by Leah Holt
That was the picture he created. He made me feel like I was important, like I truly meant something to the organization.
But I was blind to the truth. We all have limits, it doesn't matter how bad you are. They crossed the line, and for the first time ever, I told him no. I couldn't pull the trigger.
I thought Marcos Disesto was alright with it. After going to him myself, and telling him I couldn't do it, that I was done with all of this, he shook my hand and smiled. He told me that he understood.
“Don't worry about it, it's alright,” he said, cupping my hand in his and squeezing. Patting the back of my palm, he lifted his hand to my face and gently slapped my cheek. “You do what you need to do, and I'll do the same.”
I walked out thinking that there was no bad blood between us.
I was so fucking wrong.
He set me up, threatened my family and tried to have me killed. What he didn't count on was me coming out alive. So I ran, dead set on never looking back, confident that if I was gone my family would be safe.
He didn't want my family, Marcos wanted me.
I thought Zander knew that, I expected him to understand. But he never did.
Raking my fingers through my hair, I dragged them down my face, and stared out the window. I never planned on going back; not if I didn't have to.
Miles had been put between us for a good reason.
I couldn't promise to keep them safe if I was there. I couldn't be sure the crew wouldn't find out and come seeking revenge. I wasn't even sure they ever stopped looking for me.
Not that any of that mattered, because my family wanted nothing to do with me anyway. My father told me I was dead to him, that I was a disgrace and he never wanted to see my face again. My mother looked at me like I wasn't her son, like I had been replaced by some vile creature she didn't recognize.
The rumors had spread, and I could see it in her eyes that she wasn't sure anymore about me. Nothing hurt more than that, it stabbed my heart like a serrated blade.
She doubted me. And I couldn't blame her for it.
I had lied to her over and over again about what I was doing for work, and where I had been. When the truth finally came out, everything changed between us.
Was it worth the risk to go back?
He's your little brother! If he needs you, you should be there!
Zander was family, that was all that mattered. Because that's what big brothers do, they take the high road and help the ones they love. . .
I'm helping them by not being there. I'm saving them by staying away.
What the hell do I do?
* * * *
The car idled quietly in the driveway, and I stared up at my parents new home. It took me a little while to find it, having to go off bad directions from my grandmother.
Biting my lower lip, I contemplated just turning around and leaving. I wasn't sure how being there was going to help anyone.
Fuck, why did I do this?!
You know why; Zander needs you.
He's the one I'm here for.
Turning off the car, I climbed out, sinking my feet into the dirt driveway. Standing with my hands in my pockets, my face was blocked by my hood, just to keep a certain level of protection to my identity.
Looking around, I didn't see anything that seemed out of place, there was nothing but trees for miles in every direction. There were no strange cars parked on the road when I drove in, no random people trolling the sidewalk.
But, I still felt frozen in place, afraid that there were eyes lurking in the shadows. I had driven around for over an hour already just to be sure no one was following me.
It's been a little while now, they're not expecting me to come back.
Pushing all the air out of my lungs, I jogged up the steps, and tapped the back door with my knuckles as I opened it. “Hello? Is anyone around?”
Stepping inside, I glanced around the entrance. The same small bench my mom had in the house I grew up in was set against the wall on my left, with Franco's shoes tucked all neatly underneath. The wall was lined with portraits of my brother and I when we were kids. A poorly designed wood key holder I had made in junior high shop class was pinned to the wall above the long seat.
They didn't erase me completely.
Taking in a deep breath, I could smell my mother's sunflower scented candles that she insisted on using every day. It was strange, the smell of the air was soothing and up-heaving my nerves all at once.
My muscles twitched with anxiety, fingers shaking subtly by my sides as I did my best to control my body. Being here was enough to get them all killed, and yet I put their safety aside to try and help my brother.
God I hope no one saw me.
Turning to the pictures, I examined them one by one. There was one of my brother smiling as he rode his bike up our driveway, and another one of all of us that my grandmother had taken outside of the beach house we rented every summer on the Cape. There was even one of me with our old dog, Daisy, laying on the floor watching TV.
The memories of my childhood started to flood my mind, and I could hear the sound of past voices, good and bad as they replayed in my ears.
The people in the pictures looked so normal, like this was the home of a typical American family. And for all outward appearance, it was, we were just like any other family on our street.
But that the was magic of plaster and wood. No one could see inside, no one could see the truth. They didn't see the boy who grew up to become a mafia hit-man, they couldn't see how lethal my hands had turned, and how these walls had laid the foundation for a killer.
Running my fingers over the last picture, my mother came around the corner, her eyes swollen and red. She was nervously rubbing her hands in front of her chest, lips turned down in a sullen frown.
Stopping in the doorway, she stared at me blankly as her breathing jumped, and she tryied to hold back her tears.
Furrowing my brows, I quickly walked to her side and cupped her elbow. “What's going on? Where's Zander? I want to know what the hell he did.” Looking around behind her shoulder, my mother suddenly slapped my face without warning.
“Ahh! What the hell was that for?” Scrubbing my jaw, I glared at her.
