Broken (Dying For Diamonds Book 1)

by Kiley Beckett

  Maybe mom’s new beginning was just around the corner. If those men hadn’t hit her over the head, stripped her and raped her, carved her up...maybe she would’ve got what she wanted some day. Got away from Pop, away from the drugs. He wasn’t sure she would have brought him. Wasn’t sure what she would have done if she wasn’t trapped. She was his mom but he hardly knew her. He knew she liked roses.

  Below the old sign, on his right hand side, were three separate buildings, flat-faced red brick with curved arches over the windows of the apartments above. All three buildings knocked through at the sidewalls on the ground floor so you could wander the displays and the wholesale bulk bouquets in white buckets filled with yellowing water. He went in, parted the crowds with his intimidating bulk, stepping over hoses twisting along the concrete floor. Made his way to the back where there was a counter with a handful of employees putting together orders for customers. When it was his turn he ordered a dozen yellow roses.

  Eyes were on him, other customers waiting, looking him up and down out of the sides of their heads. Big guy, leather jacket, mean-looking...buying flowers. He was in love. So what?

  “Make it two dozen,” Rocco said. He nodded at a woman looking up at him. She grinned.

  Guy in his green apron, tied in a dangling bow at the small of his back said, Yes, sir, with a professional smile. Doubled up the bouquet of bursting yellow roses meant for his Daniella. Wound the stems together with frizzy twine, then a silk ribbon. Lay it on a battered metal worktable littered with the short green cut stems. Rolled the roses in two layers of unbleached Kraft paper printed with faint gray paisley. More twine. More ribbon. Guy with the apron proudly presented the bouquet to Rocco with both hands. He paid cash, left a tip and worked his way out of the busy shop.

  He should pick up breakfast. He was out anyway, the weather was nice. He’d bought supplies but Daniella would love a macchiatta. Maybe a couple of cornetto ripienos, pick up some Nutella. There was a bakery out by Garibaldi Park, wondered if it was still there. Old couple had it since the sixties. Came from Bari. Hardly spoke English. Would they still be alive? Maybe, it was only four years ago. It wasn’t that far, he’d drive southwest, head to Little Italy... He stopped. He was being stupid. Drive to Little Italy? A city full of killers, all of them mafia, he’s going to go to Little Italy, show his face? For a guy that made it this far surviving on wits he was being a real asshole these days. Supposed to be out finding who wanted Daniella dead, he’s holed up with her the whole time, doing nothing about it. Just eating and fucking and playing.

  He wasn’t moving forward. He always liked to be moving forward. Or was he not? Was it moving forward but on a different angle? He smiled. Smelled his flowers. Like a gut punch that smell. One whiff and he’s on that patio with its potted plants, he’s in the kitchen as his mother cups her hand under her chin to collect her blood, he’s in the hall closet and watching her live her last moments—

  New beginnings. This was about new beginnings. That smell would not be about the past anymore. These flowers were about what was next. The one gift he took from that poor young woman who bore him. The one thing she gave him was the concept of hope.

  He crossed the busy street, a two-lane with parking on both sides. Hit the fob for the truck and its headlights winked at him. A young woman across the street, behind the truck, looked at him strangely. She looked much like his mother but well-dressed and groomed, the fresh skin of a girl who never got hooked on heroin. She had a baby in an old style carriage.

  The paper of his bouquet ruffled stiffly, made a crackle. A yellow petal fluttered by his chin and he waved his hand at it to knock it away like it was a fly buzzing at his mouth. The woman’s face made to scream but no sound emerged. Her hands thrust into her baby carriage and his heart froze. She had a gun in there. His windshield suddenly sparkled and its gleaming reflective surface went to hazy crystal fragments, held in place by a white jagged spiderweb. He dropped the flowers. The woman rose. She had a baby. She clutched it to her chest.

  He turned, drawing his pistol from the small of his back as he did. He was seared, lanced with white hot sizzling pain. One stab through his side. Above his hip by four inches, below his ribs. God, please not my spine, he thought. His leg was stabbed too, a bolt of heat dead center in the muscle between his knee and his hip. He laughed on the way down. Not at his predicament. He laughed at Daniella yesterday morning saying, You’re not going to wear your vest? and he said, I’m just making phone calls. His head hit the asphalt and he saw winter sky and snow. Fucking today he was buying flowers. Living this life meant you were never safe.

