“JOHN!”
John heard his cousin’s shout from behind him, but continued walking. His mind was entirely focused on one thing, and one thing only. He was just a few steps away from getting some answers. Or at least, something that would get him closer to finding out who exactly in his family had sent him that file.
Days later, and he was still looking for answers.
He’d been on the move for hours. Too many—he lost count. His phone wouldn’t stop ringing in his pocket. Buzzing and buzzing, and only irritating him more. He ignored it every time it rang.
He only knew it was the next day because the sun was out, and nightfall had already left him behind. Not that he spent it sleeping because he didn’t. He hadn’t even gone back home after he left.
Not once.
“John,” Andino called again, “wait up.”
Once again, John ignored his cousin. He grabbed the handle on the pool hall’s front door, and swung it wide open. The smell of liquor, and walls that spent years being coated in smoke from cigarettes and cigars smacked him in the face. Nobody could smoke in the place now, of course, but that smell just didn’t wash out. Sometimes, it couldn’t even be painted out.
“Jesus, John,” Andino growled, “what the hell is wrong with you?”
His cousin was right behind him, but John’s eyes were scanning the crowd. Men playing pool at the tables, and gathered patrons at the bar paying for drinks. It was only a little past noon, and already, it looked like quite a few of them were drunk.
Good, this would make things a lot easier for John.
Andino’s hand clapped John on the shoulder, but he brushed the touch off. He heard his cousin saying his name, and trying to talk to him, but he just had other things on his mind. Other shit to do.
Other fuckers to take care of.
Quickly, John found the fucker he was looking for. A short, chubby twenty something year old at the farthest pool table across the hall. Drake was his name. Or something like that. A foot soldier in a crew belonging to the same Capo of the enforcer who had delivered the file to John the day before.
“John, will you talk to me for a goddamn second?”
“In a minute, Andino,” John said.
He didn’t think to ask his cousin how he had found him, or why he was looking for him. Those were details, and at the moment, they were not the details John needed to know.
John headed across the pool hall, his strides long and heavy. He recognized a face or two, and a couple even called out his name with a wave. A greeting he otherwise would have returned, but at the moment, he just didn’t give a fuck. He was not here for them, and he had no interest in speaking to them. They would not help his cause.
Drake didn’t see him coming. He was too busy bent over the pool table, aiming for his next shot. A winning shot, if he had made it. The five hundred dollars sitting on the edge of the pool table told John that the guy wanted to make that shot.
The guy didn’t get to take the shot.
John grabbed Drake by the back of his shirt, and yanked hard. In one swift motion, John flipped the guy over, and smashed his back into the next pool table. Drake let out a shout, one filled with pain, but John only smiled at the sound.
A couple of the guy’s friends stepped forward, but Andino moved in fast. He always had John’s back. Ride or die, no matter what. His cousin was there, doing what he needed to do. Even if he didn’t know why John was doing what he was doing.
“Hey, Drake,” John said smiling coldly. “Looks like you and me need to have a fucking chat.”
Drake’s brown eyes widened, and words stumbled from his mouth. “About what?”
John chuckled. “Guess you’re going to find out, cocksucker.”
Uncaring about the people watching or those closing in around him, John kept a firm hold on Drake as he dragged him across the pool hall. Someone from behind the bar, a face John didn’t recognize, stepped out like he was going to help the guy. John just pointed a single finger at the man.
“Fucking try it,” John dared.
The guy held up his hands in surrender, and it only made John laugh. His face was recognizable. He’d been here before, but not to do this. Nonetheless, they knew who the fuck he was, and what he could do. They knew his last name, and what it meant in this city.
Nobody wanted to get fucking messed up with that mess.
Nobody wanted to get messed up with the Marcellos.
Soon, John had Drake out of the pool hall. The cold February air whipped around them. John didn’t feel anything at all. Seemed he couldn’t feel anything, lately. When he did feel something, it was just a mess. He couldn’t process it. It was too much, and he didn’t want to deal with it.
Drake didn’t fight too much as John dragged him behind the pool hall. A dirty alleyway filled with dumpsters, and moldy cardboard boxes. It stunk like death. It looked like some animals had been chewing on shit, and digging through garbage.
