The Butcher

by Aaron, Celia

  “I’ll tell you what. You give me the name of the Colombian, and I’ll stay in tonight, do that reading I just told you about.” I sighed. “The loyalty you’ve got for the Bratva doesn’t make sense right now. You love your daughter, right?”

  He coughed, more blood spilling down his chin.

  “Right.” I agreed for him. “The Bratva don’t care about you, comrade. You know you aren’t leaving here alive. But you can save Avery, keep her in one piece, send her off on a good life.” I shrugged. “I mean, I assume her life has been good. No way she knows about the dirty deeds you’ve been doing. The drugs and trafficking underaged girls and the killings—you covered your tracks with all that. But here’s the thing, I’ll tell her about it. All of it. And then I’ll do the same thing to her that I’ve done to you.”

  “Stop!” His shout rivaled his earlier screams of pain. “His name is Edgar Consuelos. Holed up with the Irish right now for protection against the Genoas and the Bratva.” He gagged on his own blood, then spat on the floor near the drain. “Just don’t touch Avery.” His one eye continued to shed tears, his watery gaze pleading. “She’s the only good thing I’ve ever had. The only pure thing. She’s all I’ve got. The one smart thing I ever did. Don’t you understand?”

  I chose my finishing knife and walked around behind him. With a quick slice, I ended his suffering.

  I understood better than he’d ever know.

  * * *

  “The Irish are harboring him?” Vince shook his head. “That’s a confusing one right there. Didn’t see it coming.”

  “That’s what he gave me.” I stared out at the pool, the moonlight playing along its surface.

  “Good work.”

  “Anything in particular you want me to tell Serge?”

  “Just give him the first part—the information on the new coke cutting thing the Bratva are working on. That’ll keep him interested and make you look good.”

  “All right.” I turned to meet Serge in his office.

  “Keep it up,” Vince called quietly.

  As if I had any other option. I’d been working for Vince and giving him choice bits of intel for a year. And I’d keep doing it for as long as I had to if that meant it kept Angel safe.

  Once I’d given Serge the rundown of my information—except for the best part—I headed toward the front door.

  “What’s doing, big guy?” Nate leaned against the foyer wall, a bored look on his face.

  “Done for the night.”

  He popped off the wall and strode to me. “I’m going to that new Pussy Palace over near downtown. Wanna come?”

  I kept walking.

  “Come on, it’ll be fun! I’m going to talk Con into going, too.”

  That was a laugh. Con only did what he wanted to do, and he didn’t strike me as a “Pussy Palace” kind of guy.

  “How can you turn down a trip to a place called the Pussy Palace?” Nate jumped in front of me before I could make it to the door. “I mean, they could be selling glory-hole hotdogs there as some sort of bait and switch operation, and I’d still go and check it out solely based on the name.”

  I glared down at him. “I have plans.”

  “With who?”

  “Myself.”

  “Bingo!” His eyebrows shot up. “You can wet your whistle aplenty at the Palace, and then go home for alone time.”

  “Jesus, you’re hard up for some companionship.” Peter walked in from the back hallway, likely where he’d been speaking to Vince about the intel I’d just retrieved.

  “Peter, my man. Pussy Palace, yeah?” Nate grinned.

  “I don’t think so.” Peter shook his head.

  “Come on. When’s the last time you’ve blown some cash on high-class entertainment?”

  “That’s not something I—”

  “Exactly!” Nate clapped him on the arm. “So let’s go have some fun.”

  Peter glanced at me. “You going?”

  “I’m going home. You two have fun.” I side-stepped Nate and opened the front door.

  “I’ll text you later,” Peter called after me.

  “Yes! Let’s go, man. Can’t keep the Pussy Palace waiting.” Nate’s glee almost made me smile. He was such a fucking nut.

  I closed the door and breathed in the night air. The scent of freshly-cut grass and some sort of late-blooming flower perfumed the breeze—so different from the dank, coppery smell that lived in the basement. I wondered if I smelled like blood, too. Probably.

