scruff of the neck. “I will show you and your men what sort of hard man you are.”
“No!” Patty screams. With a shock, I realize he’s crying and his pants are stained with a big blooming puddle of piss.
Come on.
A few more seconds and the loops will be wide enough.
“The big strong leader man.”
Just a few more...
“The big scary Irish leprechaun man.”
Come on, come on, come on.
Finally, the loop is wide enough. I slip my hands from the ropes, but then everything happens very fast; it seems like time speeds up.
“The big boss man, the big Irish boss man, the Irish boss man, he-he-he.”
As I slide over the counter, Carlos places his gun against the side of Patty’s head and pulls the trigger. Blood showers everywhere and a piece of me dies, just goes and dies stone-dead inside of me, turns to a black husk of a thing. The part of me which has spent years now trying to gain Dad’s approval. If it were not for the Mexicans, and Livia, maybe I’d cry. Maybe I’d fall to my knees and cry as Patty falls like a boneless thing to the floor, his head a mess of matted crimson hair and disjointed and fragmented insides.
But I have to be the hitman, the man I’ve always been, the man Mom and Dad made me.
“What the—”
I smash the lever, the shotgun falls, and I go into kill mode. I don’t think. I just fire.
It’s a pump-action shotgun and I pump it so hard my forearm starts to burn. Spent shells fly into the air around me, landing at my feet in a big pile. The Mexicans start to fall and it’s like I’m not even inside my body. I feel numb, looking at Dad out of the corner of my eye as I gun down Mexican after Mexican. Soon, they have fled to the other side of the bar, ducking down near the door behind a booth.
“You fucks!” I roar. “You Mexican fucks! You Mexican fucking animals! Do you know who we are! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” With each word, I fire. One second, there are only a few bodies on the floor. The next, the floor is filled with dead Mexicans. They retreat near the door, crouching low, and then the shotgun runs out of shells.
Shit.
I slide over the bar, doing my best to ignore the thumping of my heart in my ears, and lean down and untie Livia as quickly as I can. “Untie everyone,” I whisper fiercely.
The Mexicans are poking their heads over the booths, but careful, because as far as they know I’ve got another gun hidden somewhere and they’ve never seen shooting like that, mayhem shooting, the sort of shooting you’re only capable of if you’ve spent your whole damn life gunning people down. I hear Carlos yelling as we untie everyone: “Somebody take a look. Somebody take a goddamn look. Somebody take a fucking look!”
Soon, everybody’s untied. But there’s a problem. Though the room is filled with the stench of death—and Patty’s there, among them, Dad’s right there, dead and cold like the Mexicans I’ve just killed, faceless from the bullet, faceless and bloody and dead—the remaining Mexicans, around eight or nine of them, are blocking the door, the only goddamn exit.
“To the backroom,” I say, not willing to think further ahead than that. I just need to get Livia to safety.
Without waiting for a response from any of the Irishmen, I grab Livia by the arm and lead her toward the back.
When we’re through the door, Carlos screams, sound oddly girlish: “Follow them! Follow those bastards! I want blood! I want their blood!”