Rats, likely.
New York was filled with rats in more ways than one.
John tossed Drake to the ground, uncaring that the guy landed in filth and wetness. Standing over him, John bent down to make sure Drake got a good look at his eyes. He needed to look somebody right in the face when he wanted to know if they were lying to him or not.
“Who the fuck gave you the file?” John asked.
Drake blinked rapidly. “The-the—”
“The file, you stupid fuck. Who gave it to you?”
“I-I can’t remember.”
John let out of scoff and rolled his eyes out words. “You can’t fucking remember something that happened within the past couple of days? You can’t remember who put a giant red file in your goddamn hand? Maybe if I cut your fucking hand off, it’ll jog your damn memories, asshole. How about that?”
“Well, I …”
The guy started to scramble back on the ground. His hands dragged through the wetness, and his clothes were now covered in the dirt and filth. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. Like he needed to get the fuck away from John, and fast.
He was right. His instincts were on point. He did need to get away from John, but it was too fucking late.
“Who gave you the file?” John asked again. “One last time to tell me who gave it to you, and told you to give it to Kent.”
Drake stumbled over his words again, trying to come up with some fucking excuse. He mumbled a name. Tim, or some other generic bullshit. There were a million fucking Tims in the city.
“Tim who?” John asked.
“Tim-Tim-Tim …”
Fuck this shit.
John pulled out the gun hidden inside his jacket, took a step forward, and beat Drake in the head with it. Once, and then twice. Again and again until the man’s face was a bloody fucking mess. The rage that swelled through John was addictive. Finally, an emotion he understood, and one that was not so overwhelming because he knew exactly what to do with it.
John blinked, and in the next second, Drake was dead on the ground. His face was smashed in, and bloody. No breath left his lips.
“Jesus Christ, John.”
He’d forgotten about his cousin. Andino hadn’t forgotten about him, it seemed.
John stepped back, and straightened. In a flash, Andino had taken John’s gun out of his hand and kept it out of reach. John took another step back, and then another. Andino kept looking at him in that way of his.
“John,” Andino said, “look at me.”
He did, but he didn’t like the sight looking back at him.
“What the hell are you doing?” Andino asked. “Coming here like that, making a fucking public scene, and dragging him out of there where anybody could see you do it, John? And now somebody’s going to come back here, and find his dead body. Guess who they’re going to call. Guess who’s going to take the rap for it, John. You. Where’s your judgement—you didn’t know this was a bad idea?”
John blinked, and his fists curled in tight balls at his sides. “I’m trying to get some fucking information.”
“About the file?”
“How did you know about the file?”
Andino glanced away. “Not important, but is that what it is?”
“It is fucking important. Was it you?”
Disbelief stared John right in the face.
“Do you seriously think it was me?” Andino asked.
No.
Still …
“Somebody from our family sent me that file. They want me to know—they think I forgot what the Calabrese did to my family.”
“John, listen to yourself.”
This was all bad.
All of it.
His brain raced, and his heart thundered.
“John, where are you going?”
He didn’t answer his cousin. He was already at the mouth of the alleyway, and stepping out onto the street when Andino yelled for him again.
Behind him, he could hear Andino making a call.
“Yeah, I got a mess that needs cleaned.” Andino rattled off an address. “No, don’t let the boss know and don’t tell my father, either. This is for me. Let’s keep it on the low.”
John was already gone.
• • •
John slipped through a restaurant that shouldn’t be familiar to him because of who owned it, and yet it still was. He visited the business a couple of times a week just to spend time with Siena, but before her, he wouldn’t have stepped foot near the place.
She was already waiting for him at a table. Standing, too. He could see concern in her eyes, but he didn’t know why.
She outstretched her arms to him, and he took the embrace. Dropping one kiss to her forehead, and then a second faster one to her lips. Her sweet little smile made his grin grow.
“You didn’t answer my calls,” she said.
John shrugged. “Busy.”
“For three days?”
He didn’t like where this line of questioning was going, so his best defense was to simply ignore it. Apparently, she had been one of the people who kept blowing up his phone non-stop.
“Everything’s fine,” he told her.
