by Sasha Leone
Before I can finish that thought, the warehouse is again filled with the sound of gunshots. A bullet whizzes right by my ear and ricochets off the shipping container behind me. I look up and see a construction worker with a pistol.
Fuck.
I’m forced to drop Santino and run for cover. Bullets nip at my heels as I dive behind the container and search my pockets for ammo. How many construction workers were still here when I decided to break in? I’d ask Finn, but I can hardly even hear myself think over the sound of the echoing gunfire.
I don’t have enough ammo, I realize with a pang of dread. My gut clenches and my heart trembles. I can’t fight these guys, not if I ever want to see Nia again. I have to run, and I’m not going to be able to drag Santino’s dead body with me.
I curse myself for being so careless. There’s a switchblade in my jacket pocket that I easily could have used to slit Santino’s throat with. No one would have ever heard that.
I’m such an idiot—I just couldn’t wait to be done with that rat and go back to Nia, but now, even in death, Santino may truly be the end of me.
I scan the warehouse for a way out. The door I came in through is too far and too exposed to get to, but there’s a half-shattered window nearby that I might be able to break through. After a quick second look-over of my surroundings, I decide that the window’s my only way out.
The approaching gunshots are almost on my ass now; I don’t have another second to waste. I jump to my feet, point my Glock at the window, and fire as I run, using all of my bullets to try and break what remains of the heavy glass before I put my shoulder down and plunge myself through it.
Luckily, it shatters against my body weight and I go flying through the frame, eventually landing on the hard gravel outside.
A sharp pain shoots up my bad arm and makes me grumble in agony.
Fuck this shit so much, I curse, as I pull myself to my feet and look for Finn. I need to get out of here asap.
Finn’s patrol car is nowhere to be found, but as I run in the direction where I hope he might be, the sound of gunfire behind me fades enough that I can finally hear him shouting through my earpiece.
“Ronan! Buddy! Respond! What’s happening!?”
“Santino’s dead,” I growl, slipping my Glock into its holster and clutching at my burning arm. “But I don’t have his body. Those construction workers were protecting him. Where are you!?”
“I’m on the northwest corner,” Finn’s panicked voice crackles over the airwaves.
I look towards the setting sun to get my bearings “Drive south. I’m almost at the southwest corner now. We need to get out of here fast, before we’re seen together.”
Finn doesn’t respond, but the screeching of his tires over my earpiece is enough to indicate that he’s on his way. I stumble through a makeshift hole in the warehouse’s electric fence and roll out onto the sidewalk. By some miracle, there’s no one around—everyone must have been scared off by the gunshots.
I pull myself back onto my feet and watch out for Finn. A heavy weight rocks in my gut, threatening to push me back to my knees. My nerves are shot. I try to blink back into focus and regain some sense of control over my surroundings, but the stone in my gut is making it impossible. My hands are shaking and my legs are weak.
What the hell is wrong with me?
It takes me a second, but when I realize what’s come over me, I nearly puke in disgust.
I’m afraid.
For the first time in god knows how long, I’m scared.
Of what!? I’ve been in shootouts before. I’ve been outnumbered more times than I can count. What makes this time any different!?
I hear the screeching of tires and feel a sense of relief when I see Finn’s patrol car finally whipping around the corner. It’s only then that I realize what makes this time different than all the others.
Now, I have someone to lose.
And no, it’s not Finn who I’m afraid of losing. Finn’s just the bridge, the chariot that can rescue me from hell and bring me to where I need to be, to where I want to be:
With Nia.
I have no time to ice my burning arm or calm my aching heart. There’s a meeting I have to attend, and I can only hope that I’ve done enough to make it out of it alive.
Santino’s dead, but I have no proof. How far will my word go with Gianni Barone?
There’s only one way to find out.
I walk into the godfather’s penthouse office just after 9:30pm, half-an-hour before the Russians are set to show up. The whole family’s here, and still, the room is so big that it hardly feels full. I try to conceal the pain that’s shooting through my arm—no one likes the look of a weak enforcer, especially one who’s tiptoeing on the edge of complete failure.
With Finn’s help, I patched myself up earlier and even went home for a shower. This is far too historic a meeting to show up at covered in grime and sweat and blood. It was all I could do to look my best, even though I definitely don’t feel it. Besides my aching body, my heart is on fire. I didn’t have the chance to stop by Chelly’s and see Nia.
My life is on the line and I truly don’t know what’s coming next. Will I ever see her again? Will she ever know how I truly feel? What I truly want for the both of us?
I considered sending her a text, but then I realized I still hadn’t even gotten her phone number yet. What would I even say? If something happens to me tonight, it’d be better for her to just think I disappeared, rather than know the truth.
All eyes turn to me as I take my place in the family’s formation. There are whispers, but I only care about one man’s voice...
Still, it’s not the first voice I hear.
“Where’s Santino?” barks Luca.
I can barely contain the sneer from forming on my face. If I wasn’t forced to check my weapons in the lobby, I may very well have shot the spoiled brat where he stands and gone out in a blaze of glory rather than whatever waits for me on the other side of this meeting.
