by Lea Bronsen
"You're late." His father tapped his shoulder. Dressed from head to toe in the same gear, Butcher would recognize his large frame at any distance. He pulled down his mask, revealing more gray in his beard than Butcher remembered.
"I was tailed." Butcher side-stepped as one of their crew moved out of the room with a black plastic bag.
"I should have never agreed to let you take that job." His father snorted. "Pricks."
Butcher moved away, not wanting to get into another heated battle over past choices. Bullets clinked into a glass jar. Each chunk of twisted metal yanked out of the gaudy headboard with needle nose pliers. On the bed, the bloody remains of a naked man lay tangled in the sheets. Rosalia floated near the bed, her white dress stained with crimson.
"Hell of a way for Gianni to go," his father said. "What I don't understand is that the two others looked like someone took a sledgehammer to them and just ground their bones to bits. Why shoot one and take the time to do that?"
"This is not my son." Rosalia's words echoed in his head like an eerie melody.
"That's not Gianni on the bed." Butcher moved the sheets to expose the body. Bullets had turned the head into mush. He traced a finger along the blood-stained thigh. "He had a scar here from when Salvatore took a heated poker to him. Plus, Gianni's got a tattoo on his ribcage." He turned away and came face-to-face with her. The healthy glow had vanished, replaced with the pallor only stage four cancer could create. Did she torment him because she thought he'd forgotten her final wish? His tongue begged for just a drop of bourbon, but he willed away the temptation.
"Boss. Salvatore Bencivenni's downstairs. He wants to take a look." Jimmy stood in the doorway.
"Send him up, but he's going to be disappointed." His father glanced around the room. "Clean it up, Butcher. We can't let that asshole know he didn't succeed. Make it quick." He held out a large knife, and Butcher took it. With quick efficiency, he sliced into the man's thigh and ribcage, tearing flesh from bone, and further defiled the body. Not even this poor soul's mother could identify his mutilated corpse. The reason his moniker 'Butcher' had stuck. He flipped the knife over and hurled it into the headboard. His gloves would prevent any fingerprints showing up. The alcohol made him The Butcher and the grotesque technique lived on in sobriety.
"I want you to go to the bathroom, son." His father directed him to the general direction. "Help them grind the rest down. I don't want Salvatore to know you're here. Keep your gear up."
Something in his father's tone worried him. All this work seemed to cross a line they never dared tread. In the bathroom, he sliced his hand across his throat to silence the crew before putting a finger to his mask. They nodded. In the bathtub, a soupy mess of human remains slowly cooked down with the help of a special mixture his family concocted. This would dissolve all but the bones. The crematorium would dispose of the rest.
In the other room, Salvatore's voice rose above them all. "Get rid of his body, too. Consider the transfer as good as done. No one will miss him now that Mother is dead. Piece of shit." His footfalls crunched on the broken glass. "I need this place cleaned up for someone special."
"Yes, Salvatore. We'll be finished in a few hours."
"Good."
Why wasn't Gianni here? Butcher wracked his brain for an answer. His release from jail had conditions and leaving his home—beyond the funeral—had to be arranged.
"Is Butcher with you? I have a private matter to discuss with him."
Butcher cursed. His father couldn't be flippant in his answer. Lie, perhaps, but if Salvatore called him out on it, the harm to their reputation would forever damage the family business. Again, he put a finger to his mask. One golden nugget Rosalia had bestowed on him was the layout on the house, including all the hidden areas. She confided in him that she shared her secret with one other person before Butcher. Her son Gianni. He peeled off his gloves and put on a clean pair. He searched along the seam of the tiles by the full length mirror. With a click, the wall slid open. He disappeared inside and closed the passage back up. Cobwebs hung from the high ceiling and the dampness from the lack of proper air circulation wrinkled his nose. What was in the bedroom was more preferable to his senses than this cramped passage. Holding his breath, he heard Salvatore's angry tone order his cousins to pull down their face masks. No way could he leave the passage until that asshole left the premises, and by the sound of it, he'd be here most of the day.