“I didn’t ask,” Siena said.
John gave her a look, and then took a seat at the table. “You going to sit, or what?”
Siena did take a seat at the table, but she still had that look in her eyes. She was searching for something in him, but he didn’t know what to tell her. He didn’t know what the fuck she was looking for.
“I thought we were going to that show last night,” she said. “An early Valentine’s gift.”
Shit.
“I forgot,” John said.
He tried to wave it off, but he could tell she didn’t want to let it go. He knew what talking would do. Talking would only lead to a fight. The last thing he wanted to do was fight with Siena.
Not now.
Not ever.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised.
Siena frowned. “And how are you going to do that?”
“Give me a little bit to figure it out.”
“Maybe we don’t have a little bit.”
John heard her, but he was already waving to the waiter.
“Our usual,” he called out.
The waiter nodded, and headed for the kitchen.
“John,” Siena said. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yeah, I’m listening.”
“Then, where have you been?”
“Working.”
“Did you see your cousin?”
With one simple question, John’s attention was entirely focused on Siena again. “What do you mean, see my cousin?”
“Andino.”
John tipped his head to the side. “Did you talk to Andino?”
Siena’s gaze darted away. “We ran in to each other.”
Lies.
He saw her lies.
This woman never lied.
Not to him.
“Try that again,” he told her. “This time, though, with the truth.”
Siena swallowed hard. “I was worried about you.”
That was all John needed to hear. In a second, his desire to have food, and even be near this woman was gone just like that. Andino had been following John around since he found him at the pool hall. Talking about John’s frame of mind and shit he had no business discussing. Things John wasn’t willing to talk about with anybody other than his useless fucking therapist.
“John, wait,” Siena said, standing from the table.
No, he was done.
At least for now.
“I’ll call you,” he told her.
Siena sucked in a sharp breath. “John, I’m sorry.”
Fuck that.
His back was to her in the next breath, and then he was gone. He never walked out of that restaurant so fast before. Unfortunately, the man he ran in to outside the business made his blood boil just as badly.
Matteo Calabrese.
“John,” Matteo said. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Siena again?”
“Actually, I was just leaving.”
“Well, wait a second now. I hear the Marcellos are having a Valentine’s party for the family.”
John hesitated. “Are they? I wouldn’t know.”
Matteo nodded with a chuckle. “Guess you’re not invited then, huh?”
The two men stared at each other as the busy street moved around them. Matteo, a Calabrese man who John both despised and distrusted with every fiber of his being. And John, the one Marcello who always seemed to be on the outside looking in when it came to his family.
Something Matteo always like to point out. Or maybe it was just something that the man recognized, when everyone else seem to want to ignore it.
“You know where I am, John,” Matteo said, “if you ever need somebody to talk to. You know I’m always around.”
Why did that feel like a hand to help him up as much as it did a threat?
• • •
The Marcellos were known for their parties. All through the year, the family threw events for nearly every holiday. Everyone in the organization was welcome to attend. It was always an open invitation. Made men, the wives, and their kids. John had become accustomed to these kinds of parties over the years.
Yet, as he strolled through the old Marcello mansion, passing by people he knew, and even his own family, he had never felt more out of place. Like mannequins smiling, waving, and talking to him as if they knew each other, like they were old friends.
Except, like mannequins, they seemed plastic. Realistic to look at, and yet still fake.
In the crowd he picked out his grandparents. Old in their features, yet animated and young in their cheer as they chatted with guests. In the corner, he found Andino drinking something dark red from a wine glass.
He didn’t know if his cousin had seen him. John’s attention was elsewhere.
Like always, the top men of the Marcello organization gathered in the same spot for these parties. The main room where they could see and talk to everyone, and also be the center of attention.
This party didn’t look like it was anything different.
John cut through the people, and headed for the one man he needed to speak to. His father.
Lucian saw him coming, and stepped away from his brothers. “John.”
“You didn’t think to invite me?”
“You didn’t think to answer your phone?”
John shoved his hands in his pockets, and stared hard at his father. The differences between them in that moment were a bright contrast, and easy to pick out. Lucian, in his fitted suit. John, in jeans and a hoodie.
