Destructive: Combative Trilogy #3

by McLean, Jay

  “Well, if that’s the case,” he says, pulling out two shot glasses from his drawer. He pours whiskey in both, then raises one in the air. “To your mamma.”

  I raise my glass. “To redemption.”

  * * *

  The car that Ezio gives me the keys to is an old beater. Nothing works besides the engine, which is fine. The engine runs quiet, and it’ll serve its purpose perfectly.

  The location he’d given me is for a run-down farmhouse in upstate New York. Unlike where Bailey was kept, this one is fully furnished with power and running water.

  It doesn’t take long to get there, but I wait for the darkness to settle before going up the driveway to make my move. It’s strange, the calmness that fills me when the house comes into view. I switch off my lights when I near the property, using only the moonlight to guide me. Then I park, and with glove-covered hands, I unzip the backpack that came with the car.

  Holding a gun for the first time feels foreign after not having touched one for two years. Luckily, my muscle memory kicks in quickly, and the familiarity has me smiling. I attach the silencer, even though I don’t plan on pulling the trigger. But shit happens, and the last thing I want is for the cops to swarm in because someone heard gunshots in the middle of the night. I check inside the bag and make sure everything I asked for is there: flashlight, handcuffs, duct tape, ropes, a blowtorch. The only other things I need are in the backseat: an aluminum bucket and metal dog crate filled with things that have kept me company the entire ride here. Thank God for New York’s subways, because it sure as shit made it easy for Ezio to acquire them.

  I leave the bucket and the crate in the car. I’ll come back for them when it’s time. As quietly as possible, I open the car door, wincing when it squeaks. I look up at the house, but there are no lights, no signs of life. I’ve no doubt there will be multiple locks on the door, so I bypass that and go straight for the window, jimmying it open as quickly as possible. No more than thirty seconds, and I’m in the house, flashlight and gun held out in front of me. I’m in the living room, and besides the whirring of the fridge from the kitchen, the house is silent.

  I’m alert. I have to be. I know there is a multitude of guns in this house, and the person holding them will have no problem taking anyone down. I pass two open doors in the hallway—both bedrooms—and then I get to a third door, this one closed. I kick the fucker down. Reckless, maybe, but I get what I want. He sits up, squinty eyes searching in the darkness. He’s quick to reach under his bed, no doubt for his weapon, but I jump on him, force him down with my full weight. I hold the gun to his chin, flashing the light on my face, smiling full force when his eyes widen. “DeLuca?!” he shrieks.

  “Franco,” I deadpan.

  “But… you’re—you’re supposed to be dead.”

  My grin spreads. “And you’re about to be.”

  * * *

  It’s fascinating, how much pleasure you can gain from someone’s pain. For a moment, I wonder if I’m sick. If I have the same illness he does. But I only love the pain of my enemies. He’s just one sick, twisted motherfucker.

  Two hours pass, and when it’s clear he can’t take anymore, I grab the new burner out of my pocket and make a call.

  Perceval answers on the first ring.

  “You want him?” I ask.

  I’m greeted with silence.

  Followed by more silence.

  Then he murmurs to whoever he’s with, “I gotta take this.”

  I wait a moment, staring down at Franco’s busted face. He can barely open his eyes, the skin around them too swollen, too beaten and bruised, just like my knuckles. I trail my gaze down, lower and lower. His hands and legs are tied to the bed, the rope burns marring his skin. I sniff the air, my nostrils taking a hit of burning flesh. I’d used whatever I could find to scald him, mark him. Ruin him.

  “You have him?” Perceval finally responds.

  I grasp Franco’s hair, tugging hard. “Say something, you piece of shit.”

  He can’t speak words, the rag in his mouth only allowing him to groan. I take out the gag and hold the phone to his mouth just as he spits, “Fuck you!”

  Then I bring the phone to my ear again. “I figured I’d give you the opportunity to speak your mind,” I tell Perceval.

  There’s a pregnant pause and then: “Where?”

  I give him the address.