  The ride to my apartment didn’t take long. Traffic was light this late at night. All I could think about the entire way was the envelope I’d received that morning. It was unmarked except for a printed label with my name on it. A bike courier had delivered it, but he couldn’t tell me anything about its origin other than it was prepaid in cash. No return address on it, and it was dropped off at the courier’s office before it opened for the day. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to contact me without being traced. The moment I held that thick manila envelope in my hand, I knew who it was from, could feel her in the pores of paper.

  I hadn’t opened it. Not yet. Not when I knew a long day of blood and pain awaited me. Maybe I thought the Butcher would taint the letter, which was clearly addressed to David Raven. I wanted to read it as David, not the monster who lurked in Serge Genoa’s basement. So I’d waited.

  When I arrived home, I found the envelope where I’d left it—stuffed under my mattress for safekeeping. Instead of opening it, I showered off, sending my day’s evil down the drain and emerging as clean as I could be. Angel deserved that from me.

  The only news I’d had of her was from Vince—and it was just a grainy photo of her on a bike somewhere. The background was blurred out, but I could tell it was my Angel. I had to trust Vince when he said it had been taken the previous week. I didn’t like that he kept such close tabs on her, but then again, knowing she was okay was the only thing that let me sleep at night.

  I wished I could tell her that Hector and Jorge were gone, though I would spare her the details of how slowly I killed both of them. She’d probably also like to know that Lorenzo had a “boating accident” a few months ago and drowned out at sea. (They never found what was left of his body after I weighted him down with cinder blocks.) Or maybe she’d already tried to forget this life and the nightmares she met here. I turned the envelope over in my sweaty palms, the crinkling sound of the paper loud in my quiet living room.

  Anticipation bubbled in my gut. My phone dinged with a text from Peter. I ignored it. This was my time. It was just between my Angel and me.

  With shaking hands, I slid my finger beneath the flap and broke the seal. Reaching in, I pulled out a sheaf of handwritten pages and a photo. I ran my hand along the inside and shook the envelope to make sure there was nothing else, no piece of Angel I’d left untouched.

  Flipping over the photo, I stared for a long time. My chest hurt, and my head swam, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away from her. I’d locked up my emotions a year ago, buried them in Blanco’s basement after Vince cut my wrists free.

  That night, Vince had taken Angel, hurrying her out of the house as his hired guns descended and caused untold chaos at Blanco’s estate. I followed Vince’s plan, fighting off some of the “Irish” and saving Blanco’s life. The whole thing had been perfectly choreographed by Vince, and I played my part. Days later, Blanco received a lock of hair and a pint of blood along with a photo of Angel’s body. I never saw the picture, couldn’t bear to even believe for a second it was true. But Blanco believed it, and that’s all Vince needed. He’d gotten me under his thumb and made Serge look bad while doing it—he was a true snake, one that Serge never even suspected.

  But this photo—I could stare at it for hours. She was alive, vibrant. A thick scarf hid her lips and chin, but her eyes were wide and bright even in the dim lighting. Behind her, the Eiffel Tower rose to the shadowy sky, the lights along the girders frozen mid-twinkle.

  My eyes stung, and everything I
kept tamped down inside threatened to pour out. “Angel.” I ran my fingertip along her outline. I sat like that for long minutes, just watching her, trying to gauge what she might have been thinking when the photo was taken. A single, dark thought cut across my mind—who’s behind the lens? Another man? I sliced that suspicion away, then drowned it in bleach.

  I reverently set the photo down and picked up the papers. Flipping to the first page, I got a view of blue ink and feminine, sloping print. My chest ached again as I began to read.

  David,

  I know I’m not supposed to do this, but I can’t help it. I’m taking all the precautions I can think of to keep you safe and out of trouble. If Vince came down on you for this, I’d never forgive myself. Please be safe.