His muscles ached as he tried not to move. Muffled voices waxed and waned on the other side of the wall. Three raps followed by another staccato relaxed his mind. In a few minutes, he'd be free to leave. To be on the safe side, he checked his watch and counted off thirty more minutes. He stripped off the suit and left it in the passage as he emerged. His gun out and ready, he swept the bedroom. Not one drop of blood stained any surface. Three lives wiped from existence as if nothing had happened.
"Where are you, Gianni?" he whispered.
"Behind you." Cold steel pressed against his nape. "Drop it." Butcher complied. "Did my brother send you to finish the job?"
"No. Your mother." The gun cracked alongside his head. More annoying than painful. He cursed. "She sent me to protect you, you little fuck."
"Bullshit."
"I'm going to reach in my jacket and get you the letter she sent me." That earned him another whack.
"Move over to the bed." Guided by the barrel digging into his skull, Butcher shuffled forward, letting his hands stay in Gianni's line of sight. "Take off the jacket slow and toss it to the right." Again, he complied. The gun swung around to the front as Gianni backed near the jacket. The kid had nothing but a t-shirt on. A monitoring bracelet hung from his ankle. By the look of him, Butcher figured he either hadn't slept in a few days since his release or he'd already broken his parole for a little blow. Hair twisted and matted against his head, his irises were wide against the chocolate pigment of his eyes. Paranoia would do that to a man. Years in the yard during a prison stretch would also pack on lean muscle. Butcher tried not to let his mind stray when his captor bent to fish out the letter. Gianni's eyes narrowed as he read. The letter flicked to the floor.
"Why should I believe that?" Gianni gestured to the discarded message.
"Because if you don't, your older brother is going to send more goons to kill you." Butcher pointed to the ankle bracelet. "We need to get rid of that first. My family has a private jet at my disposal."
"You’re the fucking cleaners. You don't get involved."
"We do when some little fuck doesn't follow the rules. I'm still on your mother's payroll, God rest her soul. She made me promise to protect you—in blood." He extended his palm to show the deep scar.
"Why?"
"Because whether you want to believe it or not, she loved you and protected you above any other."
"Bullshit. You know what they did to me in there?" The gun wavered toward Butcher again. "Those little fucks? I came here to get ready for the funeral and they were waiting for me." His voice shook as tears streamed down his face. "They killed him in front of me."
A chill ran through Butcher. The body on the bed hadn't been a random hit. The other two bodies were of the assassins. "Who was the man on the bed?"
"I said I'd splatter their bodies with a sledgehammer if I ever got the chance." Gianni sunk to the floor, the gun forgotten as it slipped from his grasp. Butcher lowered his hands.
"We have to go now. If your brother finds out about the other two bodies, he'll be back." If Butcher hadn't been in such a haze when he came through the bedroom door, he would have remembered Gianni was fond of using a sledgehammer to destroy things in a fit of rage. Something his mother often joked about when they talked.
"I can't go anywhere with this bracelet on."
"Leave that to me. Get some clothes on and pack a small bag." Butcher picked Gianni's gun up and extended it to him. "I'm the only chance you got. Unless you think your brother will only send two guys to kill you when he finds you still breathing."
Gianni nodded and took the gun. While he rushed to dress, Butcher retrieved his gun and jacket. Sweat beaded on Gianni's forehead as he sat heavily on the bed. To even fathom that your own flesh and blood meant you harm. Butcher shook the thought from his mind and bent to take care of the ankle bracelet. "What I'm going to do is overload it, so to speak. Make it look like it's malfunctioning. The cops take about ten minutes to get here and by then, we'll be gone." The monitor fell to the floor. One minute later, they were on Butcher's bike and on the run.
* * * *
Gianni had recognized the brute in his bedroom right away. Why, after all these years, had they crossed paths again like some sick played-out joke? The torrid night of sex and debauchery in what seemed like eons ago had broken him, though he hadn't known him as Butcher. His moniker had come about a year after their tryst abruptly ended. Alcohol had a way of bringing out a person's true feelings. For all the tough exterior and prowess with women in public, Butcher had hidden what he truly desired just as much as Gianni had.
