Chapter Five
A white split-level house in south Queens.
There’s even a picket fence surrounding it.
It’s fit for a picture-perfect family: Mom, Dad, two-point-five kids and a golden retriever, living happily in quiet suburbia. Four bedrooms. Three bathrooms. There’s a library downstairs. It’s in a neighborhood typically free of crime.
No murders.
No robberies.
No fun at all, quite frankly.
Just call me Ward Cleaver. Leave it to fucking Beaver. The house is all mine. I’ve found the American Dream.
I’ve got to say... the shit isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Snow covers the sidewalk that runs along the front of the house. The streets have been plowed since it started snowing, but everything else is doused in a layer of stark white. Standing at the foggy front window of the house, I stare out into the cold morning, watching thick flakes fall from the cloudy sky.
The monochrome tone is pretty consistent with how I’m feeling.
Monotonous. Drab. Tedious.
Fifty other fucking words you’ll find in a thesaurus.
I’ve only lived here for a few months but I’m already itching to move again. Since coming to New York just a few years ago, I’ve stayed in eleven different places, most of which I hadn’t exactly had permission to move into. I see an opportunity and I take it, whether it’s acquiring a house or, well, a job position.
What can I say? I’m resourceful.
Can’t fault me for that, can you?
“Is it still snowing?”
I turn at the sound of the voice behind me, watching as my little brother steps into the living room. Leo—or Pretty Boy, as I’ve always called him—is sixteen years younger than me, in his early twenties, while the thirties knocked on my door long ago. We’re nothing alike. He’s young and hopeful. I grow bitter as I age. He’s got a lot of heart. I’ve been told a time or two that I’m a bit of a callous prick.
He loves this house, this neighborhood, and this dream...
The only thing I love is, well, maybe him.
Everything else is just a fickle fondness that I tend to grow tired of real fucking quick.
“Of course it’s snowing,” I say, strolling over to the black leather couch to sit down. “I’ve got things to take care of, so naturally it’s going to snow all damn day and make everything as difficult as possible.”
Leo steps by me to take the spot in front of the window. “Such optimism.”
“Yeah, well, not all of us can be sunshiny all of the goddamn time.”
Truthfully? I’m in a pissy mood. I’ve been home for hours, long enough to witness the sunrise, but that’s nothing new. I’ve been an insomniac most of my life, which is probably why I’m so paranoid. Sleep evades me and people aggravate me, making my trigger finger a little twitchy, if you know what I’m saying.
Usually, I handle it better, the lack of sleep, but today it has me on edge for some reason.
My attention shifts to the coffee table in front of me. The red high heels sit in the center of it, side-by-side. I pick one up, running my fingertips along the red sole. The heel is long and thin, curved a bit, maybe six inches, and sharp enough that, in a pinch, she could’ve easily taken my good eye out with it.
After all, everything’s a weapon if you look at it the right way, and I’m the MacGyver of murder. I could kill a man with a shoe like this. Wouldn’t even faze me to have to do it, either.
“Do I even want to know why you’ve got those?” Leo asks.
I glance at him. “Long story.”
“Does it end with your feet shoved into a pair of red pumps? Because if so, I’d really like to hear it.”
“I’m afraid it’s not nearly that interesting,” I say. “Met a woman who was wearing these. She got away, left her shoes behind.”
“How very Cinderella.” He shakes his head. “And what, you’re going to try them on every woman in the kingdom until you find her again?”
“If I have to,” I say, setting the shoe back down beside the other one. Before I can elaborate, there’s a noise upstairs, a loud thump above my head. My gaze drifts toward the ceiling as my back stiffens.
“It’s fine,” Leo says. “Just Mel.”
“Who?”
“Mel,” he says again. “You know… my girlfriend?”
“Ah, Firecracker.”
He lets out a dramatic sigh. “We’ve been dating for over a year… you’d think my own brother would remember her name by now.”
“Please,” I say. “I barely remember your name, Pretty Boy. Names mean nothing to me. They’re irrelevant. They don’t define a person. They just label them. And well, if I’m going to label people, I’m going to label them in a way that defines them to me. Like… Firecracker.”
“And how exactly does Firecracker define her?”