“This is your fault!” screaming, she hit me again. “This is all your fucking fault!” Slapping wildly, her hits came in hard and fast, an endless barrage of sharp stings I couldn't understand.
“What is? What's going on? What the hell did I do?” Blocking my head, I took a step back, trying to create some space between us.
But she wouldn't let up, stepping forward she smacked me again and again. My mother kept striking me, her hands not really aiming at anything, coming in rapidly and chaotic.
“Why did you come back?! Get the fuck out! You don't belong here!”
Snatching her arms, I held her wrists, trying to get her to focus on my eyes. “Mom, stop! Stop! Tell me what's going on!”
She was shaking wildly, her entire body a vibrating machine in my hands. Yanking her in, I hugged her tightly, trying to stop her from going into full blown convulsions as she started to weep.
Her hands came up, and clenched my shirt, tearing at the fabric. Her face pressed into my chest, rolling side to side as tears flooded down her cheeks, soaking through to my skin.
Rubbing my hands up and down her back, I kissed the top of her head. “Mom, what's wrong? Tell me what happened.”
Through heavy tears, her voice crackled in broken words. “Your brother. . . your brother isn't. . . Porter, he's gone.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Gripping her shoulders, I pushed her off my chest so I could look in her eyes. “What do you mean he's gone? Where is he?”
Sobbing uncontrollably, the water streamed down her lips as she tried to speak. Her sentences were all mangled, a mix of gasping for air, and finding her voice between shredded thoughts. “He. . . I don't know what happened. He was—Zander. . .” Swallowing hard, her eyes froze on mine. “He's dead,
my baby is dead.” Falling back into my arms, she wilted in a pain that she should never have to experience.
Holding her close, I brushed my palm down her hair. “Shh,” I soothed, doing my best to calm her. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”
Her body trembled as she cried, her moans growing in volume as she lost herself to the unspeakable hurt of losing a child. My mother's legs began to shake, losing their strength to hold her up anymore.
Bracing her against my chest, I kept her from falling, refusing to let her drop to the ground as her knees grew weak, and her muscles began to shut down. Every ounce of her turned brittle and broken, crumbling into pieces before my eyes.
I felt for her, for what she was going through. No mother should ever have to experience that type of heartache.
The last time I saw my mother this distraught was the day I left. Her eyes were giant saucers, swirling with disappointment and regret. She screamed at me to get out, she begged me to stay and get help, she slapped my face and told me she never wanted to see me again.
That hurt, to see the pain I had caused her, it hit me in a way that I never expected. I never meant to disappoint her, I never set out to destroy her very existence.
She didn't raise a monster, I transformed into one.
But this, this was something entirely different.
My brother wasn't being held behind bars, he wasn't a phone call away, or a three hour drive. He was gone forever.
Damn it! Why didn't I come home sooner?!
Regret caved in around me, making me wish I had done things differently. But isn't that how life goes? You make a choice, one that you think will solve all your problems, only to see it wash your very existence out to sea.
I could barely breathe, suffocated by the harsh reality that nothing could mend this. I couldn't fix Zander, not now, not ever again. I couldn't take back what I had done or erase the time between us, and fill it with memories.
My mother had inevitably lost two sons.
No. I'm here, I'm back.
There were no tears in my eyes, they were as dry as the desert. I knew that most people would be inconsolable at a time like this, but I wasn't normal. Even if I tried to force myself to cry, it wouldn't work. I didn't have any tears to shed for my brother, there were none to give him.
That didn't mean I wasn't sorry he was gone, it didn't mean that I lacked empathy for what she was going through, and didn't feel some form of sadness that he was dead. What it did mean was all the anger I lived with finally had a function, it had a purpose.
Revenge was bittersweet. It was time for me to open Pandora's box and let the world know I was back with a vengeance.
If Marcos has anything to do with this, he's fucking dead.
My heart stopped, returning to beat with hatred and rage for whoever was responsible for taking my brother from this woman—from this family—from me.
I'm going to kill them all.
The sound of feet thudded behind her back, drawing my attention up. Lifting my head, I saw my stepfather standing in the doorway of the living room, holding a small glass of alcohol. In khaki pants and a button-up plaid shirt, he watched me with that same dead stare I had seen when I walked out that door a nine months ago.
You still haven't forgiven me, even after all this time.
Our eyes locked as the battle of testosterone fueled the air, bringing back all the angst I felt when I was around him as a kid.
Franco and I didn't get along, we never really had. My mother used to tell me that we butted heads because we were so much alike. I refused to think I was anything like that man. He wasn't my birth father, none of his blood flowed through my veins.
All he cared about was his alcohol and control. He treated my mother like a fucking slave, and me like I had been put here on earth to serve him.
Pushing herself to stand up straight, my mother smoothed her hair out, and cleared her throat. Pulling a small cloth from her pocket, she wiped her face dry.
I felt sorry for her, even more so now with the death of my brother. It was sad that even in this state, with all the grief she felt, she couldn't show it around my father.
Fear and sadness wasn't allowed, it wasn't a part of our vocabulary when I was growing up. You took whatever shit was thrown at you like a man, regardless of what it was.
