Page 144 of John + Siena: The Complete Duet

Nobody wanted to get messed up with the Marcellos.

Soon, John had Drake out of the pool hall. The cold February air whipped around them. John didn’t feel anything at all. Seemed he couldn’t feel anything, lately. When he did feel something, it was just a mess. He couldn’t process it. It was too much, and he didn’t want to deal with it.

Drake didn’t fight too much as John dragged him behind the pool hall. A dirty alleyway filled with dumpsters, and moldy cardboard boxes. It stunk like death. It looked like some animals had been chewing on shit, and digging through garbage.

Rats, likely.

New York was filled with rats in more ways than one.

John tossed Drake to the ground, uncaring that the guy landed in filth and wetness. Standing over him, John bent down to make sure Drake got a good look at his eyes. He needed to look somebody right in the face when he wanted to know if they were lying to him or not.

“Who the fuck gave you the file?” John asked.

Drake blinked rapidly. “The-the—”

“The file, you stupid fuck. Who gave it to you?”

“I-I can’t remember.”

John let out of scoff and rolled his eyes out words. “You can’t fucking remember something that happened within the past couple of days? You can’t remember who put a giant red file in your goddamn hand? Maybe if I cut your fucking hand off, it’ll jog your damn memories, asshole. How about that?”

“Well, I …”

The guy started to scramble back on the ground. His hands dragged through the wetness, and his clothes were now covered in the dirt and filth. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. Like he needed to get the fuck away from John, and fast.

He was right. His instincts were on point. He did need to get away from John, but it was too fucking late.

“Who gave you the file?” John asked again. “One last time to tell me who gave it to you, and told you to give it to Kent.”

Drake stumbled over his words again, trying to come up with some fucking excuse. He mumbled a name. Tim, or some other generic bullshit. There were a million fucking Tims in the city.

“Tim who?” John asked.

“Tim-Tim-Tim …”

Fuck this shit.

John pulled out the gun hidden inside his jacket, took a step forward, and beat Drake in the head with it. Once, and then twice. Again and again until the man’s face was a bloody fucking mess. The rage that swelled through John was addictive. Finally, an emotion he understood, and one that was not so overwhelming because he knew exactly what to do with it.

John blinked, and in the next second, Drake was dead on the ground. His face was smashed in, and bloody. No breath left his lips.

“Jesus Christ, John.”

He’d forgotten about his cousin. Andino hadn’t forgotten about him, it seemed.

John stepped back, and straightened. In a flash, Andino had taken John’s gun out of his hand and kept it out of reach. John took another step back, and then another. Andino kept looking at him in that way of his.

“John,” Andino said, “look at me.”

He did, but he didn’t like the sight looking back at him.

“What the hell are you doing?” Andino asked. “Coming here like that, making a fucking public scene, and dragging him out of there where anybody could see you do it, John? And now somebody’s going to come back here, and find his dead body. Guess who they’re going to call. Guess who’s going to take the rap for it, John. You. Where’s your judgement—you didn’t know this was a bad idea?”

John blinked, and his fists curled in tight balls at his sides. “I’m trying to get some fucking information.”

“About the file?”

“How did you know about the file?”