by S. Massery
He reached out and touched under my chin. “There she is. I don’t get involved in the politics of the underworld, but you’ll do well in this business, little blossom.”
I was ashamed that approval from a stranger warmed me in ways I hadn’t felt before. My cheeks flamed at the nickname on his lips. He crossed back toward the house, and I followed. The bag of money went into his truck, which flashed as he locked it.
The garage led to a finished basement. I closed the door behind us. He navigated through the dark—I followed right behind him, afraid of bumping into something I shouldn’t—toward another closed door. Lights glowed from within.
He swung open the door, and this time, I did gasp.
My father glared.
This was a game room. The pool table in the center was covered by a tarp and then a sheet, and the bleeding man lay on top. He was out cold, sweat dotting his forehead.
The Angel of Death grabbed a side table and carried it closer, putting his bag on it and jerking it open. His movements were methodical, quick but unhurried. He’d done this before—perhaps under a lot more stress.
He didn’t ask the questions I thought he would ask. How did this happen? Who did this? Instead, he cut the man’s shirt right up the middle, parted it, and glanced at the bullet hole in his stomach. Blood oozed out, running down his abdomen. He rolled the man on the table, looking at his back, which was smooth skin, then laid him flat.
I forced my gaze away from his stomach and onto his face, and I nearly gasped again. It was my cousin, Elton. He was the product of my Uncle Angelo and his high-school girlfriend. He was almost seven years older than me, even though Uncle Angelo was two years younger than my father. Elton was inducted into the grittier side of the family business, and I watched as it darkened his soul.
Instead of torturing his enemies, he tortured me.
The horror of a man bleeding on the table fell away. Elton deserved this.
I moved away from the door and took my place next to my father, watching the Angel work. We stood in silence for hours. My feet burned. My eyes blurred with fatigue. I quietly checked my watch. Time had crept past night and into daytime.
“There’s nothing more I can do,” the Angel eventually said, putting his tools in a sterile bag and sliding everything back into his medical kit.
My father stepped forward and touched Elton’s neck. “He’s alive,” he said in a low voice.
Elton’s savior didn’t smile, and neither did I. How wrong was it that I had been praying for his death?
“He should live. I removed his gallbladder, which the bullet shredded. If he remains in bed until his body can heal, then he should make a full recovery.”
He met my eyes over my father’s shoulder.
“Your daughter will walk me out.”
My father’s jaw clenched. “Of course. Delia.”
The Angel of Death shouldered his bag and gestured for me to lead the way. I did, stepping through the door. The basement was now flooded with light from the high windows, sunlight streaming in. I went all the way outside, through the garage, and stopped beside the truck.
“You watched that man like you wanted me to fail,” he commented.
I took a closer look at his face. He was handsome, but I thought he might be haunted by those he couldn’t save. “I did,” I admitted.
He shrugged and faced the horizon. This house had a great view of the city sprawled out below it. Vegas was sleepy at this time of morning, when those who had sinned all night finally crawled back in their holes.
“I’m good at what I do,” he said. “But not infallible.”
I raised my eyebrow.
“If someone were to punch him in the stomach, a stitch may release. He could bleed out.”
I stayed silent.
He continued, “His abdomen would fill with the blood that his body needs. It would appear like a bruise. His heart would pump harder, desperately trying to keep going with the lack of blood pressure. One strong punch.” He reached out and pushed his knuckles into a spot just below my ribcage. “Here.”
I stepped away.
He winked at me. “We won’t see each other again, little blossom. Take care.”
He got in his truck. I watched him back out onto the quiet street and drive away.
I went back inside, where Elton’s mother was stroking his hair, and thought about everything I had learned.
* * *
In the years since my encounter with The Angel of Death, I always believed his words. It’s a punch to my gut to realize he was wrong.
12
JACKSON
I race after Delia. The door slams in my face, and the lock clicks before I can force it open. I growl and knock my forehead against the wood. Instead of beating it down—I’m tempted—I return to the main room. I stare at Griff, who looks like he’s seen a ghost.
“Little blossom?” I ask.
He winces.
Dalton shakes his head. “You’re gonna have to fucking explain this one to us,” he mutters.
Slowly, Griffin sits. “I need a drink.”
“Me, too.” I grab the first bottle my hand lands on in the liquor cabinet and return to my seat. I open it and take a swig of vodka. Yuck.
I slide the bottle to Griff, who takes more than a hefty gulp. Dalton drinks and Griff starts talking.
“It was right after we got back. Well, a few months. I was living with Zach, and he was just starting his business venture. I went with him a few times, just providing backup, and one of the guys we were selling to got shot. It was a complete fluke.”
I roll my eyes. “We know how you got into the business, Griff.”
The guy was the son of a mobster who’d paid Griff handsomely for the trouble of saving his son’s life. All Griff asked for in return was that he call if someone else was on the brink of death. Soldiers had carried back the rumors of Griff’s nickname, so it wasn’t really a surprise when the mob bosses called him that, too.
“Word got out faster than I could contain it. People are violent,” he says. “After a few months of doing those odd jobs, I got a call from Nicolai Moretti, whose nephew was shot in the stomach.”