  As you can see, I’m doing what you asked. Paris is beautiful, especially at night. Do you like the photo? My friend Ann took it for me. She’s young and sweet and thinks I’m an exchange student from America. I use an alias now, and I won’t share it with you here, because you’ll worry if I do.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and continued reading.

  The Eiffel Tower shines just like I told you, but it would be a lot brighter if you were here to see it with me. I miss you. I think about you every day. I wonder if you’re okay, if you are still doing the same work, if you hate it, if you love it, if you miss me, if you think of all the ways things maybe could have been different. I do that last part a lot. I imagine that instead of going to my apartment that night when we were kids, you and I ran away together and never looked back. I don’t just imagine it, I wish it. But it never comes true. Silly, really. I’m like that. But sometimes it helps with the ache. The distance seems a little shorter if I can pretend we’re seeing the world together.

  I’m working. Well, Vince set me up with some money to get me out of town and get me started overseas, but it wasn’t enough to last too long. So, I’m doing my own thing. You might be surprised to know that Ann’s father owns an antique shop here in Paris. I work there part time, mainly as a buyer who visits country estates and city flats to collect items for sale in the shop (usually a longtime resident dies, and I’m able to pick through their things. It’s voyeuristic and fun, honestly). What won’t surprise you is that I’m running a small fence operation for pickpockets and thieves. They come to me with their stolen goods, and I’m able to buy them cheap, then put on the shop paperwork that I found the items at an estate sale. When the items sell, I get a commission from them that is at least double what I paid. So, I’m supporting Ann’s family’s shop and lining my pockets while I’m at it. Terrible, I know. But I thought you might like it.

  My face seemed to crack from the giant grin I was sporting. “I fucking love it, my naughty Angel.”

  All that has kept me busy for the last few months, and I’m building up some cash so I can travel some more and make you proud. Are you proud? I think about that a lot. About how maybe I’d be bitter if I were you. Staying behind. Do you ever think the sacrifice wasn’t worth it?

  Never. I dropped the letter on my lap and rubbed the heels of my palms into my eyes. I wished, too, just like her. My wish was that she never worried about me, not like that. I would have died a thousand times over if it meant her freedom. God, what I wouldn’t give just to tell her that. After a few deep breaths, I picked the paper up again.

  Sorry. I get gloomy sometimes.

  In other news, I’ve been taking self-defense classes. I’m a fighter now. You might even be impressed! Okay, not a lot impressed. Just a little impressed. But I’m getting better. I go for the throat and the knees. Hardcore.

  “That’s my girl.”

  Otherwise, I have a little flat—I won’t say where. And it has a tiny balcony that overlooks the street. I lie out there at night sometimes and just listen to the city. It’s alive. It makes me lonely, but it also sends me back to you. We’re under the same sky, you know? I have this weird habit now where I touch the scar on my shoulder—the one from the icepick—and think about you. I think it’s because I know you have a matching one.

  I pressed my fingertip to the spot on my shoulder.

  Before I fall asleep, I always list my hopes for you. I have a lot. But it always ends with you being happy. That means more to me than anything else. And it’s probably foolish of me to think you can be happy right now, but I still hope it for you every night. And I hope to see you again soon. Maybe things will change where you are. Maybe we’ll get another chance. I want it so bad it hurts. I want to defeat whatever it is that keeps us apart. I want to grind it under my heel and leap into your arms. I’d stay there forever.

  Sorry, I’m getting sappy now. But I mean it all. Every word. I miss you. I’m living as best I can, just like you told me. I’ll wait as long as it takes to make my way back to you, and until then, I’ll send you my hopes every night. I love you.

  ~A

  32

  David

  Four Years Later

  “Con’s acting weird.” Peter followed me into the Genoa’s basement. He didn’t like coming down here, but apparently whatever he wanted to say was important.

  “How can you tell?” I opened the door to the room at the back, the one where I did my work.