“She’s loud,” I say as feet stomp across the floor above my head, heading for the stairs. “She’s kind of bangin’.”
He lets out a sharp bark of laughter as he moves away from the window, stepping toward me. “Are you hitting on my girlfriend?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. “She’s not my type.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Leo says. “Thought your type was breathing.”
“Ha-ha. I’ll have you know I’ve got standards.”
“Like?”
“Like a woman that doesn’t expect me to have a conversation.”
He laughs again, like he finds that genuinely funny. “Oh, the horror of having to talk to a female like she’s actually a person and not just a warm body.”
“Are you mocking me, Pretty Boy?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I’ve shot people for less attitude.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” he says. “Sounds like something someone allergic to feelings would do.”
“I’m not allergic to feelings. I’ve got them.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, and right now I’m feeling pretty fucking annoyed by this conversation, so I’d rather we didn’t have it.”
“Oh, so it’s not females you avoid talking to... it’s really feelings you don’t want to talk about. Got it.”
He’s pushing my buttons.
Leo might be the only person around who isn’t afraid to do that. He looks me in the face without hesitation, never balking at what he sees, and he calls me on my shit, like a parent lecturing a child… which is kind of funny, you know, since I raised that little son of a bitch.
I’m supposed to be the mature one, the role model, but instead I think he might be the only thing stopping me from blowing up the whole goddamn world and everyone in it.
You see, I learned long ago that the most valuable thing you have is your reputation. It gets you things money can’t buy, opening up doors that are usually sealed tight. Don’t listen to that ‘fuck what people think’ Sesame Street bullshit they spoon-fed you as a kid. You should care what people say about you.
Rumor and gossip... it matters. Because while you might be proud of your character, while you might be the kind of person who doesn’t yield, it doesn’t mean a damn thing if the jackass coming up behind you believes you’re getting out of his way, because he’s just going to run you over.
If my stepfather taught me anything, it was that the key to survival is mimicry. You be what you need to be for somebody. Wear the skin of a rattlesnake even if there’s not a single drop of venom inside of you, because if you make them believe, they won’t come close enough to get bit. They won’t get close enough to see that maybe it’s a disguise; maybe you’re not as dangerous as they think. And if they do get that close, well, then you’ve got a choice: you either surrender or you become the thing they fear most.
I don’t surrender.
But not everyone needs the same thing, and that’s the trick. You can’t just be all one thing. If you’ve gotta be a monster, you be a fucking shapeshifter.
And my brother? He’s not a predator, so I don’t have to be one with him. What Leo needs is someone to depend on, someone to believe in, someone who will protect him, so that’s what I am. I’m his family. I’m his friend. I’m a harmless gopher snake without a rattle in my tail.
Who am I really? I like to think I’m somewhere in between. Maybe deep down I don’t want to hurt you, but goddamn it, I will, and I’ll destroy myself doing it if I have to. I’ll get you even if it kills me. I’m like a honeybee.
I’m also apparently someone who likes animal metaphors when I need some damn sleep.
So blah blah blah, whatever whatever, the point here is fuck feelings, they get you nowhere.
“I’m going to bed. If you want someone to talk to, Pretty Boy, your girlfriend will be interrupting in about three seconds. Talk to her.”
“About what?”
The bubbly voice chimes in right at the three-second mark as Leo’s girlfriend waltzes in. Melody Carmichael. Leo calls her Mel. Of course I know her name. I made a point to learn it when I realized he was serious about her. Young, blonde, and good-looking, sure, but the girl has a mouth on her. Sometimes she talks so much I wonder how she’s breathing, how she’s not suffocating on all the words she insists on speaking.
And she cries. Jesus fuck, the girl cries. She sat right here on my couch and sobbed two nights ago while watching some movie about a man dying. Leo consoled her, holding her, while I stood in the doorway, wishing it were me that was dead. Me, just so I wouldn’t have to listen to her blubbering for one more second.
“About Lorenzo’s lack of feeling for females,” Leo tells her.
Melody laughs. “I don’t know... based on the noises coming out of his bedroom at around midnight last night, I’d say he was feeling something with a woman.”