In a different scenario, he would ask his savior why he'd disappeared from his life. Every hour they shared in bed was in mutual want. Any utterance of the word 'no' stopped any further advancement. Pain flared in his chest over the loss, but he choked it down. The past was the past and his latest boyfriend had been slaughtered.
His judgment had gone haywire. After taking a moment to piss between love sessions, he'd walked into the two prison guards gunning down his lover. Shannon had dispelled some of his sorrow by showering him with the affection he sorely missed. The sledgehammer Gianni had lovingly promised he'd take their heads off with was in his hands before he could think. His blows rained down on them, reducing their flesh to pulp. Crimson madness, coupled with the lines of cocaine, fueled his fury. Afterward, he'd run into the passages, passing out somewhere between the upstairs and the garage entrance.
Shannon had been a constant in his life. No matter how late the night was, he fed Gianni's drug habit. Letting his lover have a measure of control the last time they fucked was his gift to a loyal house guest. So many things in his life had spiraled out of control. The bedroom was his domain and his sanctuary from a family that told him how to live his life. He loved Shannon on a carnal level, and, for that brief moment before his death, loved him madly. Their relationship had been purely based on sexual desire. Finding that unique partnership again would take more time than he was willing to invest.
To see Butcher standing in his bedroom was something out of a dream. His hair was shorter than he remembered, but those piercing blue eyes still cut. How many times had Gianni bent Shannon over and wished that hunk of a man was on the receiving end instead? No matter how many jobs his family did, Gianni could pick out his stiff frame even when they donned their suits to protect from bodily fluids.
As Gianni sat in the plane sipping plain ginger ale, he couldn't keep his eyes off Butcher. His suit hugged every inch of his masculine body. A tailor-made dream he wanted to play out right on the floor of the plane. If the jitters in his body weren't aching for his favorite white powder, the throb in his pants would get some much needed personal affection in the bathroom. Though the thought of whipping out his cock and masturbating in front of Butcher had its own fantasy.
"Where are we headed?" Perhaps a conversation would keep his mind off things. Besides, he loved the deep bass in Butcher's voice.
"Best we don't discuss it here. Far away from your family and a place your mother arranged for me to clean you up." Butcher popped an ice cube in his mouth, furthering the fantasies in Giannis head.
"I don't need any help."
"Those two cops you pulverized? They were on your brother's payroll." Butcher shifted forward in his seat.
"That's only because my mother died. She hired them to protect me." Even as the words left his mouth, Gianni realized the falseness in his conviction. Lies spilled from his mouth on a daily basis to justify his actions.
"Every time you sucked their cock? That was your brother laughing on the other end. He keeps you hooked on cocaine. What better way for you to fuck up again? Next time you violate your parole, you're staying in for a long time. Not even your father's death would save you. "
"What the fuck do you know?" Gianni glanced out the window. Nothing but billowy white clouds breezed past. This flight would violate his parole as it was, unless Butcher had some grand scheme to cover for it.
"You're an addict, Gianni. Sex, drugs, and on a small scale, alcohol, too. That life you had is gone. There's no going back because if you set foot in New York or the States again, you're going to get arrested for breaking your parole, unless my family decides to help out, which isn't a given beyond the plane ride out." Butcher sat back. "I found your stash, by the way. Let me make crystal clear about this trip—no drugs."
Gianni's hands clenched. The need ate at the pit of his stomach, and that bastard had taken his salvation. No matter what was said, Gianni would find a way to get what he craved. What did he know about what he'd endured in the past couple of years? Men could be bought, and he had no problem getting on his knees again to earn his snowy reward. "I'm tired. Does this place have better accommodations than these seats?"
"Follow me."
When he gazed on Butcher's taut ass, Gianni bit his lip. Damn him if he didn't have the best fucking tailor out there. After repositioning his raging hard-on, he followed his protector to the back of the plane. The door opened, and he caught a glimpse of a large bed covered by a plush duvet. Butcher stood off to the side, waiting.
"Are you going to watch me sleep or something?" Gianni sat on the bed.