He glances at me. “Zach didn’t tell me who your girl was. He just said she was going to get you killed.”
Dalton scowls. “Keep going. How does a call from Delia’s uncle turn into you calling her little blossom?”
“I flew into Vegas, rented a truck, and drove to the address they gave me. Nicolai had apparently decided that night was the night to introduce his daughter to the underbelly of the Mafia. She was like ice—and then…” He shakes his head. “She saw his face.”
My eyes widen.
“That isn’t your story to tell,” Delia says from the mouth of the hallway.
Griffin doesn’t look at her. I don’t think he can.
His avoidance her bolder. She comes into the room and takes a seat next to me. Dalton and I watch her. Griffin watches the table. She leans forward and grabs the vodka, making a face before she puts the bottle to her lips.
“I’ll tell you this once,” she says, her gaze on Griffin, “and then we’re burying it.”
He meets her eyes.
“I listened.”
He nods at Delia’s words and blows out a breath. His reaction doesn’t make sense.
She listened to what?
Her voice hardens. “Elton was six years my senior. He got involved in the weapons, the coercion side of things. He liked being bad—and he liked making people miserable. That should’ve stopped with outsiders, but he liked making me suffer, too.”
I want to touch her, but I don’t dare. She’s staring at Griff like he’s the only one who needs to hear this story. And maybe, with the guilt that’s pouring off him like a sour stench, he is the only one who needs to hear it.
She slides the bottle back to him. “He didn’t do anything that would leave a physical mark. But he left dead things on my pillow. Pinched me under the table at dinners
until my legs were bruised from it. He fucked my best friend in my room just to drive us apart. Little stuff, practicing the torture he was learning on me.
“It worked. By the time I was fourteen, I was terrified of him. He was a twenty-one-year-old bully who our parents were immune to. When the Angel—”
All three of us wince.
She cocks her head. “I don’t know your real name. I would guess you’re Zach or Griffin.”
A ghost of a smile appears on his face. “Griffin.”
She nods. “Griffin appearing was my introduction to that black world my father owned.” She’s strong. Her voice doesn’t waver, even though she’s talking about her dead dad.
This time I do reach out and snag her hand. Her fingers lace with mine and squeeze. I squeeze back.
“It was dark, so I didn’t realize it was Elton on the table until after I stopped gawking at the bullet hole in his stomach.” She frowns. “All of those feelings of hate came up like a rising tide, and I hoped Griffin would fail.”
“I didn’t fail,” he says.
Her nod is curt. Up, down. “You didn’t. But you gave me advice that I held on to. I held on to it for three days, waiting, until my father went out of town with Margaret. Uncle Angelo didn’t want to hover over his adult son, and he convinced Elton’s mom to get some real sleep at his house. Finally, finally, I was alone in the house with Elton.”
The darkness in her eyes is familiar, and my heart hurts for her.
“It was just the two of us. When I went into his room, he was lying in the bed staring out the window. He was surprised that I was there, but he wasn’t afraid. I asked Elton if he remembered the terrible things he had done to me, and he smiled at me. Doped up on the best morphine money could buy, he smiled at me.” She scratches at her arms. “So I asked him if he still wanted to do those things to me, now that we were alone.”
Delia is staring so hard at Griffin, I almost want to redirect her.
“He got out of bed. He came at me. And I punched him so hard in the stomach, he fell onto the floor.” Her shrug is delicate. “He couldn’t quite get up after that, so I left him there. I locked the door behind him and went to bed.”
Hollow. We’re all hollow at this confession, but I… my heart is bleeding. She killed her cousin. She tells the story without really feeling it. Without an ounce of emotion in her voice. It’s the same way I think of the IED that exploded in front of us, the same way I remember the child who detonated it. If I let myself feel, horror would be my only emotion.
Death changes us.
Griffin clears his throat. “I’m sorry,” he tells her. “I’m sorry you started down this path.”
She extracts her hand from mine and takes another swig of vodka. “Don’t be. He bled out on the guest room floor, and he never hurt anyone ever again. He was sick. Family doesn’t hurt family. Especially my family.”
Griffin nods.
Delia cocks her head. “Are you surprised?”
He grins at her, and jealousy spreads through me, hotter than the vodka in my blood.
“I’m not surprised, little blossom.”
“Don’t—” I shake my head and stand. “I’m going for a walk.” I think I saw a local gym as we were driving in, and I have a strong urge to punch something until my knuckles are raw.
Dalton follows me, a few paces behind, so it doesn’t really matter when I swing around and shove at him. He just bounces up a few steps and frowns at me.
“Don’t follow me,” I growl.
He shrugs and keeps after me. “I get that this is new territory for you. You know, being jealous—”
“I’m not fucking jealous.” I storm into the warehouse. In a few days, this whole place will be flooded with people. There will be a circle of chalk drawn on the concrete. Bets will be made. Blood will be spilled. If I inhale hard enough, I can smell sweat and blood. We only held one other fight here, almost three years ago. I wonder if people remember. The building remembers. It practically trembles with the excitement. Or maybe that’s Dalton.