  He raised his chin so he could see his killer, one that shot him in the back. Scrawny punk with sunglasses, watching for a break in the traffic, pistol held slackly at his side. A Glock with a six-inch suppressor. Professional gun, but he didn’t seem professional. Dangerous yes, psychopathic, most likely. Rocco’s gun was stuck and it wouldn’t move. The hitman got his break, gave a friendly wave to the driver of a Fedex truck oblivious to the shooting on the street. Rocco tugged the gun harder, angled his head to look down his body, between his boots, watch this guy coming for him. Rocco was on his gun, it was stuck under him. His heart pounded in his chest, he felt his neck swollen with adrenalin.

  The scrawny guy was smiling. He had a set of uneven teeth that looked too small for his face. Dolphin teeth. His dolphin mouth was going to come over here and he was going to use it to ask him where Daniella was. When Rocco told him to go fuck himself he would stick something in the bullet hole. His finger. The hot barrel of the suppressor. His right knee came up with great effort. He let the knee fall to his left. It was enough. His gun hand and his gun were free.

  Dolphin teeth stopped smiling, eyebrows raised above his glasses. Rocco shot him three times. Center mass, all hits, he went down while he was moving forward, one knee first then flat on his face.

  Then Rocco was up. He was unsteady. He wouldn’t have long. The impact of the hits had stunned him but that was wearing off. Now he was bleeding but he would be jacked on adrenalin. That wouldn’t last long.

  The hitman’s quiet silenced gun had brought no panic. Only the woman with the baby had fled. Her vintage carriage sat empty on the sidewalk on the far side of the pickup. Three shots from his Glock, however, had delivered the news that there was trouble in Printer’s Row. There were screams, yelling, fading now as pedestrians cleared the street. Traffic had stopped.

  He stood bleeding in the street. He felt it pumping from him. Felt his back warm and wet. Wondered where that bullet might have went. Hit something, angled up and sat now precariously close to an artery, an organ? His leg was through and through. He could see that. Blood on both sides, pulp and flesh hanging out the tattered hole in his jeans where it had ripped through.

  Think, Rocco, think. His ears rang.

  Home in the truck? He could die before he got there. Or he could get there and have a team of killers right behind him, following his blood trail and right to Daniella. Daniella. They could be going for her right now. How did they know where he was? How did they find him?

  Footsteps beat on the stone across the street. Two heads, bobbing along above the parked cars on the other side. No police hats, which was a relief. Didn’t need a tussle with Chicago’s baddest gang right now. He sidestepped to the door of the truck, his bouquet of yellow roses scattered around his boots.

  Grabbed the door handle and yanked it open, turned and put two bullets into the grill of a car on the other side of the street. Bullets wouldn’t ricochet or bounce around, hit someone not looking for trouble. It sent the two bobbing heads scattering to the ground. He saw them pop up again, but now he had the key in the ignition of the big Chevy. It clanked and rattled to diesel life. His side window shattered but stayed in place, a jagged shape the size of a deck of cards fell into the cabin. Then his rearview mirror exploded. It jumped off the shattered windshield, spun a circle. Small jacks of glass went into his ear canal and down the collar of his shirt.
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  Put a fist in his windshield, punched a view-hole, hit the pedal with his heavy boot and the truck roared, lunged. He jagged a slash across the street at a wild angle. He drove over the body of the hitman face down on the center line and the truck barely bounced. He swiped the car the two heads had used for cover. Knocked the compact Kia on an angle right up onto the sidewalk. He heard a scream but it grew distant as he roared down the now vacant street. Oncoming traffic had disappeared, backed up and got the fuck out of Dodge. His steering was unsteady but his thoughts were clear and he was breathing and his heart was beating. All good things. His fingers and toes wiggled. Another good thing. He gripped the wheel tight. It wasn’t time yet for new beginnings. There were men he had to murder. But first there was a woman who needed him...