“Six-feet under,” I grumble. I turn my gaze to Gianni Barone. I’ve never lied to him about a job before, and I’m sure he knows it. But this Santino business isn’t about what Gianni might think, it’s about what the Russians will think.
“Do you have proof?” Luca whines, but I ignore him.
Gianni shifts in his big black chair. The countless books behind him are filled with near infinite wisdom and knowledge; I can only hope that the man who owns them contains half as much insight.
“He’s dead?” asks the boss.
I nod. “I made sure of it.”
“And the body?”
“He was being protected,” I explain. “It was all I could do just to get to him.”
The head mafioso sits up in his chair and trains his black eyes on my soul. “Protected?” he asks.
I nod.
“By who?”
“I don’t know.”
Luca huffs and I don’t even bother to hold back my aggravation this time. I turn my attention entirely to the chubby spoiled brat and glare at him with the heat of a thousand suns. Rage fills up my soul and I have to dig my fingernails deep into my palms just to keep myself from jumping across the room and strangling the young fool.
Slowly, and with great effort, I turn my attention back to the godfather. “There were construction workers. I don’t want to point fingers, but I could have sworn I heard them speaking—”
Before I can finish my sentence, the office’s big oak doors push open behind me with a commanding creak. All attention turns to the entrance. Gianni’s secretary, a little old Italian lady named Madolina stands her ground and clears her throat. Her message is directed to only one man, but it’s for all of us.
“The Volkov’s are here, sir.”
Shit. They’re early.
16
Ronan
It only takes a second for everything to fall apart.
The Russians come in, shake hands, and are cordial enough that, when Gianni points tow
ards me and says that I have given him my word that Santino Costa is dead—and that he believes me—Vadim Volkov, the head of the Volkov Bratva, simply nods and says that if my word is good enough for Gianni then it’s good enough for him as well.
I almost feel pride at the exchange. Am I finally important enough to be believed? To be truly accepted?
I’m still in physical pain, but my heartache suddenly doesn’t feel so serious anymore. I’m going to see Nia again, and with the peace that this historic partnership between the two major crime families will bring to the city, I might finally even be able to take a little break. More time spent with Nia means more time spent in heaven—a place I never thought I’d end up.
I stand tall as the two families talk, daydreaming about my future. Anything seems possible now; I’m almost free...
... And then I see him.
Slim, tall, and greasy, and leaning on a crutch to support his bandaged leg, it’s the asshole who accosted Nia and I the other night.
He’s a Russian, and he’s standing near the head of the Volkov hierarchy; only five spots away from the top dog himself. He looks lost in his own little world of angst and pain...
And then he looks up, and our eyes meet.
My heart stops. The blood pumping through my revitalized veins goes cold.
It only takes a second for everything to fall apart.
“You!” the greaseball accuses, pointing his free hand at me like a scared little girl at a ghost. His voice breaks through the respectful silence of the room and shatters the prospective peace.
“Semyon!” growls a man who I recognize as Taras Vokov. Taras is Vadim’s second oldest son and head of the Bratva’s finances. He swats Semyon’s hand down like a father scolding his son.
No. No. No.
Semyon’s rage doesn’t let up. I don’t look away, but I’m getting ready to run. I have no weapons to defend myself with, only words.
“That’s the man who shot me!” Semyon sneers, his spittle flying onto the clean carpet below.
A rumble grows from the Russian side of the room. Were they allowed to keep their weapons? I let my gaze leave Semyon’s pointy little face. Gianni and Vadim are both staring at me.
“What is this all about!?” bellows Vadim. His icy eyes dart back and forth between his grandson and me.
“That’s the man who did this to me, dedushka,” Semyon begs to be believed as he points down to his bandaged leg.
I clench my fists. The whole world seems ready to crumble in on me.
“Is this true?” Vadim commands of me.
I don’t answer.
“... Ronan.” It’s Gianni. He wants to know, too.
I struggle to find a response.
Do I lie? After all the weight Gianni has just put on my ability to tell the truth? Do I risk everything I’ve built up with this family just so I can save everything I’ve built up for myself? Or do I hope that I’ve already done enough for them? Will they protect me?
I look Gianni dead in the eyes. His gaze doesn’t change. It’s just as cold and calculating as ever. He won’t protect me, I realize. Still, the words come out of me with little hesitation. It’s almost a matter of pride, to tell the truth in such a dire situation.
“... Yes, it’s true.” I blurt out, without the energy or the desire to explain myself any further. I live and die on Gianni’s reaction, and I know he doesn’t care why I did what I did. He only cares about what it means to him and the family.
“This is unacceptable,” Vadim bellows, slamming his fist onto Gianni’s table in a show of extreme disrespect. The godfather’s war medals stir, along with his old hand-grenades, but Gianni doesn’t budge. The gears are turning in his head, I can tell. The best I can hope for is that they turn in my favor.