The street is empty. A quick glance at my watch shows it’s almost four in the morning. We’re keeping odd hours, but that’s probably best.
I glance at Dalton as he draws up next to me.
“The gym is in the other direction,” he says.
His laugh chases after me as I abruptly turn on my heel.
“You know, I don’t remember you being such a softie.”
“I’m not a softie,” I scoff.
“Yeah, sure. You reached over and took her hand like a fucking pussy-whipped puppy.”
I chuckle. “Damn, Dalton. Still getting around? Not settling down?”
“Is that what you call this? Settling down?”
“Nah.” We walk in silence for a few minutes. “You gonna spar with me?”
“Fuck, no.”
I eye him. “How’s Miami treating you? What exactly do you do, again?”
“Miami is sick. I do private security, yadda, yadda, yadda, you don’t want to hear about that. You probably want to hear about the girls. Spring break is fucking nuts. So many girls wearing almost nothing, and they’re all looking for flings and hookups. The parties are out of control. The drugs…” He smiles. “You know I don’t partake, but it’s the busy season for the guys who hire me.”
Dalton was our sniper. He specialized in seeing what’s barely visible, in being so still, you forget he’s there—or worse, you don’t see him at all. Of all of us, he’s the loner. I’m proud to admit he’s saved our asses more than once. His talk of parties, flings—bullshit. I doubt he goes down and dances amongst the normal people. No, he likes to watch from a distance.
“So you’re glad to be away from it then?” I tease.
He elbows me and releases a breath.
We get to the gym, which has just opened for the morning. Dalton talks to one of the guys while I scope the place out. He returns as I’m running my fingers down one of the punching bags.
“We get two hours,” he says. “Apparently this place picks up at six.”
I shake my head. “Not good enough.”
Dalton rolls his eyes. “Why can’t you ever just accept what is given to you?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I go over to the owner and give him a grin. “What do I have to do to get in some sparring time?”
The guy glances up from his papers, eyes me, and grimaces. “Look, kid.”
I quirk my lips. No one’s ever gone for that approach before—at least, not someone who could only be ten years my senior.
“I don’t know you. I don’t want a lawsuit on my hands when one of my guys beats you bloody.”
I grin. “That won’t happen.”
He scowls. “We get hotshots like you in here every once in a while, searching for a fight. Guys with muscle from crushing weights at the gym, but not where it counts. No speed, no stamina. Sure, some of them have heart. But son, you just look angry.”
Dalton grabs my shoulder. “He’s right. About the angry part, at least.”
I shrug Dalton’s hand off me. “I’ve got speed, and I know how to keep myself under control.”
“No.” The bastard walks away from me.
I take a step after him, and Dalton jumps in front of me.
“This is why I followed you. Jealousy is ugly, but you go after him, you don’t get to burn off any of those emotions. You get your way and get into a fight, then you’re blowing your chances at the fight tomorrow night.”
I exhale. “Yeah.” Delia and Griffin looking at each other flashes in front of my eyes. “Shit, you left them there. Together. Alone.”
“Griff won’t touch her. He’s not a dick.”
I shrug. He can be a dick sometimes.
“You, on the other hand? You run away after that brutal confession. What’s your girl going to think?” Dalton laughs at my stricken expression. “Let’s go wrap those knuckles and hit some bags, aye? You can fix it later.”
Exercise is therapeuti
c. Spike used to say it all the time. He played all the popular sports in high school—football, lacrosse—and when he didn’t have a license, he’d make me drive him to school so he could use their gym. That’s how I ended up getting swept up in it, too. We ran all over town, racing each other. We were just close enough in age to drive each other to our competitive wits’ ends. And boy, did we compete.
Dalton holds the bag while I take out my frustration on it. By the time I come up for air, it’s light out and the gym owner is standing five feet away, watching me.
“You a scrappy fighter, kid?”
I shrug, but the real answer is yes. I’m suddenly uncomfortable about where this is going. “Thanks for letting us use your gym,” I say, eyeing Dalton.
He picks up my bag and shakes the owner’s hand.
We burst onto the sidewalk, and I laugh.
“I feel like I almost got roped into fighting for the dude.”
Dalton coughs. “That would’ve been a turn of events.”
“Race you back?”
“Fuck, no.” He is silent for all of two steps, then he chucks my bag at my face and takes off.
13
DELIA
“Stay,” Griffin says from behind me.
I turn around, my fingers on the doorknob. Jackson and Dalton just left—they wouldn't have gotten far. I’m fast. I can catch up to them easily, beg Jackson to forgive me. My confession was probably too much. I admitted that I killed my cousin, hit him so hard he bled out, and I went to bed. If only they knew I don’t feel remorse for it.
Griffin seems pained, so I leave the door and return to my seat opposite him.
I look at him. “Why did you call me that? Little blossom. To piss Jackson off?”
He laughs and rubs at his face. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“I’m going to need a better answer than that.”
He meets my eyes. He’s still the same person he was two years ago: terrifying. Strong. I remembered him as I punched Elton hard enough that my arm muscles hurt for two days, full of a mixture of pent-up fear and anger.