  15

  Burner

  daniella

  She wanted to run a bath but she cleaned instead. Found that it took her mind off the worry. There was something comforting in having busy hands. Busy hands that were engaged in the maintenance of life and love. She was cleaning their home. Her and Rocco’s living space. Sure, it wasn’t really their home, but for now it was where they lived.

  She cleaned the pots in which she’d boiled and fried. She cleaned the plates from which they ate. She cleaned the glasses from which they’d shared much wine. She inhaled. She was smiling. Noticing her smile made it broader. She hummed. Order was restored to the kitchen. It was clean and spotless. Ready for them to do it all over again.

  This was the life she wanted. She couldn’t wait to tell him. He would stop killing for her. He didn’t want that anyway. She would leave the Nero business to someone who could keep a lid on the violence using the threat of worse violence. That was how it was done, and while she would be a great and wonderful leader, she was leading men whose lives trudged away in archaic grooves worn deep by frequent travel. They weren’t interested in someone coming along and showing them a new and cleaner path. They liked their path. They liked their vice, they were okay with killing. They wouldn’t see the light she offered because to them it wasn’t. They were blind to doing things better, kinder. Promised profit wasn’t enough for them. They’d prefer to make less money and look strong and old-school over making more money and being progressive.

  Rocco’s paints had brought her a breakthrough. Like she’d been lost in the woods and now she’d found the path she knew would take her to her home. Of course, for now, there were men hiding in the bushes along the path.

  Before going into the garage to look for turpentine, she put Rocco’s flannel back on, knew the garage would be cold. At the front wall of the garage there were shelves that went to the ceiling. Done in pine 2x4s, they were mostly empty, but she needed to get the paint off her skin. She found a can, light but when shook made an interiorly splashing sound. Then in the cold empty garage a high and brittle sound came from the street. Not the one where the house faced, but out to the left, past the rooftops of the facing houses. It was a rising siren. Growing louder, more urgent. Getting close, peaking, then growing distant. But then it was followed by another. Then, quickly, another.

  She went back in, hopping on her bare feet, trying to soak up some of the warmth from the heated floor, headed to the kitchen sink. She wiped her hands down with the turpentine, her arms, her chest, her legs...growing increasingly distracted, aware of the sound of more and more desperate sirens...

  rocco

  He was fading. Could sense it. A softness at the edges, like the frayed fluff of old denim around a tear. He was losing it. His wet hands gripped the truck’s steering wheel. Slick with blood. He knew where he was going now. He’d decided on his plan of action and it was a fucking good one.

  He shot that truck like a rocket, blasted straight out of the area of action where he’d been ambushed. He was lucky those three weren’t better killers.

  Maybe he wouldn’t make it, but Daniella would. He would see that she lived. He’d save her but he couldn’t go to her. That would draw them closer, he might bring them right to her—and he was in no shape to help anyone right now. He couldn't fight off a boy scout.

  The truck rocketed to the border where the civilized metropolitan downtown met the northern outskirt. Dead ahead, like a sentinel, was the prow of a corner facing convenience store. He plowed diagonally across the intersection, squinting and snarling while tires screeched and someone slammed on their horn. The truck bounced the curb, metal crumpled as his grill bent over the green junction box just outside the store. It sparked and popped and then went dead.

  The door of the truck groaned as he hoofed it open with his boot. Set his feet down, saw blood plopping and staining the sidewalk as he lurched out. His boots scuffed through the overgrown clover, now brown and frosted, spreading from the cracks and joints in the walk. His arm hung and bent against his body, protecting the side where he’d been shot that now throbbed like he’d been kicked by a horse. He lumbered, his gait even but enervated, his torso curled to one side. The windows of the store were plastered with lotto signs and cigarette decals. In the side panel next to the glass door hung a lopsided neon sign that said OPEN. Above the door, set in the convex green-brick face was a sign that read AJ’s CONVENIENT. Underneath that it said, American & Mexican Groceries, then below that in bold letters, FOOD-SODA-CIGARETTES-LOTTERY-PHONES.

  They had what he was after.