  “I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  * * *

  I keep Franco lucid while I wait, just enough so he can experience the pain. He hasn’t asked me to end him yet, and I’m glad because I want Perceval to make that decision. When I hear the black SUV pull into the driveway, I leave Franco momentarily so I can grab what I need for the final act.

  Perceval steps out of his car at the same time I exit the house. His gun is drawn, and I roll my eyes at him. “Calm your shit.”

  “Is he in there?” he shouts.

  “He ain’t going nowhere,” I tell him, opening the backseat of my car.

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to do this.”

  I pull out the bucket and crate filled with rats. “No, I said I wasn’t going to kill him.”

  “Rat torture?” Perceval all but shouts, walking beside me now.

  “The blowtorch is by the bed.”

  He huffs out a breath.“I didn’t think that was a real thing.”

  At the front door, I turn to him, handing him both items. “Whatever you do, make it hurt.”

  He nods, chewing his lip.

  “And if you decide to spare him,” I say, pulling a ski mask from my waistband. “Use this.”

  “You thought of everything, huh?”

  I shake my head. “Not everything. I didn’t need to. All I had to do was think of my mother, of Ashton, Bailey, and… and I thought of you—you and your daughter.”

  His gaze drops. “Thank you, DeLuca.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I start down the porch steps but stop when I remember one last thing. I turn to the fed, just as he’s opening the door, ski mask on. “If he comes out alive, I need your word that Franco ends up at Sing Sing Correctional.”

  “Why Sing Sing?”

  I shrug. “My uncle’s been doing some volunteer work there, getting to know the inmates, making contacts… if you know what I mean.” And every inmate Ezio’s been in contact with knows the name Dante Franco. The moment he steps foot inside the facility, he’ll be a walking target.

  “I get exactly what you mean,” Perceval replies, his tone stiff. “You tell your uncle I appreciate all his hard work.”

  I give him one final nod before turning away and getting into my car. The last thing I hear before I drive off is Franco’s deadly scream.

  I drive a few miles back to Queens, find somewhere safe to dump the car, taking whatever belongings I have with me. I bring them to the nearest gas station, where I throw them in the dumpster. Then I use the pay phone inside to call a cab. It only takes minutes for the car to arrive. As soon as I’m seated, the driver asks, “Where to?”

  “JFK Airport, please.”

  He puts the car in gear, starts driving to my destination. Half turning to me, he asks, “What terminal?”

  “International departures.”

  Epilogue

  NATE

  I look up at the property, then back to the note in my hand, make sure it matches. It’s a two-story townhouse—or unit according to the address. There are only two of them that share a driveway, and the one I’m staring at is at the rear. With only a backpack carrying my passport and the frame Dr. Aroma gifted me, and a phone I’d purchased at the airport when I landed, I feel… unprepared as I walk up the concrete drive and toward the front door. Excitement builds in my chest as I raise my fist, knock twice.

  After a solid minute of no response, I start to panic. I check the time on my phone and realize it’s two in the afternoon on a Wednesday. They’re probably at work now, and I should�
�ve thought this through. I’d thought of everything else. The passport, the visa—all things my uncle helped organize prior to my release.

  With my hope slowly waning, I give it one more go, knock again, harder this time. One second passes. Two. I knock again. And again. And then: “Tits, be calm! I’m fucking coming! Jesus Christ, what the fuck do you—” The door opens, and Tiny appears in nothing but boxer shorts, his eyes widening when he sees me.

  He slams the door in my face. “Fuck off!”

  Yeah, I forgot about this part. I probably should have planned for the shock value of seeing someone rise from the dead. “Tiny!” I knock again. “I heard my best friend lived here. Open the door.”

  “Fuck off!”

  “I come bearing gifts!”

  “Bullshit!”

  “I have one naked girl and twenty tacos!”

  The door opens. “You motherfucker!” And then I’m in a bear hug so tight I can’t fucking breathe. But I don’t need to. I’m too busy laughing as he lifts me off my feet, drags me into the house and slams the door behind me.

  “You’re going to have to let me go at some point.”