“Have you been talking to Andino, or something?” John asked.
His father frowned. “Why would I talk to Andino?”
Did his father not know? Did none of them know what he had done to a man just a couple of days before in a back alleyway?
“I don’t know if it was you, or Dante, or who the fuck it was,” John said, “but I don’t need any of you sending me shit like you did last week.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play fucking games with me, Dad.”
Lucian took a step toward his son. “John, are you all right?”
John bristled at the question. “Is that all any of you ever think about with me? If I’m okay, if I can handle myself, if my shit is taken care of? I am fucking fine, Dad.”
The level of John’s tone drew attention. His uncles looked his way, and some of the guests. He saw his mother break away from his aunts, and come their way. John had no interest in talking with her, either.
“I only came here to make one fucking thing clear,” John said.
Lucian held a hand up high when Dante stepped closer, as though he were going to step in on the conversation. It kept the Marcello boss from coming any nearer to them. Although, it wasn’t like John gave a fuck either way.
“And what’s that, son?” Lucian asked.
John smirked. “Remember, it’s not my loyalty in this family that ever needs to be in question.”
With that peace said, John turned on his heel and headed back into the crowd. People parted, letting him pass through. Their murmurs reached his ears, but he didn’t really hear what they were saying.
His point had been made.
People would talk.
John was not to be fucked with.
Not by his family.
Not by anyone.
• • •
The grogginess in John’s mind was so heavy that he struggled to stay awake as he peeled open his eyes. He wondered how long he had been asleep while he stretched his arms high above his head. He rubbed his palms against his face. The thickness of his facial stubble said it had been far too long since he had a shave.
He stared up at the familiar ceiling, but confusion filled his mind. He knew instantly where he was. It was as comforting as it was concerning.
He struggled to remember the events of the night before. A party for his family. He went, and made a scene. On his way out, he tossed back a couple of drinks. The frantic pace of his mind grew and sped up until he could barely take anything in at all.
Still, he pushed through the clashing and crashing thoughts to dig for more information as to how he got here. He left the Marcello mansion, and that was the last thing John could remember.
He struggled to bring back more memories. His chest burned like he had been drinking hard liquor all night long. The taste in his mouth said he likely had been doing exactly that. A deep pounding headache in his temples only confirmed it further.
But even drunk, or hungover, John wasn’t one to lose his memories. He was not one to forget.
Yet, the space in his head was only a giant black hole filled with nothing, and giving him nothing when he tried to pull something from it.
“John?”
Her soft voice in the bed comforted him, and also made him stiffen. He looked over in the bed to see her staring at him with soft, familiar blue eyes.
“Siena,” he murmured.
Her hand reached out. A tentative touch stroked his cheek, and woke him up further.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“The same way I did yesterday.”
Out of control.
Bulletproof.
Confused.
Pissed off.
Too fast.
Too slow.
Not right at all.
“When did I get here?” he asked.
Siena’s brow furrowed, and she stroked his cheek again with her fingertips. “Showed up here around twelve.”
“And you just let me in?”
“I couldn’t just keep you out.”
Something wasn’t right with him. Everything was wrong with him. He knew it now more than ever.
“John—”
Siena’s words were cut off by his ringing cell phone. The last thing John wanted to do was answer that phone, but he had been ignoring it for so long, and putting off too many things. Waking up with no memory and feeling like he was meant one thing.
He crashed.
Hard.
Now, he was scattered in broken pieces and wondering how he had gotten here to begin with.
Picking up the phone John put it to his ear and said, “Yeah, John here.”
“What did you do?”
John rubbed at his eyes. “Andino?”
“The warehouse, John. Did you do it?”
John didn’t know what in the hell his cousin was talking about. “What warehouse?”
“The Calabrese warehouse. The one your crew uses with them. It burned to the ground last night, John. Guess who is blaming you for it?”
John hung up the phone, and stared up at the ceiling. The deadweight settled in his stomach, and a burning dread drove into his heart.
Yet, his mind raced.
Up and down.
Unstoppable.
He shouldn’t have hung up the phone. He should have said he didn’t do it.
Problem was, John didn’t know if that was the truth.