by Tia Lewis
She wiped away her tears.
“As I waited on the wall, I heard a loud bang! It sounded like they kicked your door in. My heart was beating so fast, and I began to cry. I tried to think if I left out any of my belongings in plain view where they could see or if they would find any clues that would connect me to you.
“I waited which seemed like forever… and then I heard silence. It was so quiet all I heard was my heart beating. I wanted to peep around the corner, but I was so afraid. What if I looked and those men were coming down the hallway in my direction?
“So, I waited… Then I finally got the courage to peep around the corner. That’s when I saw the two Russians come out of your apartment holding their guns and a suitcase...”
Suitcase? I thought.
“I watched as they made their way downstairs and I thought the coast was clear. I was so nervous to move from behind the wall, but I took a deep breath and ran towards your apartment. That’s when I saw you. I reached out to you and you almost…”
“Suitcase?” I murmured and stood up from the table. Then a chill ran down my spine. I did my best to contain my growing anxiety, to stay calm until I realized the reality of what had occurred.
“Fuck!” I growled.
I ran into the bedroom and yanked my closet door open. I threw piles and piles of clothes behind me and nearly collapsed.
The suitcase was gone.
“Fuck!” I screamed, punching the closet door so hard my knuckles bled. My voice echoed throughout the apartment, and the closet door barely hung on to the hinges. “Fucking Russians bastards! I’ll kill every goddamned one of them!”
I stood up and wiped my bloody knuckles on my jeans. My body was more alive now, more than it was after a fight, after a kill. Blood dripped from my clenched fists and splattered to the floor. I paced back and forth, rubbing the back of my head before I made my way to the living room.
Tess had wedged the front door shut with a chair from the kitchen table and made sure the door closed tight the best she could. She turned when I walked in.
“What happened? Why are you screaming?”
“They took it! They took my money! Six million in fucking cash—and they just fucking took it!” I turned and smashed my fist into the wall. It caved inward like a crater, cracks spreading through the plaster, the paint turning red from my blood.
“How? Where did you hide the money?”
“In the closet, Tess!” I clenched my fists.
“In the closet?” She creased her forehead. “Oh, no! I saw the Russians taking a suitcase out of your apartment!”
“Fuck!”
“Who the hell hides six million dollars in a bloody suitcase?”
I paced around the room feeling like a crazed animal. Hiding all my money in the suitcase may have seemed crazy to Tess or to a normal person. But I wasn’t normal. Far from it actually. I’ve lost the most important people in my life, and the only thing that was left—other than darkness and pain—that was valuable to me was my money. That’s why I kept my suitcase close to me right where I can keep an eye on it and control it.
Generally, if something like this happened, I’d go to Boss. But how could I go to Boss for help now, when I clearly had Tess with me? Her presence was evidence of my lies, and that proved me untrustworthy. Showing up with Tess was a surefire way for both of us to end up six feet under.
Boss had a money laundering service for his top employees. Of course, there was a fee. It gave me "legit" money to spend— the money went in dirty and came out clean on the other side. I had connections through Boss that could front me some cash but therein lied the problem. I can’t go back to Boss if he finds out that I’m involved with Tess, especially now that he appointed me as the underboss of the Bianchi family.
All of Boss’ connections report back to him so even making a few phone calls is out of the question. Next thing you know I’ll get called back to the Drunk Harpy and Boss will question me about why I’ve called the other crew members for money. He doesn’t play around when it comes to money; he needs to know what comes in and what goes out. Even if a nickel is missing, you can bet your bottom dollar he’ll find out why, who’s responsible and order a hit—or kill them himself. So, lying to him again was not an option.
Telling Boss that the Russians stole my money because of what happened in the alley was suicide. “What exactly happened in the alley, Liam?” “I thought you weren’t involved with that whore.” “Are you telling me that you lied to me?” I could hear him interrogating me while sitting at his desk and running his money through a cash counter machine.
There was a clear course of action. One that I knew most of my colleagues would take in a situation like this. They’d kill Tess, bury her, and go to Boss and leave her out of the story entirely.
