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Except, now I can't get at it because if I did, it would give away my position, and there's a lot of people who want me dead right now. So, I have to make my own way. Which is fine. I'm more than capable of doing so.
I gotta give the kid credit. He tries to get back up to his feet. The people near him are as dumb as he is, though. They help him stand. He really should just stay down. It'd be safer for him, because I'm not about to hold back. As the seconds tick away, I manage to catch a glimpse of someone's watch. Perfect. I've drawn this fight out long enough. Now it's time to end it.
I move in to finish him.
In a blur of calculated violence, I deliver a series of brutal blows, each one connecting with a sickening crunch. The kid's eyes roll back in his head as his body crumples to the floor. The crowd erupts in a mixture of cheers and boos, some clearly thinking I went overboard. Others curse in whatever language they speak in this godforsaken place.
I don't give a shit about any of it. I don't even give a shit about my own life. Maybe that's why I chose fighting as a way to make end's meet. I keep hoping there's someone out there who can put all this to rest. But, so far, the entire world seems to filled with pussies.
There's really not much to live for these days. I often wonder what the point of it all even is.
I grab my bag and make my way through the crowd, their bodies parting before me like frightened sheep. Fear and reverence are hard to distinguish sometimes, but I know these people aren't bowing in admiration.
"Money," I snarl, approaching the bookie – a greasy, unattractive man with a face only a mother could love. He sneers at me and spits on the floor, as if that's supposed to signify his refusal to pay up. I chuckle bitterly and swing at him, landing a punch to his temple. He crumples to the ground, unconscious.
People around me gasp, some taking a step back, others whispering, but I don't care. I rifle through his pockets, grabbing his wallet and all the cash he has on him – a hefty sum. It's probably more than what I was owed, but that's his fault.
We all make our choices in this life, and we all need to live by their consequences.
With nowhere to sleep and no desire for rest, even though it's about two in the morning, I head to a local bar. The shithole of a neighborhood is good for something – it understands that people want to drink a lot and at all hours to forget that they're here.
The bar is barely lit, crowded with lost souls seeking solace in the bottom of a glass. A few guys sit hunched over a table, nursing their drinks, while another lies passed out in the corner. The only redeeming quality of this place is the bartender – a pretty, Hispanic woman with dark curly hair.
As I walk up to her, she flashes me a warm smile. "What can I get you?"
"I'd like to have you," I reply, returning the smile.
It's been a few weeks since I've had a good release. That's not to say that I haven't had any, but none of them have been particularly memorable. Even women seem to bore me these days, but there's something about the chase that I do love. Maybe it's the hope that they'll end up being worth it.
I'm always disappointed, though.
"Sorry, I'm not on the menu," she retorts, unfazed by my advances.
I chuckle and am about to say that I'm not against hunting for my dinner when my phone buzzes in my pocket. She walks off to fetch my drink, and I pull out the device. My eyes blink in surprise as I look at the sender. It's Teddy, my youngest brother. His message is simple, but I know it can't mean good news.
We should talk.
Chapter Two
I sit at the bar, nursing a whiskey that burns my throat with every sip. I can't believe I'm back in Boston. At least South America was warm. This godforsaken place is a fucking freezer in the winter. Why people continue to live here is beyond me.
I'm risking my life by being here. I don't know the amount, but I know there's a bounty on my head. Hell, a lot of people would relish the idea of killing me just to say they got a Maldonado. We aren't exactly sitting at the popular table anymore.
But Teddy's plea for help was too obvious to ignore. Giovanni and Primo, both idiots, left him in charge, knowing full well he wasn't up for the challenge. He had always been the smartest one among us, realizing early on that power and control came with a price he wasn't willing to pay. Teddy was always such a soft soul, even growing up. Him and I were at each other's throats a lot, but he's about the only one I can stand among the four of us.
Including myself.
The dive bar around me is a testament to Boston's underbelly—the smell of stale beer and sweat clings to the air, mixing with the faint scent of cigarette smoke. The low hum of conversations competes with the tinny sound of an old jukebox playing classic rock tunes. Yellow lights cast eerie shadows on the cracked leather booths, giving the place a sinister atmosphere.
"Another round?" the bartender asks, a gruff man with a scruffy beard and a stained apron.
"Sure," I say, swirling the last of my whiskey before downing it. My eyes scan the room, taking in the mismatched clientele—bikers in worn leather jackets, businessmen with loosened ties, and women with too much makeup and not enough self-respect. They all blend together in a twisted mosaic of desperation and debauchery.
"Here you go," the bartender places another glass of whiskey in front of me, the amber liquid glinting in the dim light.
"Thanks," I reply, raising the glass to my lips as I brace myself for the burn that's about to follow. This city, this bar, and even this whiskey feel like a trap I can't escape.
But, to be fair, my entire life feels like that lately.