"No." With a shove, Butcher knocked him back onto the bed and straddled him. "Like I said. You have some issues to work out." Gianni tried to buck him off, but the weight crushed his chest. Cool metal pressed against his wrists and that familiar click of cuffs pinned him to the bed. "This will keep your hands from rubbing your foreskin right off on the ten-hour trip."
Butcher moved off him, and Gianni jerked against the cuffs. "Son of a bitch. Motherfucker. Fanculo."
"It's for your own good, boy."
"Or maybe it's so you're not tempted to watch me jack off."
"Oh, talk dirty to me." Butcher laughed and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Anger seethed inside Gianni, but he didn't miss the tightness in his captor's pants. He screamed in frustration. All his torrid dreams of Butcher moaning his name, and he couldn't relive them without a hand firmly on his shaft. That bastard had played him, yet in some way the act of restraining him to the bed had aroused Butcher. Fucking that prick would be the last thing he'd do while they spent time together. When they landed, he'd find a way to disappear. Fuck going back stateside, he had nothing to go back to now.
* * * *
Back in his seat, Butcher tried to calm his erection. Not one to be a hypocrite, he refused to relieve his tension with a messy palm rub. It took all his will not to strip Gianni down and fuck him while he was tied to the bed. To feel his warm breath on the tip of his cock or the wet inside of his mouth. Rosalia had tried to tell Butcher that Gianni would be good for him. She'd accepted not only Butcher's lifestyle, but her son's. What better way to protect him than to send someone with the loyalty to take a bullet? He had to remember this was a job and not a vacation. Salvatore wouldn't stop until his brother was dead. His father hadn't gotten back to him with the particulars, but he'd asked for silence until they touched down in Switzerland. From there, Butcher would switch to burn phones to hide their movement. One text, and he'd get his information before tossing the phone.
Again, she appeared. A blurry dress covered her head to toe. Clouds drifted across the fabric and the leather seat she lounged in molded to her. In her hand, a crystal champagne glass filled to the brim with effervescent bubbles hovered near her lips, tempting him.
"You should fuck him and get it over with."
"Shut up." He closed his eyes again.
"How long have you loved him? How many men did I catch you
with before the cancer worsened?"
"Too many." Real or not, she was right. The first time she'd caught him slamming his cock into the tight rear of a willing man, she had the decency to wait until later on that night to question him. He remembered how she had laughed off his apologies and requests to leave her service. Her gentle kiss on his cheek and the blunt question of whether he used protection. From there on, she provided his entertainment in bed by paying male hookers that knew how to keep their mouths shut. A week later, after a particularly bad round of chemo, she confided her concerns with Gianni. One look at the picture of her youngest son sent shock waves through his system.
"You could love him. Protect him."
Her words held a numbing truth. Five years prior, when Butcher was at the height of his drunkenness, he'd run into Gianni at a nightclub. No doubt the youngest Bencivenni was well under the influence of substances. They'd kissed and fondled each other, fumbling like two virgins in the darkest corner. Butcher had woken up in some hotel room alone with only the soreness of a passionate fuck to soothe the emptiness. He never pursued his one-night stand. His family cleaned up the messes that the Bencivenni caused. That he'd crossed the line with Rosalia was unusual. Perhaps his techniques to dispose of the bodies had crossed the line, too. The methodology removed all traces that a body existed. Dead weight, sheets of plastic, and the middle of the ocean were old school. Too many chances to get caught, and with more and more police taking the moral high ground, Butcher's way of cleaning was more effective.
Standing, he adjusted his jacket before heading to the cockpit. Blue skies above the ground greeted him ahead. "Keep the door locked until we land. I don't trust our guest to do anything."
"You got it, Butcher. Six more hours."
The timeframe gave him plenty to sleep, even if he camped out in one of the chairs. Heading to the back of the plane was too much of a temptation. He trusted in Rosalia's judgment, yet part of him didn't want to open up to Gianni. The end of the road could have them both face down in a ditch. His gaze never left his guest’s door. The drone of the plane didn't lull him to sleep. Time faded until the jerk of the wheels on the tarmac. Flipping his phone open, he dialed.