“Fuck!” I mumbled under my breath. I knew I should have listened to Smithie when he encouraged me to invest my money into real estate or other assets. I was too busy sticking my cock in hot women and my contractual obligations to pay him any mind. That was a goddamn foolish mistake. “Fuck!”
I went to grab my cell phone and hesitated. Just then Tess ran up to me and hugged me tight. I stood frozen with my arms by my sides, not sure how to react.
“What are you doing?”
“Calming you down,” she responded, squeezing me tighter. “Let’s think this through. Screaming and punching holes in the wall will not solve anything.”
“It’ll make me feel better,” I said, feeling the warmth of her body pressed tightly against mine.
She finally let go and took a step back. Her bright blue eyes were wide and glimmered with uncertainty.
“We can’t stay here, can we? The front door is completely busted, and the chair won’t keep us safe and stop them from coming back.”
Christ, when did things get so complicated?
“No,” I admitted. “We can’t stay here. But we can’t be seen in the street together, either.”
I went into the bedroom, grabbed ammunition from my dresser and found a black hoodie lying on a chair. I threw the hoodie to Tess.
“Here. Put that on. Pull the hood down low and put the ammunition in your suitcase. You need to leave. Now. Get dressed, and go. Turn left and walk four blocks. You’ll come to a diner with a big orange sign: Vinny’s. Sit inside, at a table near the glass. When I tap the glass, leave the restaurant and follow behind me but not too close. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she began to cry. “This is all happening so fast. I’m scared, Liam!”
“Dry your tears and go. Now.”
“What about a car? Don’t you have a car?”
“Don’t remind me,” I murmured.
I turned away from her and reached into my pocket. I had fifteen hundred dollars on me, and that was it.
“Ready?” I asked, turning back to her.
She’d put the black hoodie on; you could hardly see a sliver of her pale skin. The hood was pulled down low, and she wore baggy pants and boots. From behind, she could almost pass as a boy trying to look cool.
“If you mean, am I terrified? Then yes, I am ready.”
I went to move towards the door, but she put her hand on my chest. My first reaction was to grab it at the wrist and snap the bone. That was what I had done my whole life when somebody had laid a hand on my chest. But this wasn’t a hand that wanted to harm me. This was a hand that wanted to soothe me, wanted to make me calm down. I would’ve laughed if I saw myself then: lifting my hand and laying it on top of hers. I held her hand even though I’d been taught it was a weak thing to do. I held it because, to be honest, it felt good at that exact moment.
But then I quickly let it go. What was I thinking? I wasn’t used to this shit, and I couldn’t afford to get emotional.
“Go.”
She nodded as she threw the ammunition and the painting into her suitcase and zipped it up. She looked at me like I might argue about her bringing the painting, but I just wanted her to get moving.
&n
bsp; Tess left, and I experienced something I didn’t know how to identify. It was like I was out there with her, looking over her shoulder, getting worried because she might get hurt. I had to keep reminding myself that I didn’t know a goddamned thing about this girl. She was Tess, and that was it. Her story could’ve been all bullshit. All lies. This could be a setup. What if she was working for Zharkov? I knew the Russians and the Bianchi Crime Family were enemies and maybe this was a trap. But despite my better judgment, I believed her. It was a sucker move, but it was how I felt.
I’d always kept women at a distance, something to look forward to at the end of the day and be done with after they’d satisfied me. I’d never felt this—this whatever the fuck it was. It scared me, in truth. Scared me to my bones. I sat on the end of the bed, waited and looked down at my blood-covered knuckles, wondering what the fuck I had I gotten myself into and how the hell things got so fucking out of hand so quickly.
Chapter Eight
I had calmed down, but not much. My temple still pulsed like it wanted to break out of my head and my jaw still clenched in agitation. I ran a hand through my short jet-black hair, and it came away slick with sweat.
