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Thanksgiving, Six Weeks Ago
Max
A deep, ominous chill settles into my bones as I walk down Decatur Avenue in the armpit of Brooklyn on this frigid night. I flip up the collar of my coat to form a barrier against the heavy wind that nearly blew my car off the Verrazano Bridge a little while ago. Sidestepping puddles of half-melted ice from the last snowstorm, I peer around at the darkness consuming the dilapidated buildings, trying to make out any shapes that are lurking in alleyways, ready to pummel, but there are none.
I guess criminals celebrate Thanksgiving, too.
Nico would kick my ass if he knew I was here. Alone, no less.
It’s been a rough few months for him, dealing with his dad’s recovery from the hit that the Cappodamo family put on him and then taking over as boss. It hasn’t been easy, and he’s been damn stressed. But yet here I am, ready to pile on that stress and fuck shit up without his permission.
My phone vibrates against my leg. I glance left and right before pulling it out to read the text from Sloane.
Where are you? We just finished dinner, and I made your favorite for dessert. Is everything okay?
I tug down the rim of my worn Yankees baseball cap and shake off the useless guilt that’s been hovering over me ever since I made a sudden turn in the opposite direction…away from Sloane’s house and toward the New Jersey Turnpike.
I should be with Sloane right now, sitting in the dining room at her dad’s house, eating her tiramisu…the best damn tiramisu on the planet and the one she always makes any time I come over. I’m so fucking deep in the friend zone that the only thing I can get out of her is dessert. Or Raisinets when I show up at her apartment with the bullshit excuse that I want to play Fortnite. Video games. That’s the only way in, so I’ve been reduced to fucking Player Two.
Things between us fell apart the last time because my priorities were fucked up. Funny how shit comes full circle. I’ve been dicking around for the past couple of months, trying to figure out how to tell her that I want to give this thing between us another shot, but something always stopped me from saying the words.
That was gonna change tonight. I was gonna lay it out there for her, to see if there’s a future for us, to see if I can get the second chance I’ve been waiting for. And here I am in Brooklyn with my priorities all fucked up again. Maybe it’s a sign that she’s better off without me and my jacked priorities.
But that phone call…how the hell could I have ignored it? I know being here violates all sorts of rules, but I still came.
You always repay your debts.
Besides, I’d never let those bastards win their sick, sordid game either.
When they violated our territory and went after our business, they fucked themselves.
I’m just here to finish the job. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.
Except this time, I don’t have backup.
This is something I have to do by myself. I put Layla in this position, and now I need to get her the fuck out of it.
I mentally flip through attack strategies, squinting at the numbers on the buildings along the desolate road. There could be anywhere from one to five guys inside, based on what she whispered into the phone.
They’re baiting me. I know they’re not gonna do what they threatened to do. But Layla wasn’t taking that risk, and now I’m here to save the fucking day.
I stop short, my ears straining to hear what sounds like very determined footsteps approaching me from behind. My throat tightens, and I stuff my hands deep into my pockets, gripping the handle of my trusty switchblade.
I pick up the pace, knowing I’ll have milliseconds to pull out the blade, swivel around, and lance the fucker. The footsteps get louder and heavier, splashing through puddles.
The dipshit isn’t even trying to be stealth anymore.
I glance left and right, and still, the street is empty.
Save for two people.
At least.
The bar is up ahead on my left. If this prick is one of theirs, I don’t want to take him out here in the open, so I dodge left and dart between two buildings, crouched low so I can spring at the bastard when he comes for me.
My moves take him by surprise, and he sprints toward me, hood pulled over his face. I can only make out a profile, but I’ll slash first and ask questions later.
As always.