“He was making her feel something. Big difference.” Leo turns back to me, cocking an eyebrow. “What was this one’s name?”
“Barbie,” I say.
“And is Barbie her real name?” Leo asks. “Or is that just what you’re calling her, since she was platinum blonde and plastic?”
Okay, he’s got me there...
“That’s what I thought,” he continues when I don’t answer. No point wasting my breath. He knows. “Bet you probably don’t even remember her real name.”
“It was Tina.”
“Really?”
“No, I don’t know,” I say, standing up. “I didn’t pay attention to a word she said.”
His laughter follows me as I snatch up the pair of heels and stroll toward the doorway. Melody eyes me cautiously as I pass her. She doesn’t flinch away… anymore… but I wouldn’t exactly say she lets her guard down around me, either. Her gaze shifts to the shoes, her brow furrowing. “Are those Loubitons?”
“That’s what they say.”
“Why do you have them?”
“Why do you ask so many questions?”
She has no comeback for that, which is for the best, considering Leo probably will hold it against me if I sucker punch his girlfriend for meddling in my business. I hear Leo chime in, explaining to her about Cinderella, but I just walk away. Prince Charming, I am not, nor will I ever be. No, you see, people call me Scar for a reason, and it doesn’t entirely have to do with the fact that my face got fucked up. I’m the villain; I’m the lion that swooped on in, destroying their pride lands. I killed the king and sent Simba packing. But unlike the fictional Scar from the cartoon, I don’t intend to lose at the end of my story. Everything the light touches in this city belongs to me. I’m the fucking Lion King.
I know, I know… another animal metaphor.
Man, I need some sleep.
Trudging upstairs, I make my way down the hall, to the bedroom in the far back. Everything about it is impersonal, no distractions—plain white walls and a California king bed with the best mattress money can buy, the kind of memory foam that just cradles you, that embraces you like it loves you, cloaked in expensive Egyptian cotton, but none of that makes a bit of difference when it comes time to fall asleep.
After setting the shoes down on top of the only dresser, I peel off all of my clothes, discarding them on the floor, and fall right into the bed on my back, naked. The ceiling fan above me lightly spins around and around and around. I track it with my gaze. It helps me relax, like some strange version of counting sheep, or maybe I just get so dizzy that I eventually pass out, but regardless, I usually catch some sleep that way.
But not today.
No, even as I watch the spinning blades, instead of shutting down, my mind starts to wander, thoughts of a petite brunette with wild hair creeping in. The smirk on her red lips right before she ran that last time, the smug ‘I got you, motherfucker’ smile, like she was gloating, invades every part of me, like an infection settling in, eating away at my insides. She has no idea who she’s messing with, but she’s going to learn. Little Miss Scarlet Letter robbed the wrong motherfucker. I’m getting my money back, every single penny of it, and she’ll be damn lucky if I don’t take her last breath as interest.
I wonder if she’ll smile then, with me pinning her down, my body on top of hers, keeping her locked in place. I wonder if she’ll smile when I wrap my hands around her throat, squeezing, pressing against the carotid artery, making her look me in the face as I wring her neck. I wonder if she’ll smile as the color drains from her cheeks, as the spark diminishes in her eyes, because I sure as fuck will.
I get hard just thinking about it.
Nothing turns me on more than seeing someone struggle, fighting for survival. It’s feral, instincts kicking in. They give it all they’ve got, because they know if they don’t, there will be nothing left. I’ll take it all. I’ll take their dignity. I’ll take their money. I’ll take their family, too, if I want it. I’ll take their life in every sense of the word. Desperation at its core, exposing those raw nerves of self-preservation. There’s nothing more powerful than holding someone’s life in your hands, knowing they’re not strong enough to overpower you... knowing their only hope is you being merciful.
Closing my eyes, I grab my cock, roughly stroking it. Hard and fast, not trying to savor it, needing the release to ease my tension, hoping like hell it’ll put me to sleep. It takes less than thirty seconds before my abs clench, my cock pulsating as the orgasm strikes me like a punch to the chest. Gritting my teeth, stifling the groan, I feel it as cum spurts out, hitting my stomach and the bed sheets. Warmth spreads all through my body, tingles coating my skin as my cock twitches. I stroke a few more times, breathing deeply as my muscles relax.