  He hovered in the doorway as I laid out my implements. “I don’t know. It’s like, every morning for the past few months, no one can find him. And he’s always so goddamn reliable that it perked my ears up. What’s he doing, do you think?”

  “No idea. Is it interfering with his work?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “It’s just … Odd. And if you can believe it, he seems even more withdrawn than usual. Not even Nate can get a rise out of him.”

  A woman, my mind whispered. That was the only thing that had ever thrown me off my game. It wasn’t so far-fetched that Con had finally gotten struck by the same lightning bolt that hit me that hot summer day all those years ago. But I didn’t share my suspicion with Peter. I didn’t talk about anything that might bring Angel’s name to my lips. Instead, I turned my back on him and reached for my finishing knife.

  “Shit.” I pulled my finger away, a drop of blood on the tip.

  “The Butcher cut with his own blade? The fuck is going on around here? You’re off, too.”

  I shouldn’t have thought of Angel. It set loose a howling emptiness inside me. Her yearly letter was supposed to be here the day before, but never arrived.

  Forcing a deep breath, I steadied my hands and picked up the knife. “Just tired. A lot of work behind me and more coming up.”

  Peter moved into the room and closed the door. “That’s what I really wanted to talk about.”

  “Not Con’s mysterious ways?”

  “No. Well, yes, but not really.”

  “Okay?” I glanced at him over my shoulder.

  His voice dropped to just above a whisper. “It’s going down tomorrow morning.”

  I replaced my blade and turned to him. “That fast?”

  “Vince already gave Con the order. Everyone’s ready.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah.” He ran a hand over his scruffy jaw. “Con’s supposed to take Serge down at the bakery tomorrow.”

  “If Con is on it, then it’s as good as done.” I looked at the ceiling in the direction of Serge’s office. “At least he’ll make it quick for the old man. Quicker than I would, anyway.”

  “We’re supposed to lay low tomorrow. If Vince needs us, he’ll call.”

  Change of management had been coming for a while, but it was still disconcerting knowing we were right on the cusp. An idea struck me so hard I actually grunted.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Not nothing. If Serge was gone, maybe Vince would let Angel come back. That whole ordeal with Blanco was years ago, water long under the bridge. If Angel reappeared, no one would know who she was except a small handful of people. And if Vince were in charge, would that even matter? A thin matchstick of hope lit inside me.

  “What’s going on with you?”

&nbs
p; “Just tired.” I re-rolled my blades in their black case. “I should go.”

  “I thought you were going to—”

  “I was going to oil them, that’s all. I can do it later.” I shrugged and walked around him to open the door.

  “Okay?” He followed me through the basement and up the stairs. “You’re good, right?”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I do.”

  I turned at the top step and grabbed his shoulder. “I know.”

  His eyebrows lifted.

  “I know I’m tough to … live with, I guess. Mainly because I’m quiet and … well, me. But I know you worry about me, and thank you.” I’d never felt more awkward in my life, but when Peter smiled, it was worth it.

  “Still got that soft spot for me.” He patted my hand.

  “Idiot.” I exited the basement and walked along the back hallway.

  “It’s okay to admit your love for your brother, man.”

  I smirked. “You sound like Nate.”

  “Low blow. Besides, even Nate doesn’t sound like Nate as much anymore. He’s gotten all … serious.”

  I’d noticed the change in him, too. Maybe hanging around Conrad for all these years was finally starting to rub off on him.

  Peter stopped as I turned the corner toward the main house. “I’m going to do a few more runs over the numbers, but I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Sure thing.” I knew what he was saying—he wasn’t running numbers; he was spying on Serge to see if there were any suspicions. Smart. “Later.” It was fine with me. I itched to get back to my apartment and see if the letter had arrived, but first I needed to see Vince.

  He was sitting in Serge’s office when I walked in. I’d already spotted the old man out on the patio smoking a cigar and getting a little sun.