He used to tell me when I was a kid that if he saw a hint, a flicker, a damn pause in my fucking muscles—he'd make my mother a happy woman and give her the daughter she always wanted; by cutting off my balls one by one.
His tactic had worked. I didn't cry, I never whined or fussed about anything he ordered me to do. To me that was normal; all the anger, the demands, I didn't know anything else.
I did as I was told, period; no questions, no second guessing what he said. My head would bow, and I would run off to complete whatever medial task he assigned me.
He might not want to admit it, but he helped create the monster I had become, the empty pit of a man that walked around without a purpose, with no skills but how to kill a man with his bare hands.
I remember being really little one time and asking my mother why he treated me like I was his soldier. I never did get an answer, because she never had the chance to give it.
Franco walked in, his face red, the thick vein in his neck pulsing like it was its own entity, like a parasite that had taken control of his body. He smacked me so hard across the face for questioning who he was that I never asked again.
I wouldn't say it out loud, but his hands molded me like clay into the perfect mafia soldier. I was cold, calculated, and good at following orders. I learned to be that way because of him. I didn't give a shit about the people I had killed, or the suffering I brought on their families.
At least not at first. That changed, it all changed in one single night. A night that I still had nightmares about, a single moment that will haunt me forever.
“Why are you here?” he asked, taking a small sip from his cup. “I didn't ask you to come.”
“Yeah, but you wouldn't have called me if it wasn't something really bad.” Gritting my teeth, I tried to stay calm. “You should have told me, why didn't you? Why did you just hang up?”
Not letting him answer, my mother cut in. “I'll go make you something to eat.” Sniffling, she glanced at my father, then back at me. “Chicken parm, how does that sound? You always loved chicken parm.”
“Mom, no, you don't have to. You should relax, take some time to your—”
Resting her hand on my chest, she stopped me from speaking. “It will help me relax, help get my mind off all of this for a little bit.” Giving me a soft smile, she lifted her hand to my cheek and thumbed my face. “I'm really happy you're here. I've missed you, Porter.”
“Really, Mom, I'm fine. Why don't you go upstairs and lay down for a little while?”
Swirling his glass in the air, my father dipped his head to look into the cup. “The woman said she wants to cook, let her go cook.” Veering his stare at my mom, he nodded his head. “Chicken parm sounds good about now.”
My mother bowed her head, looking between us. The tension in the air was dense and thick, making the small standing room hot and stuffy. I knew they fought about me and my place in this family.
For my stepfather, I was dead to him. He wanted nothing to do with me, he hated everything about me. But my mother wasn't as harsh, she couldn't cut me out completely, and he resented her for that.
She still loved me in her own way, even if she hated the man I had become.
Forcing another small smile, she started down the hall towards the kitchen, and I stood quietly, watching her leave.
When my mother was out of view, I looked back at my father. “What the fuck happened?”
Stuffing a hand into his pocket, he jerked his head for me to follow him. “Your brother wouldn't listen and he did something stupid. He got shot Porter, and it's your fault.”
“Who shot him?” I asked, my voice trembling with pent up rage.
You
know who it was.
“Oh, so now you suddenly care? I highly doubt that.”
Gritting my teeth, my fingers curled into my palms. “I didn't come here for you to play mind games with me. Just spit it out, who killed him?” Walking behind him, I stopped in the center of the living room as Franco kept walking towards the fireplace. “Who? Who did this, Franco?”
“Franco? So what? Now you're too good to call me Dad anymore?” He chuckled and shook his head. “Porter, I didn't ask you to come here, you decided to come on your own. We were fine without you, we don't need you now.” Waving the glass in the air, he stared up at a picture of my brother from grade school. “Your mother is the only reason I called you at all. If I had it my way you'd be clueless still, living in whatever fucking hellhole you created for yourself.”
“Look, I fucked up, I know that. But I meant what I said before, I never meant to hurt any of you. I did the right thing in the end, you and I both know that. So, why can't you just let it go?”
“Right, you never meant to hurt us. You never meant to hurt your mother or your brother.” Pointing his finger out to the side, he eyed me over his shoulder. “Except, the choices we make affect other people, Porter, even if you think they won't.”
“I'm not playing these fucking games with you. All of that is in the past, it's not who I am anymore. I just need you to tell me who did this.” He wouldn't say, simply staring off into space, leaving his thoughts a mystery. “Tell me what the hell happened, I need to know.”
Franco was quiet for a long moment, hanging his head as he touched the picture of my brother. “You would know if you had been here. . .” Pausing, his head slowly clicked over his shoulder, eyes black as death. “He went looking for you, Porter.”
“No—why? But he—”
Downing the rest of his drink, he slammed the glass on the mantle. “He did this because of you.” Flicking his eyes back to the picture, he said, “You drove him right into the barrel.”
People don't choose to be evil, evil chooses the form it wants. And right then, I felt the evil as it turned my blood to tar, and harnessed all the hatred I had kept bottled up all this time.
How could he blame me for this? I didn't ask Zander to come looking for me, I told him to stay away. I tried to explain how dangerous those people were so he could stay safe.