Finally.
Sighing, I let go, keeping my eyes closed, not bothering to clean up the mess. Heaviness settles into my limbs, numbness spreading.
But still... still... sleep won’t take over.
“Fuck this,” I grumble, climbing back out of bed, staggering, swaying, as I head for the shower. “Another day awaits.”
* * *
“I thought you were going to bed?”
My brother’s still in the living room.
His girlfriend is still with him, too, the two of them on the couch together, cuddling. That’s all they ever seem to do. Kiss, and cuddle, and whisper, and fuck, a lovey-dovey cycle, day in and day out, like an old married couple.
“I did,” I say, stalling in the doorway.
He blinks at me. “You did?”
“Yes.”
“It’s only been an hour, bro,” he says, “if even that long. There’s no way you went to sleep.”
“I didn’t say I went to sleep,” I point out. “I said I went to bed.”
“What’s the point of going to bed if you don’t sleep?” As soon as he asks that, he shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“Never mind what?” Melody asks, glancing between us. Nosey as shit.
“Don’t even ask,” Leo grumbles.
Her brow furrows. “Don’t ask what?”
“He doesn’t want you to ask about me tugging one out upstairs.”
“Tugging one—oh!” Her eyes widen. “Geez.”
Leo groans. “I told you not to ask.”
Shaking my head, I lean against the doorframe, my gaze going to the window. In the past hour, as I showered and dressed, waking up again, the snow slowed to a barely-present flurry, the conditions much more manageable. “So, how long do you think it should take to find someone in the city?”
“Uh, I don’t know,” Leo says. “Couple of days... weeks... maybe. How long did it take Ignazio to find who he was looking for?”
“Damn near twenty years,” I say.
“Well, there you go,” Leo says. “Two decades.”
Two decades.
In case you don’t know who Ignazio is, let me give you the Cliff Notes version of him: guy with a gun and a grudge looking for a girl to make him feel better. Took him way too long to catch up to her, and when he finally did, nothing went according to plan, which is reason number one-hundred and sixty-nine why I tend to work on the fly. I’m the kind of guy who will run into a burning building without thinking of the flames... especially since, you know, chances are I set the fire to begin with.
Am I making sense here?
I don’t know.
I’m still kind of tired.
Point being, I don’t have twenty years to wait. “I’ll give it twenty more minutes.”
Leo gives me a peculiar look as I pull out my car keys. “You’re not driving today, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Seriously? You? Driving?”
“Yes.”
“With everything being all white and icy?”
“Yes.”
“Are you feeling suicidal?”
I laugh at that question. He doesn’t want me to answer it. I seem to forever exist in a gray area of life, caught in a web somewhere between homicidal and suicidal, and he knows it, no matter how much I try to shove rose-colored glasses over the boy’s eyes. He’s not blind to reality.
“As titillating as this conversation has been, Pretty Boy, I’ve got to go,” I say, turning away. “Things won’t do themselves, you know.”
There’s a sex joke in there somewhere, I know, but get your mind out of the gutter. There’s still work to do.
“Good luck finding... whoever she is,” Leo calls out. “Don’t kill yourself! Or anybody else...”
He doesn’t mean that in the intentional sense. Don’t get it twisted. He just doesn’t want me to skid off the road or plow into somebody.
I’m already shivering by the time I make it to my car in the driveway. I start it up, cranking the heat full blast, before reaching into the glove box, where I stash a spare pair of glasses.
The drive into northern Brooklyn should take fifteen minutes, but damn near half an hour passes before I pull up in front of the brick townhouse. Strolling to the front door, I bang on it. I bang… and bang… and bang…
Why the hell isn’t anybody answering?
It takes a few minutes before the door is pulled open. Seven stands there, half asleep, dark hair a mess, wearing only a pair of red boxer shorts with elves on them.
Elves, Christmas ones, the pointy-eared little fuckers that work for Santa. He’s got elves on his shorts, holding little packages, the words ‘Merry Elfin Christmas’ written all around them. I tilt my head to the side, staring at them.
Have I mentioned it’s nearing the end of January?
Seven blinks rapidly. “Boss? What’s going on?”