  He opened the door, saw his bloody hand smear a bloody print over the Kool’s cigarette logo. Inside the store, standing behind the counter that faced towards the exciting action movie he’d just performed for her, was a middle-aged Latina with greying hair pulled back from her soft face and tied in a low bun.

  “Hey, how are you?” he coughed.

  She kept her expression even but her eyebrows were raised high. She wasn't frightened but she was wary. He imagined she probably had a pearl handled twenty-two within her reach right now, maybe under the counter, maybe in the cash register, maybe tucked into her bra.

  “Sorry ‘bout the...” he motioned to the floor, at the drops of blood he was leaving behind.

  She was stoic.

  He shrugged, gestured with an open hand to the display of cel pack phones on chrome peg hooks past her shoulder. “Phone, please.”

  She sucked her teeth, her eyes not leaving him. “What kind?” she said.

  “You decide,” he told her. Quickly, please.

  Without taking her eyes off him she reached over her shoulder, pulled a clear plastic-packed phone off its hook and lay it on the counter on top of a Camel sponsored display filled with scratch-offs.

  “Perfect,” he said, winced, his hand reaching for his wallet in his jacket, he pulled off two bills and tossed them on the counter. A freshet of blood spritzed his boots and the floor.

  She took his bloody bills, a fifty and a twenty to pay for a ten-dollar burner and he snatched the phone from the counter. He lurched back to the door but she called after him.

  “You okay? You need help?” she said now, feeling like she could trust him.

  He leaned on the doorframe, held it open, a wintry blast hit his face. He wagged the phone package at her, grunted, “Thanks...I’m calling an ambulance.”

  He stumbled out into the cold, a surge of adrenaline coursed through him anew and he was elated to have it. He strode the frost-heaved sidewalk, his fingers tearing at the package as he went. Turned, passed his truck, abandoned now, it was no use to him. The nose of it had lifted up onto the concrete base that supported the electric box, his front wheels weren’t even touching the ground. There was honking behind him, turned, saw the intersection had been clogged with impatient cars trying to negotiate the traffic without any lights. His truck had knocked out their power.

  He stumbled along the sidewalk, picking up his pace. The adrenalin had washed the pain away again, the cold air on his face had narrowed his focus. His grayness was abated for now. His fingers still struggled with the plastic packaging around the phone.

  The whoop of cop sirens picked up in the distan
ce, over the spine of the low two-story buildings that lined this neglected road. He had to get off the street. He went along, under a Pit BBQ sign that hung overhead, past a Mexican grill, a plumbing and heating store... Everything closed up, too early in the day, and all the business butted up against each other, providing no spot for him to duck in off the street.

  He passed an International House of Prayer, its storefront windows emblazoned in bright vinyl with GRACE AT WORK. Then, at last, just ahead he saw an opening, a break between the buildings. He stumbled to it. On the opposite side was Prestige Deli & Liquor, closed now, the front door shuttered with a rolling metal defender; the windows crossed with iron bars, behind that the dormant colorless neon of beer brands and a Chicago Bears emblem. He fell into the narrow alley and the phone scattered across the snowy grit. He crawled to it, clutched it, pressed his back against the brick wall of the Ministry, hid himself from the street behind a chipped green metal trash bin. He tried again to work the phone pack open.

  His fingers struggled with the packaging. It was impossible to open and his wet grip had smudged blood all over the PVC. Now he wanted to take the whole thing and slam it to the ground, smash it and drive his boot heel into it. Fucking who makes these things so hard to open? ...He needed this phone now. Jesus fucking Christ, he could bench press more than four hundred pounds, he couldn’t open a fucking piece of shit plastic box?

  His head came back and he closed his eyes, let the crown of his head rest on the cold brick. He breathed. His hand went in the pocket of his coat, took out his pen blade. Relax. Calm. He held the immensely durable plastic tri-fold standup, saw the incredible treasure inside. A small black disposable phone. He breathed. He calmed. He took the blade and carefully ran it around the heat-sealed edges and then he pried the two halves apart, snagged the phone with his big bloody fingers and in five seconds the phone was ringing.