by Lana Sky
“I love you—fuck!”
Hot liquid hits my thighs in burning lines. Once...again. Being marked with the evidence of his lust aches worse than the marks he left with my bow. I’ll never erase them. He’s marking my soul; it’s just a plaything to sate his cruel desire.
“I love you,” he insists while pulling up his pants. “Tomorrow, you wear the fucking ring. You smile. You will be proud.” He spits that word at me while he steps over Olga and staggers through the doorway. The door slams shut after him, and then there’s only silence.
Olga and I don’t dare commiserate together. We simply exist...staring at the ceiling while darkness consumes it.
A rabid dog can live for a week on nothing but scraps. It knows which kennels to scratch at. Which favors to call in. Who to intimidate when it needs a bone to nibble.
Some habits are impossible to shake, as the good detective subtly hinted at. But if I’d wanted to keep my nose clean, then the rumors that swirl wherever I go certainly don’t help. Nothing lured a mutt into trouble like the scent of another alpha’s piss trail, and Vincent Stacatto had figuratively lifted his leg over the entire city. Arno’s mark was fainter, but still there, from the Lower West Side, all the way down to the docks. There seemed to be no fire hydrants left for an ex-convict to mark all over.
Good. Blood was a better marker, anyway.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” the bartender insists while tucking the twenty I slipped him into his pocket. His eyes shift from one corner of the narrow room to the other as if checking for spies lurking under the shitty pool table in the back. “Mackenzie? Never heard of him.”
“Okay.” I turn on my heel and head for the door only to pause somewhere in the middle of the room.
The bar’s a shithole. The prison cafeteria had a better setup than the mismatched chairs that surround rickety card tables. Torn posters of irrelevant bands line the walls, but one piece of artwork sticks out. In between two shots of the Beatles, someone painted a six-pointed star directly onto the wood paneling. Each arm of it alternates in silver and black paint.
“So, you don’t know him?” I call over my shoulder. “Just for the record.”
“I told you, asshole,” the man snarls back. “I never heard of no fucking Mackenzie.”
“Right.” I nod while turning on my heel. I return to the counter in two steps and snag my empty shot glass before he can take it away. “Give me another.” I nod to the rack of bottles behind his head, and the bastard makes a show of pouring the shot of whiskey. I bring the rim of the glass to my mouth and inhale the burning swill inside of it. Then, when I’m sure he’s watching, I tilt my hand and allow a drop to land on the counter.
“Hey, watch it—”
“Imagine this is my patience,” I explain, cutting over him. “Imagine that it’s running out.” I allow another drop to strike the counter, melding with the first. “And let’s imagine, that when it does, this glass is going to become part of your fucking eye socket.”
He flinches, shaking his head. “I...I’d love to see you try, asshole.”
“Don’t tempt me.” The words come out closer to a plea than I care to admit. My fingers shake. To hide the motion, I twist my wrist and half the glass splashes onto the countertop while the bastard shouts in anger. “Just riddle me this: if you don’t know Mackenzie...then why the fuck is his symbol hanging in your bar?”
The man swallows. His skin goes a shade paler, but to his credit, he doesn’t flinch when I make eye contact. At least not at first. The fucker’s a good liar—but not good enough. Arno must have grown some balls in the five years I’ve been gone to earn this kind of loyalty. His thugs don’t lounge on street corners these days, conducting business in full view of the pigs. He doesn’t own the twitchy addicts getting high in alleyways any more. He’s into distribution now. My little puppy’s grown up into a mad dog of his own, and I can’t fucking wait to rub his goddamn nose into the mess he’s created.
“Where is he?”
The bartender frowns, trying to suss out more than he can from my plain shirt and jeans. My tattoo may give him some clue, but he doesn’t seem to recognize the name. “Who...who are you?”
I chuckle and take a sip of whiskey. Who am I? My prison docket says case number 09-05962. The good, Christian name on my birth certificate is even vaguer. The bastard I face in the mirror every morning gives the best answer, I guess. The identity was etched right there on the side of my neck. Kitten.