Walking into the kitchen, I reached under the sink and retrieved the first-aid kit. If there was one thing a hitman needed, it was a first-aid kit. I had lost count of the number of times I’d been stabbed, kicked, gouged, sliced, punched… On top of that, I’d been shot twice so I’d definitely put the first aid kit to good use.
I laid the first-aid kit on the counter and opened it. It looked odd sitting there, too clean on the grimy kitchen counter. I could see strips of the surface where Tess had tried to clean, where layers of dust had been pushed away only to reveal more layers of dust. As I bandaged my hand, a spider crawled from a hole on the counter and looked up at me.
“You have it simple,” I said, wrapping my hands in bandages. I wouldn’t leave them in bandages for long, but I’d known men whose knuckles had gotten infected after a couple of rounds with brick walls. The last thing I needed right now was a goddamned infection; I had enough problems. I didn’t bother cleaning up since I doubted I’d be returning here anytime soon. As I left the counter, the spider scuttled back into the crack. Its legs seemed to wave goodbye to me before it disappeared.
All this for a tight, sexy little wet hole, I thought, but that was becoming harder and more difficult for me to believe. I thought there might be something else there: something more that pulled me toward her. Even though I had experience with women, it wasn’t that kind of experience. I felt like I was in the middle of a lake. On one side was my old life; on the other side was Tess. I knew I should have swum back toward my old life, but the waves pushed me towards Tess, and the more I thought about returning, the stronger the waves became. For some reason that I didn’t fully comprehend, I couldn’t leave her behind.
I pushed the thoughts from my mind, holstered my pistols inside my leather jacket, and left my apartment. My door swung, broken, and clattered into the frame behind me. The graffiti-covered, dirty hallway was quiet as I made my way downstairs. I was on the second floor and about to turn the corner in the staircase when I heard a door open down the hallway followed by footsteps. My first reaction was to turn around and pummel whatever idiot that was trying to sneak up on me. But after a moment, I recognized the footsteps. They were shaky, uncertain, but determined, too. I turned and faced the old woman. My eyes lit up, and I smiled when I saw her, but she looked too out-of-it to register my smile.
Mrs. Darlene McGreevy was at least eighty-years-old. She looked like a gnarled tree but beautiful one. Her arms were long, and the fragile bone was visible through the saggy and aged skin. Her legs were skinny, too, and her knees continuously clicked together. She wore red lipstick and had stunning, bright hazel eyes.
My face beamed, and I let out a sigh. She was going to take a tumble down the stairs one of these days, that was for sure. I wouldn’t hear the end of it from the residents in the apartment building, and I couldn’t bear to see Tess and the look of disappointment on her face if I let Mrs. McGreevy take a tumble today. Am I actually forming a conscious? Shit, why I can’t l get Tess out of my head? I thought.
“Mrs. McGreevy,” I said, walking towards her with open arms. I knew I was wasting time. I kept seeing Tess, and her black hood pulled up as she walked away from me. I kept hearing her heartbeat, heavy and terrified. I kept imagining what it would be like to be inside her head right now, to know what she was thinking. It was nothing like how I usually thought about women. It was unknown. A mystery. Some deadly but sinfully sweet poison called Tess had got a grip on me, and I was losing my fucking mind.
Mrs. McGreevy stumbled toward me with crab legs, knees sticking outward one moment, clicking together the next. She clutched a loaf of wheat bread to her chest, but it had gone moldy. She wore a vintage floral nightdress that hung from her body. Her breasts peeked through the flimsy fabric, and I did my best to avert my eyes.
“We need to get you covered up and back inside, Mrs. McGreevy.”
“Danny?” she asked, her voice so raspy it was as if she was talking down the phone on a bad connection. “Danny, is that you?”
She squinted at me with those beautiful hazel eyes. A scent like urine and baby powder lingered around her when she opened her mouth. I could tell Samson, her grandson, wasn’t visiting her like I told him to do; otherwise, she wouldn’t be in such a poor state. I took the liberty of checking on Mrs. McGreevy multiple times a week to ensure that she had showered, had food to eat, took her medicine and anything else that I could do for her since her bastard grandson wouldn’t put in the effort to look after her.
