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Instead I find him talking to Shane, one of our apprentices, a long-haired, brooding guy we took in a year ago. Zane’s patting the guy on the back, telling him everything’s gonna be okay. That he’s not going back to the streets. That the shop is his home now, and we are looking out for him.
I want to howl. Fucked-up timing. My resolve shatters. How do I take away their peace and happiness now they’ve finally found it?
No, dammit. This isn’t okay. I have to solve the issue, find a way to keep the shop. Keep my friends safe and happy.
“Rafe?” Zane’s noticed me. He’s looking right through me, that sucker.
“Not now.” My head pounding, I turn the other way and start walking. Fuck it, I need a smoke. I’ve been smoking more lately, and if that isn’t a bad sign, I don’t know what is. I had supposedly cut that crap out.
I pull a pack and a lighter from my pocket and light up as I go.
“People depend on me.” That’s what Zane said last summer, when all the shit with his sister went down. He’d refused to talk to me about it, or let me help.
Well, people depend on me, too. Responsibility weighs on my shoulders, a boulder the size of the fucking state. Hunched over, I hurry away from the shop and people I’ve let down.
What am I supposed to do? I throw my cigarette to the gutter and weave my way through familiar streets, not really taking notice of where I’m heading. How can I fix this? I feel as if I’ve broken a promise, an oath, and it doesn’t matter that it wasn’t really like that. It’s close enough.
This is on me.
Feels like everything’s on me—the pain of the whole damn world, all the death and blood and tears. All my fault. No matter how often people tell me it isn’t true, how often Zane has yelled at me to quit thinking like this, how much I’ve willed myself to believe it, I feel guilty as fuck.
Guilty for everything gone bad, as if I’ve inflicted the pain and death myself.
The faces of my parents and Carla, my sister, flash in front of my eyes, and I have to slow down and try to suck a deeper breath, because black dots are dancing in my vision. I remember the tattoo on the murderer’s arm, and my chest feels crushed.
Motherfucker is still out there.
Fury blinds me. My steps lead me true, though, even if my brain is fuzzy. Soon enough I find myself in front of the building where Ash used to fight. I blink at the filthy steps leading down to the basement Ash pointed out to me once.
Okay, I’m here. Now what? Something tells me getting caught staring at the entrance of an illegal fight club won’t go unnoticed and, what’s more, won’t help. I want to see the fucker, not be seen by him.
If he’s here. If I didn’t imagine seeing that tattoo. If I’ve not lost it completely.
And if he is? If he’s right here, in the basement? Maybe staying is the final proof I’ve gone batshit, but returning to Damage Control is an even worse prospect.
So I look around for a hideout. I spot a nearby building entrance and melt into its shadows to wait.
***
Huddling in my jacket, I shift legs numb from the cold, trying to restart my circulation. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, blow out a breath, when I notice two guys standing at the entrance I’ve been watching.
Leaning forward, I study them as much as the swirling snowflakes and the fading afternoon light allow. Something about one of them sends a shiver down my spine.
Is it him? It’s hard to tell from this distance, and even if I were close, I realize with a sinking feeling, I wouldn’t be able to see the tattoo on his arm. It’s not summer. He won’t be wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt, or anything.
What the hell am I doing?
Slipping back into the shadows, I hold by breath and watch until the two guys go down the steps and vanish inside
the building.
Christ. I breathe out and rub my hands over my face. And if it’s him? What then? How do I find him, prove it’s him? Do I just go down the steps, ask if anyone knows him?
Hi, I’m looking for my family’s murderer. Thought he might be hiding here, in the underworld of the Russian mafia, in your illegal fight club.
Shit.
Stepping out of my protected spot, I almost do it, almost follow him. But the world conspires against my plans, or lack thereof. As I trudge down the sidewalk, the wind howls, turning into a gale. Snowfall turns into a snowstorm. The ice crystals blind me, and I lift my arm to shield my face. Blinking my ice-encrusted lashes, I take another step—