“Don’t worry about me.” There’s barely a drop left in the glass when I set it down. “Let’s say I’m looking for an old friend.” I even manage a smile, but there’s no warmth in it. The fingers of my left hand shake. I form a fist until the knuckles whiten, but they still tremble all the way down to the goddamn bone. I take deep breaths and count them—that bullshit they taught us in group therapy—but it doesn’t make a dent in the anger swirling through my blood like poison. Like heroin. I’m addicted to that fucking high. I want nothing more than to take that glass and jab it into the bastard’s face until his nose breaks. Until I can feel his orbital socket crunch beneath my fingertips and his blood speckles the floor. I want to send my fist through his fucking smart-ass mouth so that his teeth decorate the walls along with the fucking Beatles. I want...
Stop. I inhale sharply and blink until my vision becomes less red. The counter turns brown again. The glass is still clear with only a drop of amber liquid left in the bottom of it. Maybe that anger management shit works after all.
“Just tell me where Arno is,” I say once I regain control of my voice. This time, it only wavers slightly. That’s a good thing. Not beating this bastard into kingdom come...that’s a good thing. No need to take Van Hallen up on his bet so soon. The party hasn’t even started yet, and I still need an invitation.
“Look.” Something in my expression makes the man clear his throat. His eyes dart around the dim barroom, but it’s empty this early in the day. I made sure of that. “I can’t just give out that kind of information freely. He’ll...He’ll kill me.”
I grunt out a sound that might be a laugh. “And what do you think I’m going to do?”
The bell above the door chimes before he can answer. I don’t turn to face the newcomers, but I sense two, both men. One is taller than the other, and his footsteps make a firmer thud as he swaggers inside. “Here Kitty, Kitty,” he croons. “That’s no way to make new friends.”
My jaw twitches. The smile might actually be real this time when I glance over my shoulder and meet the gaze of the man standing in the doorway. He’s grown some since I last saw him. Bulked up. His reddish curls have become a full mane that drapes his shoulders. The puppy’s grown into a lion, but he still has enough fucking sense to show respect to another predator.
“Dante.” His eyes narrow in recognition, but he’s still wary. I haven’t been exactly subtle in my search for him—but subtly was never my thing. He’s never been much for it either, though I suppose some things haven’t changed in five years. Arno Mackenzie is just as fucking reckless as always. “Jesus Christ, Dante.” He takes a step forward and raises his left hand. A scar crosses the center of it, a single line identical to the one that mars my right palm. Espi and I might have been born sharing my blood, but Arno had earned it.
“It’s about fucking time.” I step forward, slapping my hand against his. The violent thwack echoes throughout the piece-of-shit barroom, more intimate than any hug or handshake.
“Shit,” Arno grunts shaking his fingers free of the sting. “Tell me I’m not high, and you aren’t some fucking hallucination. They put your ass away for twenty years.”
I shrug and let my hand fall back to my side. “You probably are high, but I’m here. Try picking up a fucking newspaper. The merits of ‘good journalism’ got me out.”
“What?” Arno scratches at his chin with a broken fingernail. He’s grown out the start of a beard, and it makes him seem older than twenty-seven. “You mean that shit at the DA’
s office?”
I shrug again. “That same shit, but...I’m not here to catch up on old times.” I take a step closer, invading the invisible bubble of space that every man creates around himself. Given the situation, it’s a bit like bringing a knife to a family reunion. Arno tenses, but to his credit, he doesn’t step back. He holds my gaze, and for the first time, I notice the man he’s strategically placed near the door who has one hand hovering near his jeans pocket.
So, the puppy’s learned a few tricks.
“Espi,” I say. “Where is he?”
Arno snorts out a laugh, his posture relaxing a fraction of an inch. “Is that what this is about? I hate to tell ya, but I don’t keep tabs on the kid—”
“I told you to keep an eye on him,” I interject, my tone catching on a growl. “An eye. Not involve him in your shit, Arno. So, do you want to tell me why a cop saw me today, shoving proof in my face that you have Espi working for you?”
