Last Words

by Sam Mariano

  I don’t want the basket, but I take it anyway. I’m just about to say thank you, but I’m distracted by her pulling her cell phone from her pocket and holding it up, aimed at me like she’s taking a picture. “Say cheese.”

  “Don’t take my picture.”

  She does anyway. Checking the result on the screen, she shrugs. “Well, you don’t look happy, but you kind of have the whole broody thing going for you, so I guess this works.”

  “Why did you just take my picture?”

  She swipes her finger across the screen and holds it up to show me a picture of Gus accepting his turkey basket and being much more gracious about it. “See? This is what normal neighbors look like when you bring them treats.” She swipes to the picture she just took of me. I’m basically scowling at her. “Wanna try again?”

  “Delete that,” I tell her, reaching forward to grab the door so I can shut it in her face.

  She plants her hip against the door to stop me and cocks her head to the side. “You’re really not going to say happy Thanksgiving? I bring you a nice basket and you can’t even wish me a happy holiday?”

  “I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. Thanks for the alcohol, though.”

  Carly slides her cell phone back into her pocket. “I should’ve recorded this whole interaction so Laurel would believe me. I’ve told her about you and she is super skeptical. ‘No one is that much of an asshole for no reason, Carly, what did you do to him?’” Carly shrugs, eyebrows rising. “Apparently I wronged you in a former life or something.”

  “You did,” I deadpan.

  “Did I murder you? I’ve always felt like I probably murdered someone in a former life.”

  I laugh shortly. “You did, actually. We dated. You fucked another guy. He killed me so he could keep you for himself. Now I don’t like you.”

  Cocking her head like she’s conceding that point, she grimaces and says, “Wow, I was a super bitch in my former life. I should’ve brought more alcohol. Sorry about that.”

  I crack a smile. “Who’s Laurel?”

  “My little sister. I’m going home to spend Thanksgiving with her, that’s why I’m a few days early with the basket. I also wasn’t sure if you would be here for it. I know Gus is going to visit his daughter and granddaughter in Wisconsin.”

  I shake my head, glancing at the basket again. “I don’t do anything for holidays.”

  Now she frowns. “Not even Christmas? Morelli sounds unmistakably Italian. I assumed you celebrated Christmas.”

  “I am Italian. I don’t celebrate anything.”

  “Do you at least go home and visit your family?”

  “No home to go to. No family to visit.”

  That shakes her cheer a bit. “Oh. I’m sorry, that’s…”

  I shake my head, telling her firmly, “I don’t need or want your pity.”

  A half-laugh bursts out of her and she shakes her head. “God, you’ve got more guards up than Buckingham palace, don’t you?”

  I nod once. “Inscrutable bastards, too. Thanks for the alcohol.”

  There’s a hint of annoyance on her pretty face, but she moves out of the way anyway, sparing me a half-hearted wave before I shut the door.

  ---

  My Thanksgiving turns out pretty all right, thanks to the new girl. The bar I work at is closed so I don’t have to go anywhere. I spend the evening with the bottle of whiskey she gave me. I don’t drink as much as I used to in Chicago, but still more than I should. I have so many demons and I probably spend too much time alone, so I give them a lot of chances to catch up to me. Not that they go anywhere in the company of strangers. The problem with demons is they’re inescapable.

  Alcohol doesn’t help me escape them, necessarily, but it makes me numb to the feelings when they inevitably rip me open. When the vat of memories I keep sealed up cracks open and they swarm me, the alcohol keeps it from killing me. I can handle pain. I’ve always had to handle pain. The alcohol just helps.

  Mia used to help.

  A long, long time ago.

  Time is supposed to heal wounds, but maybe that’s only if you don’t rip them open on a regular basis.

  I told myself I wouldn’t do that shit this time. I told myself I’d find a way to let it go, but what’s the point, really? Mateo gave me a chance to have a clean start. I don’t like to give him credit for anything, and I don’t give him credit for that; he did it for selfish reasons. He didn’t do it for me; he did it so I’d be out of his way. He wanted Mia. He needed me gone so I wouldn’t be around to start problems for her—it had nothing to do with a new beginning for me; that was just one method of getting what he wanted. The one that worked best for him, so that’s what he did.