“My grandson spent 6 hours in a veterinarian clinic, surrounded by common beasts, getting a bullet dug out of his leg—a bullet that man put in him.” Vadim points a shaky hand in my direction. His wrinkled skin hangs like death’s cloak around his wrist. His thin white hair has gone wild with anger. His beady blue eyes stare icy daggers in my direction. “I don’t care if he killed Santino Costa or not,” he continues, after an angry pause of consideration. “What he’s done to Semyon is just as bad. My boy may never be able to walk right again. We cannot stand for this!” Another fist pound on Gianni’s desk sends the godfather to his feet.
“ENOUGH!” he booms, and the room goes silent.
Vadim and Semyon shake with anger. I don’t budge. Every last ounce of energy in me is being saved in case I have to make a run for it. I can’t let this be the end of my line—I need to see Nia again.
I scan the room for something I can use to get me out of this, but everyone has checked in their weapons at the front. Without even a pocketknife to defend myself with, I have no chance. I’m completely outnumbered.
“What do you ask of us?” Gianni turns to Vadim and glares at the elderly leader of the Volkov Bratva.
“All we ask of you is him,” he roars, pointing his shaky finger at me one last time. I just want to snap it in two. The old man has obviously spoiled his grandkids, and it’s putting the only hope of peace this city’s ever seen in complete jeopardy. I wasn’t out looking for trouble when I crossed Semyon’s path that night, but he was, and that was enough to lead to this.
“... And what do we get in return?” Gianni asks Vadim.
“Peace.”
Gianni considers the proposal, and I already know his answer. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he should do. If I was Italian, then maybe Gianni would have to choose war, but I’m just a lowly Irishmen, even if I’m the best muscle he’s ever had. Killing me may be a show of disloyalty to his men, but it wouldn’t even be a blip compared to killing a blood member of the Barone family.
I desperately scan the room for a way out. Fear festers in my gut where once there was only ice. I almost want to curse Nia’s name for melting my cold defences. A week ago, I might have just accepted my fate, or at least taken a couple of men out with me, but now, neither of those options seem good enough.
I need to get out of here. I need to see Nia again.
“Ronan,” Gianni commands. “Come.”
I hesitate for a moment, before realizing I don’t have any other option. Slowly, I step out into space between the two crime families and walk down the aisle to my doom.
I’ve nearly given up completely, when I spot it.
Gianni’s hand-grenades. The one he keeps on his desk to remind people that he can fight just as well as he can lead. Is it still live? Can it get me out of this mess?
I try not to give away my sudden plan as I step in front of Gianni’s desk. I can feel the anger seething out of the Bratva side of the aisle. It’s like a heatwave compared to Gianni’s icy glare.
“Why did you shoot that man?” the godfather asks, gesturing towards Semyon.
“Because he was shooting at me,” I respond. There’s no way I’m mentioning Nia.
“There was a girl!” shouts Semyon.
I sneer and get ready to make my lunge for one of the grenades.
“And you were going to shoot them?” Gianni asks Semyon.
Semyon struggles to find a response. “They... They were coming up on my territory. I... I didn’t know he worked for you.”
“And now you want him dead, for defending himself?”
Semyon’s words are stuck in his throat, but Vadim picks up the baton for his fumbling grandchild. “Reasons do not matter when life and death are involved. We need blood for blood, it is the way of the Bratva. If it were one of your family members, we would ask only for a bullet to the leg, but this man does not look like one of you. He looks like an outsider. He is below us, and therefore, we require his life.”
“Yeah, and the girl’s too,” Semyon chimes in, licking his lips. I can almost see the blood in his eyes. I’ll give him blood...
Gianni raises his palm to the Russians, and, ever the businessman, straightens his tie with his o
ther hand. “You want both of their lives?”
“Gianni... Godfather,” I blurt out, before I can stop myself. A cage is tightening around my racing heat. He wants Nia... My fists shake so violently I worry I might not even be able to grip a hand grenade. I would never beg if it was just my own life on the line, but for Nia, I’ll do anything.
“You only get one life,” Gianni announces to the Russians. Then, he turns to me. “It’s you or the girl, Ronan.”
That’s enough to make me lunge for the grenades.
Before anyone can react, I’m holding one up for everyone to see. I make a big show of wrapping my finger around the trigger, making it clear that I’m ready to pull, even if it means taking me out with it.
Anything for Nia.
No one’s moving. Even Gianni has frozen. That’s a good sign; it means he’s worried that the grenade might actually work.
“You can come for me on the street,” I growl, releasing the fire raging in my gut. “But I’m not dying on my knees.”
Slowly, I back down the aisle, keeping my eyes focused straight ahead. I can tell no one on the either side wants to risk getting their heads blown off, but Vadim and Semyon are still shaking with anger.
“Get him!” shouts Semyon, and it doesn’t matter how scared his Russian soldiers might be, they’re not scared enough to disobey orders. I can hear men behind me shuffling forward.
I think of Nia one last time, but other than that, I don’t hesitate.
I pull the pin.
“Fuck!” someone shouts, and everyone immediately scrambles for cover. I drop the grenade and rush for the door.
I barely even have time to open it before my world is engulfed in a fireball of destruction.
17
Nia
6 weeks later...
It hits me like a tsunami, buckling my knees and forcing me to turn away.
I push through the kitchen door and barely make it to the bathroom before I puke my guts up in the toilet.