Arno shrugs, but the motion serves to open up his stance. He’s built up a few more muscles than he had last. So, have I. My left hand flinches. There’s blood welling at my fingertips and a muscle in my jaw aches. Shit. I turn away, shaking out both hands as if lashing out at the air might quell the urge to smash them into something. Something breakable, made of flesh and bone...
Fuck. Arno stares back when I look at him from over my shoulder. He keeps his hands out at his sides, his expression blank. I know that fucking look on his face. It’s the same one the guards wore on patrol, always waiting for the moment one of the beasts might lunge.
“You asked me to look after him,” he says carefully. “I have. But he’s not a kid anymore. I don’t tell him what to do. He likes to paint. And if he just so happens to do that in the territories I’m looking into then that’s his business. Not yours.”
Not mine. I inhale. Exhale. My fingers still shake. They burn. I have to clench them up so tightly the knuckles pop. I pace, slamming my heels into the fucking floor. I breathe. One. Two. There’s a buzzing working through the back of my skull. It itches when I notice it, irritating the inside of my head. I crush the fingers of my right together with an audible crunch. Then I slam the fist into the palm of the left—hard. The pain jolts through my system, clearing my thoughts for a split second, but it’s like taking a bone from a mutt. The relief is only temporary.
When my vision clears, I face Arno again, and he has enough sense to pretend like he didn’t notice the slip. “Where is he?”
“He’s safe,” the man says carefully. He knows me too well. He doesn’t move an inch. He gives me no excuse to react. I’m a caged animal, but Arno knows too damn well how to hide the key. “I wouldn’t let him in the crew. You know me better than that—”
“Do I?” It’s an animal’s howl, barely constrained by a raspy tone I force my voice to keep.
“Yes, you do,” Arno says without hesitation. There’s something in his heavy Brooklyn accent that muzzles the beast inside of me. My fingers flex again, and the burn subsides a little. It wouldn’t be a good idea to lose my shit here, anyway. Can’t let the cops come running too soon. Can’t lose control yet.
Not yet.
“Okay then.” I shake my head like I’m trying to clear it of water, and I can’t shake the feeling like I really am submerged underneath something—not water. Something heavier. More suffocating. Addicting.
“I’ll take you to him,” Arno suggests. “But let’s get some alcohol in you. The good stuff—” he glances at the bar behind me in disgust. “None of this cheap shit. Then we’ll talk. Catch up, and maybe you’ll tell me why the fuck you really aren’t in prison.” I don’t miss the way his voice lowers an octave on that last part. In five fucking minutes, Arno’s proven that he trusts me. He still knows enough to tread carefully around Dante Vialle—and yet he isn’t stupid. Men don’t just crawl out of prison, skirting a twenty-year sentence. He’s afraid I made a bargain or licked some police commissioner’s ass to get a deal.
I’ll prove him wrong, at some point. Right now, it seems more important to accept that promise of a drink. If I’m to stay out of prison for longer than seventy-two hours, I’ll need it.
“Okay.” I nod once. “Deal.”
Arno breaks into a smile, cutting years off his age. He’s a teenage boy again, with a batch of heroin in his pocket to sell. “Good, good. I’ll introduce you to the crew, starting with ol’ Francisco, here.” He nods to the man behind the counter who watches us, clutching a bottle of booze in one hand and a dishrag in the other. “You won’t find a more loyal man on this side of town.”
“Happy to help,” Francisco says, inclining his head, all transgressions forgotten.
Still smiling, Arno heads for the door, jerking his chin for me to follow. “Welcome back, Kitty,” he says. “Let me show you around my corner of hell.”
Arno’s set up shop in an old pub on the corner of Finch and Horn. The name on the storefront reads Mulligans. It’s a decently sized place—a far cry from the run-down gas station where we used to set up shop. The Gardai logo spans a banner hanging on the wall behind a well-stocked bar—that six-pointed star. Dark walls and hardwood floors create a spacious barroom with a color scheme designed to disguise any bloodstains. Reds. Greens. Blacks.