  “Fuck no, I don’t,” he mumbles, squeezing me tighter. “You’re supposed to be ashes. I fucking buried you.”

  “And yet, here I am,” I tell him, finally managing to pull away. I look him up and down. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “My dick’s grown an inch.”

  “What the fuck,” I guffaw.

  “I think it’s the water in Australia.” He smiles, crooked. “Man, I have so many questions.”

  “Another time. That shit’s not important right now. How have you been?” I look around his house. “Nice digs, man.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “You bought it.”

  My teeth show with my grin. “I’m glad.”

  “Come on,” he says, motioning to the couch.

  I sit down where he’s offered, my arms spread on the back of it. “You got a room for me here?”

  “Always,” he says, flopping down on a recliner opposite. “So you’re staying for a bit, or…?”

  “A while, at least. I miss ya, man.”

  “How’d you find me?” he asks.

  “I’m a Gallo.” I smirk. “I have my ways.”

  “This is insane,” he says, his eyes wide in disbelief. “Does anyone else know?”

  “Just you and Uncle Ezio. Oh, and Ashton knew. I contacted her a day or so after it happened.”

  He eyes the ceiling, thinking, thinking. “It makes sense now. Shit.”

  “What does?”

  “Just her grieving, I guess. She was upset for like a day and then…”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. It’s as if she was resolved to the fact that you were gone, but—but you weren’t really gone, were you? So…” His eyes meet mine. “She wasn’t pissed?”

  I shake my head. “Nah, she understood why, and she accepted it. I think, in a way, she was relieved that our little charade was over, you know? Even though she loved me, and in a way she knew I loved her, too, but I didn’t love her the way I—”

  “Loved Bailey,” he cuts in.

  I nod, stay silent.

  “So Bailey doesn’t know?”

  “Nah,” I say, sitting up. I pick at a spot on my jeans, my heart aching at the thought of her. “I think it’s best for her that she forget me, if I’m honest. I’ll always love her, but she deserves more.”

  His eyes narrow. “So you don’t know where she is?”

  “No idea,” I tell him. “I forced myself not to go looking. Hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

  He sighs. “Sucks.”

  “What about you?” I ask, changing gears. “You seeing someone?”

  His grin is ridiculous.

  Mine is the same. “Dang, tell me everything.”

  “I will,” he says. “But first, coffee.”

  “You just wake up? It’s the middle of the afternoon.”

  He stands up, his eyes narrowed as he glares at me. “I work mornings, and guess what? You’re not the fucking boss of me anymore.”

  I laugh, and fuck, does it feel good.

  “Let me get dressed real quick.”

  “For coffee?”

  “We’re going out,” he tells me. “Trust me. You ain’t never had real coffee until you have Melbourne coffee.”

  “Let me guess,” I murmur, stretching as I get to my feet, “it makes your dick grow.”

  He smirks. “Maybe for you.”

  * * *

  “I’m still getting used to driving on the wrong side of the road,” Tiny says, glancing at the rearview.

  “So, you’re like set up here now.”

  He nods. “Got a permanent residency, license. I’m even part owner in a business.”

  “Serious? What business?”

  “I’ll show you. We got a fifteen-minute drive up the mountains, and this country—it’s fuckin’ beautiful, man. Take in the scenery. Enjoy it.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, I settle into my seat, my gaze out the window, watching the tallest trees pass around us. The sun filters through the leaves, cascades of varying colors as we climb, climb, climb until the world is below us. Tiny stops at a lookout spot, points toward the horizon, below a perfectly blue, cloudless sky. “That’s Melbourne city, or CBD they call it here. Central Business District.”

  “What’s it like?” I ask.

  “It reminds me of home,” he says, then smirks. “Which is why I chose to move out to the suburbs. It’s only a twenty-minute drive, though, so I’ll take you there, show you around.”

  “Yeah, I’d like that,” I reply, looking out into the distance. I don’t get to take it in for long before he pulls away, starts driving again, higher and higher. “We’re traveling a fair distance for coffee.”

  “It’ll be worth it,” he says. “Trust me.”