My gaze flickers to meet his as I shake it off. “Have you found her?”
His brow furrows. “Who?”
“The woman I told you to find.”
“I, uh... what?”
“Have you found the woman?” I ask again. “How much more clear do I need to make that?”
“Uh, no, not yet.”
“What’s taking so long?”
He gapes at me like maybe he thinks I’m crazy, but I’m not the one wearing elf boxers a month after Christmas. “It’s only been a few hours.”
“So?”
“So... I haven’t even had the chance to look yet.”
“You’ve had the chance to sleep, though,” I point out, gaze drifting back to his boxers. “At least I’m thinking you were sleeping, unless the missus has a little people fetish you haven’t mentioned.”
He seems to just now realize what he’s wearing, because he makes a feeble attempt to cover up. “Sorry, boss. Yeah, we were sleeping. Actually, just dozed off a bit ago… figured I’d get right on it after catching a few hours of sleep, but if you need me now—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You sure?”
“Positive,” I say. “Take your little Keeblers there and go on back to bed.”
He hesitantly goes back inside, too tired and cold to insist otherwise. I guess if I want this done before I grow old and die, I’m going to have to do it myself.
Heading back to my car, I again crank up the heat before pulling out my phone, going right down the line, calling every damn number in it.
You know a brunette with a red S tattooed on her wrist?
No. Nope. Not ringing a bell, sorry.
Same conversation, again and again and again.
The day is long, so goddamn long, and I spend every waking second of it trying to track down the little thief. Nobody in my circles will acknowledge knowing her, at least. It’s dusk already, as I sit in my car not far from the bar, just feet from where she robbed me, when my phone rings.
Seven.
“Gambini,” I say as I answer it.
“I’ve got nothing, boss,” he says. “I’ve tried every connection I’ve got and the description is just too vague. I even got up with Amello, since he runs his games out of that neighborhood, and he said she didn’t sound like any girl he’s ever come across.”
“Figures,” I mutter. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. I’ll keep digging, see what I can stir up.”
“You do that.”
Hanging up, I slip my phone into my pocket before strolling into Whistle Binkie, taking a seat right at the bar, encountering the same bartender from last night. Once again, he eyes me with alarm.
“Rum,” I tell him. “Just give me the bottle.”
He obliges, shoving a half-empty cheap bottle onto the bar in front of me. I’m not even going to pretend tonight, ripping the spout right out and tipping it back.
There aren’t many other people here at this hour. I look around curiously, thinking maybe she might show up again, but I’m not that lucky. I gaze at the empty stool, where she sat less than twenty-four hours ago, staring at it for a moment before something strikes me.
“Hey, you wouldn’t by chance remember a woman that was in here last night, would you?” I ask the bartender. “Young, brunette, red dress, sat right there...”
The bartender’s attention shifts to the stool I point at before he looks at me again. “Morgan, you mean?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Maybe, if the Morgan you’re talking about has a tattoo on her wrist.”
“Cursive S,” the bartender says.
Son of a bitch. “That’s the one.”
“I’ve always wondered what it stood for,” he says. “She comes in sometimes, sits by herself, orders something cheap, flirts a bit then jets back out. I asked her once, you know, about the tattoo.”
“What did she tell you?”
“She said it stood for ‘stay out of my fucking business’.”
Okay, that makes me laugh. It probably shouldn’t. She’s got a mouth on her, that’s for sure. “So, Morgan, you say?”
“Yep.”
Morgan. I don’t like it.
“Tell me something, Bar Boy. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find this Morgan, would you?”
He hesitates, like he doesn’t want to answer that. Ding, ding, ding... there it is. I pull out my wallet, figuring cash always loosens lips, and tense when I open it.
Shit. Still empty.
Almost forgot she robbed me.
Once again, I laugh, even though I shouldn’t find it funny. I don’t even have anything on me to pay for the liquor I’m drinking. Unbelievable.
The woman is starting to be a thorn in my side, but I have to admit, as frustrating as it’s been, I haven’t had a dull moment in the past twenty-four hours.
I shove my wallet back away, standing up from the bar. “Tell me where to find her.”
“I only know where she works,” he says. “Will that help?”