The puppy’s chosen his doghouse well. His human bloodhounds rise to attention the moment we walk inside. There’s maybe ten of them gathered. They sniff around, their hackles rising at the sight of me. I recognize a few. The rest are all new blood. Arno’s been building himself quite the army.
“Friends,” he says, his voice booming. “This is my brother, back from the dead.” He slaps my shoulder once, but the display of friendship doesn’t seem to put his men at ease. These aren’t the run-of-the-mill punks he used to command. They looked rougher. Some of them sport expressions I recognize from prison—a look that I know I wear myself. It’s a mask, hardened by anger and reinforced with bitter hatred, worn at all times, even in your sleep. It’s the mark of a wild dog who’s been locked in a cage one too many times.
“Friend?” one of the men pipes up. He’s about Arno’s size with a sizeable mass of black hair growing out in all directions. His eyes are brown, but they surprisingly aren’t hostile when they meet mine without fear. Good fucking choice on his part. “Does this ‘friend’ have a name?”
Arno opens his mouth, but I speak for myself. “Dante. Friend.”
A few men had started forward to circle my position, and they quickly step back. It can’t be helped. I tend to have that effect, whether I say my name or not. Dogs can sniff out other dogs, after all, and even the average mongrel knows when to submit to a bigger, more brutal beast.
The man who questioned me doesn’t flinch, however. There’s a grudging bit of respect that flares up before I can smother it.
“I’m Dall,” he says. “Any friend of Arno’s is a friend of mine.”
“Now don’t go busting out the fucking friendship bracelets now,” Arno grunts, placing a hand on my shoulder. He steers me toward the bar, and I allow him to, remembering the promise of that drink. “At least let me get wasted first.”
“Where’s Espi?” I wonder. Scanning the bar, I don’t find him anywhere. My gaze lingers on a small, scrawny figure hunched over a stool, but they’re too short to be Espisido. The blonde hair spilling from beneath a ratty hoodie gives me another clue.
“Is that my Kitty?” The figure stirs, lifting her head and her green eyes seek mine out. They’re bloodshot and caked in a layer of black makeup. She’s high. Judging from the half-empty bottle in front of her, she’s drunk and high. I smell her from here. Fuck, it’s a wonder what five years can do to a person. She’s twenty-three but looks twice that much. “Parish?”
“As I live and breathe.” Her smile is uncomfortable. It’s like her mouth is too busy being stretched around a cock for cash to buy drugs that she can’t even form the expression right. At some point in her life, she used to be pretty, with Arno’s nose but paired with softer features. Now,
she just looks tired. “I thought you were in prison?”
Apparently, Arno’s not the only one who doesn’t know how to fucking turn on a television.
“They let me out for good behavior,” I say.
“Good behave—” Parish laughs. “My ass. You’re a bad boy, Dante. Prison tends to not like to part with bad boys.”
“Well, they parted with this one.”
“I can see that.” She looks me up and down, her eyes focused on my pockets. Desire flickers across her gaunt features, but it’s only for cash. She needs a fix, and even being the sister of a dealer doesn’t come with the perks of an unlimited supply, I see. “Got any dollars you can spare?”
“No.” Arno muscles his way between us and grabs his sister by the shoulder, manhandling her from the stool. “You’re going to beg for cash in my bar? Get the fuck out.” He shoves her to the door. “Come back when you don’t smell like piss and some old man’s jizz, Rish.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She makes a talking motion with her right hand. “Fuck you, Arnold.”
He scoffs and tosses back, “Only when Mom’s not around.” Despite his tone, there’s concern in his expression as he watches Parish stagger through the main doors.
“She’s still using.”
It isn’t a question, but he nods anyway and takes a seat at one of the stools, gesturing for me to do the same. “Still using. Still a pain in my ass. Not all of us lucked out in the family gene pool.” He glances at me, his expression unusually serious. “Espi’s a good kid, but he won’t be happy that you’re back. Mark my words on that.”
I grunt in response. My brother is my fucking problem.
“So, what now?”
The bartender is a woman with tattoos draped over her arms, and her black hair pulled back into a bun. She’s ready when Arno snaps his fingers and places a bottle of something dark and tempting down before him.