  A few minutes later and we’re pulling into a lot with multiple food trucks and market stalls. He backs into a spot with a reserved sign, and I glance at him. “Can you park here?”

  “It’s reserved for management,” he tells me. “And I am management.”

  “This is your business?” I ask incredulously, looking around. “It’s fucking cool, Tiny.” I count five different food trucks: pizza, gyros, cupcakes, burgers and, of course, tacos. There are also stands with fresh fruit and vegetables, handmade products—candles and the like—and at the far end is a coffee truck with flowers on display all around it. There are café-style tables and chairs scattered around, like a nice little patio garden, and I can’t help but smile at the thought of Bailey. She’d love this spot. I look at the truck again, notice the name: Madison Square Garden. My breath catches in my throat, my heart beating so fast I can feel it against my ribs. “Tiny,” I whisper. “What…”

  “Just wait,” Tiny murmurs.

  “For what?”

  He doesn’t respond, but a few seconds later, the side door to the truck opens, and I see my heart’s desire for the first time in over two years. She’s wearing an apron, a coffee in her hand, and she’s smiling as she makes her way over to some customers. The smile widens when they look up at her, no doubt to thank her, and they have a conversation—one I wish I could listen in on just so I could hear her voice. Heat pricks behind my eyes as she walks back to the truck, reaching up to grab a watering can off the serving shelf. She stands, her back to me as she waters some plants, and then Tiny says, “Are you going to go talk to her?”

  I turn to him, my vision blurred. “I don’t know.”

  He nods, understanding. “We came here together. It was her idea. She wanted to leave everything behind—”

  “Parker?” I cut in.

  “Yeah,” he breathes out. “That was the toughest part for her, but in the end, she chose to put herself and her happiness first, and I’m glad, Nate. I’m glad she came with me. Though, had she gone to Canada, I’d have gone with her, too, just to make sure it was all legit.” My eyes
widen, and he nods again. “You were gone, Boss, and I knew you’d want me to look out for her.”

  My exhale is shaky, so are my hands. I glance back at Bailey, watch as she starts wiping down a table.

  “If you don’t want her to know you’re here, just say the word and I’ll never—”

  “No,” I cut in. “I want to see her, obviously. I’m just...”

  “You’re scared.”

  My eyes drift shut. “It’s the second time I’ve abandoned her.”

  “She won’t see it that way.”

  “How do you think she’ll see it?”

  “The way I do.” He pauses a beat. “She’ll see it as a second chance.”

  I suck in a breath, release it slowly, and open my eyes again. I pull out my phone, ask Tiny, “Do you have her number?”

  He shows me on his screen, and I enter it in mine, write out a text, and watch her before hitting send.

  Nate: You’re so fucking beautiful, it pains me.

  I watch as she stops her task, reaches into the pocket of the apron. She taps the phone a few times, her eyes narrowed, and then she slumps down, her entire body falling into a chair. She stares at the text, her hand to her heart. Her thumbs move quickly with her reply, and that’s when I notice the ring—my mother’s.

  Bailey: If this is some sick joke, it’s not funny.

  Then she swipes at her cheek, and that’s when I get out of the car and rush over to her, because I won’t let her shed one more tear over me. I stop only feet away, my throat burning with emotions when I say her name.

  She looks up, her tear-filled eyes widening when she sees me. And then she just stares, her focus moving rapidly, my eyes, my nose, my mouth.

  I squat down in front of her, my fingers itching to wipe away her liquid sadness. I raise my hand, stop just short of touching her. “Can I?”

  Without responding, she reaches out, her fingertips stroking my jaw, and then my nose, my lips. Both hands cup my face now, and I swallow the knot in my throat. “You’re here,” she trembles, another tear falling, and this time I don’t ask for permission. I soak my skin in her sorrow and move forward an inch. She’s so close now, her breaths merge with mine, and I’ve dreamt of this moment but could never surrender to those dreams. For her. I stayed away for her, but now she’s here, and she’s everything I need and everything I’ve craved and she’s… she’s everything.