“Yes, it’s me,” I answer with a brightness in my voice. I lied again, smiling as friendly as I could. I had been told I had a charming smile and perfect white teeth. I’d practiced my smile in the mirror once. I didn’t see much charm, just a hardened man.
“It’s me, Mrs. McGreevy,” I replied. “Please, let me take you back inside, and I’ll call Samson to come over.”
“Okay, Danny,” she smiled.
She dropped the loaf of bread and fell toward the wall. I darted behind her and wrapped my arms around her, propping her up. Her bones dug into me. She was all angles, all hard surfaces, made jagged by living a tough life for so long. “You’re a strong one, aren’t you, Danny?”
“I believe so,” I said. “Do you think I can carry you to bed?”
“Oh, yes, yes!” she coughed, trying to raise her arms above her head but only managing to raise them up to shoulder height.
I scooped her up and nudged her apartment door open with my shoulder. The door swung open, and her apartment was still spotless from the last time I cleaned it. Every surface was polished until it gleamed. The kettle was more reflective and shiny than my bathroom mirror. The coasters had been polished and even the vacuum, which sat in the corner, had been cleaned. Plastic coverings stuck to all of her vintage furniture, and her antique collectibles were dust-free. Crazy to think that I cared more about her apartment than mine.
On the wall in Mrs. McGreevy’s apartment, behind the old, antique television, was a portrait of a handsome young man in a suit and a bow-tie, standing beside a bombshell woman, laughing carelessly as a flash of skin peeped out from beneath her dress. It was signed Danny and Darlene McGreevy, ‘51. If I had a heart, it would give a little twinge right about now.
“Oh, thank you, Danny,” she smiled.
Mrs. McGreevy had always called me “Danny,” ever since I moved into the apartment building almost a year ago. I remembered carrying in my suitcase while she poked her face out of her door, her rouge lips grinning wide. “Danny?” she’d asked. “It’s you, Danny!” And I would just nod.
Danny McGreevy was her ex-husband, Boss’ right-hand man and the accountant of the Bianchi Crime Family. I remembered him carrying around a thick black book inside a black suitcase which held all the financial records and contact information of the Bianchi family connections. He
was well respected in the family and among the Drunk Harpy crew. Everyone was impressed by his brilliance and ability to quickly calculate complex mathematical problems without a calculator.
Mr. McGreevy and I were close as well, and he always considered me as his son. He trusted me and saw potential that he didn’t see in his own grandson, Samson. Samson was a devious, impetuous, and careless man who was obsessed with making fast money and illegal gambling—he chose to prioritize his get rich quick schemes over his own family. So, it wasn’t a surprise that Samson gravitated towards Boss and was attracted to his money, power, and greed. Samson did everything in his power to please and gain respect from Boss in hopes that he would take him under his wing. Mr. McGreevy saw that he couldn’t trust his own flesh and blood and when he saw that I was one of the most trustworthy men in the Drunk Harpy crew he approached me about taking on more responsibility in the family.
However, all that changed when he was killed during a hit gone wrong two years ago. I remember that night like it was yesterday. I was cleaning and oiling my pistols in my apartment when I heard banging on my door. “Open up! It’s Samson!” I let Samson inside, and he darted through the door in a sheer panic, holding his pistol and pacing back and forth. He told me his grandfather was leaving the local flower shop late at night holding a bouquet of roses for Mrs. McGreevy and two Russians snuck behind him and fired four times in his back. When word got back to the Drunk Harpy, Samson, and the crew went for blood after the Russians.
After that Samson then went to his grandparent’s house a few miles north and broke the news to his grandmother. Mrs. McGreevy collapsed onto the floor and soon after stopped eating, taking her medications, going to the local beauty shop every day to sit and gossip with the other women—essentially giving up on life since her heart was broken without her husband. Samson took care of his grandmother for a short time until his hunger for the thrill of fast money and vying for Boss’ approval took over, and one day he stopped visiting Mrs. McGreevy altogether.