  I tried out freedom. I liked it from time to time.

  I still missed Mia.

  I still missed her all the goddamn time.

  I met new people. I made friends. I had girlfriends. Anyone watching me—and I assume someone was watching me, because he’s not dumb enough to kick me out and just trust that I’d stay away—would have been completely convinced that I moved on with my life.

  But I didn’t feel anything anymore. I assumed it was because the pain was fresh, because I still missed her, because my whole life changed literally overnight. Even though I didn’t want to be part of my family, they were all I knew and they were ripped away from me without warning. I couldn’t even say goodbye. No more Cherie, no more Francesca—I was isolated in a strange place with no identity, no attachments. I built enough to pass inspection, I guess. Mateo must have eventually stopped watching me or I never would’ve been able to snatch Mia up from the bakery. But none of it mattered. None of it made me feel anything. I built a house of cards on a foundation of quicksand. It all sank and I didn’t give half a damn. So I tried again. Same thing happened. Didn’t feel a goddamn thing.

  Years passed while I waited for the feeling to come back to me, but it never did.

  I still can’t feel anything.

  I’m completely fucking numb to everything but pain. Pain is like an old friend now—an asshole friend, but at least it always comes around.

  I guess I’m just a broken fucking person. I guess that’s just who I am, and there’s no point trying to change it.

  There’s not, especially now. I’m not about to attempt some godforsaken mission of self-improvement. That’s a lot of fucking work for someone who’s walking around on borrowed time.

  I wish Mateo would just get off his ass and find me. I’m not even making it hard. I don’t understand why the bastard won’t just finish the fucking job. He must be too busy fucking Mia to focus on finding me.

  Ugh, there it is. That hurts.

  It gets worse, too. Because I don’t even know for sure he’s fucking her. He may have killed her. Mia’s convinced he loves her, but I don’t believe that. He wanted to possess her, that’s all. Mateo isn’t capable of love. Mia isn’t capable of lying. That means he has to know I had her in Vegas, and I’ve been there, I know how that feels. Maybe it doesn’t hurt him in the same way since he doesn’t have a fucking heart, but he prides himself on his control, and I took that away from him. I took her away from him.

  I know that had to piss him off.

  If he didn’t intensely long for my death before, he does now.

  I pulled one over on the motherfucking king.

  He still won, though. That bastard. He always wins. He probably didn’t kill Mia, either. He’s literally watched me fuck her, so despite the blow to his ego, I doubt it was enough to tarnish her for him.

  I didn’t want to tarnish her, though. I wanted to keep her. I wanted her to bring the feelings back.

  She didn’t this time. I tell myself it’s only because it didn’t work, because she didn’t want me. I felt twinges. More than I ever felt without her. When we talked on the balcony and she hugged me, I felt sparks. That first night I fucked her before she made me see fucking red, when we were kissing—I remembered how it felt. It was so goddamn reassuring. Mia
was going to fix everything, because that’s what Mia does. I would’ve even forgiven her this time. I’ve seen enough of life without her; if she could’ve healed me, I would’ve forgiven every fucking thing she did to me.

  Problem is, she might’ve done it again.

  That would’ve fucking destroyed me.

  Fucking Rafe.

  I take another swig, straight from the bottle. I don’t fucking share, so who cares?

  I’m sick of being the loser. I’m sick of everyone else winning. It doesn’t even make sense. Why didn’t Mia want me? She didn’t even know Rafe and she apparently wanted him more than me. He’s an asshole, too. I know she likes assholes, but Jesus, I didn’t want to treat her like that. How is that a bad thing?

  I drink some more.

  I think about Mia and Mateo more.

  I get angrier.

  Why couldn’t she give me whatever she gives him? If it’s enough for him to hang onto her for four years, she’s gotta be giving him something good. He turned his world upside down to have her. I understand, because I would’ve turned the world upside down to have her back.

  Why wouldn’t she just give that to me?

  I feel fucking helpless knowing I’ll never have her again. Before I hatched a plan and started working toward it, but I blew it. I failed. I no longer have the element of surprise. For however much longer I’m alive, Mateo won’t take his eyes off Mia.

  I hope he hasn’t hurt her. I hope she was able to soothe him enough that he didn’t give her the Beth treatment. I’ll kill him if he did.

  Suddenly, I have to know.

  He doesn’t let her have social media anymore—I already tried checking that—and now that I left Vegas, I don’t have people to feed me information.

  There is one asshole I can call. The one who saw her last.

  I think it’s late, but that’s east coast time. Vegas time it’s still all right. Also I’m a little drunk and fuck him anyway, so I push up off my couch and head to the bedroom for my burner.

  Wild Turkey is a good friend. It assures me this is a good idea.

  A few rings later, one of the cousins I don’t like answers his phone. His tone is suspicious since this is a number he doesn’t recognize. His tone is clipped as he answers, “Yeah?”

  “Rafe Morelli. How’s life treatin’ ya?”

  “Who is this?” he asks, still curt.

  “Your favorite cousin,” I return dryly.

  Now he sighs, realizing it’s me. “Vince. Goddammit. It’s almost midnight—why are you calling me? Why are you calling me at all?”

  “It’s not midnight in Vegas.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m in Florida.”

  “What are you doing in Florida?” I ask, falling back on my bed and covering my head with my arm. I’m starting to get a headache.

  Instead of answering me, he says, “Look, you can’t be calling me. Mateo probably had Adrian bug my phone or some shit and now you’re going to make him think I know something about your whereabouts when I don’t.”

  “He’s looking for me, then?”

  “I’m not getting involved, Vince. Goodbye.”

  “Wait, don’t hang up. I’ll just call back.”

  A little less patiently, he demands, “What the fuck do you want?”

  “How was Mia? You took her to Chicago, right?”

  “Of course you’re calling me at midnight on Thanksgiving to ask about the girl you kidnapped,” he mutters. “She’s fine, Vince. Stay away from her.”

  “He didn’t hurt her, then? Did you see her after he got his hands on her again, or did he lock her up in his bedroom? I just want to know if you saw her again. He killed Beth. I just want to know if Mia’s okay.”

  “Mia is perfectly fine,” he assures me. “He didn’t hurt her. She was happy to be home.”

  “She’s brainwashed.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Rafe states. “Look, I have to go. Mia is great—Mateo took good care of her. They’re happy together. Take my advice: move on with your life while you still have one.”

  He hangs up before I can say anything else. That didn’t really make me feel better. I didn’t want to hear that he’d killed her, but I didn’t want to hear that they’re fucking happy, either.

  It doesn’t count. It’s not real happiness. Over the course of her time with him, he’s changed her. He liked the overall Mia package, so he tweaked it to make her perfect for him. He dirtied her up. Enhanced sides of her that weren’t so dominant when he met her. Obliterated the pieces of her that inconvenienced him. Trained her to please him. I could feel the difference in her in Vegas. She doesn’t even know what he’s done to her.

  She still needs to be saved from him, and she doesn’t even know it.

  I know, though. I know she needs to be saved.

  Maybe I’m the only one who’s not afraid of that bastard. Maybe I’m the only one who can save her. If saving Mia means I win, hey, happy coincidence.

  Only I can’t save her as long as he’s alive.

  So I guess that settles it.

  I have to kill Mateo.

  Chapter Three

  Vince

  There’s been an extra kick in my step ever since Thanksgiving night. I have purpose again. There’s something to plan, something to execute—something to look forward to.

  I woke up with a dry mouth, an aching head, and a few doubts about the whole idea, but given just a few hours, I came around to it being a good one.

  He’s gonna kill me anyway, if I don’t take him down first. He’s a blight on the face of humanity, and I’m a man with nothing left to lose—it’s his own fault I’m coming after him. He took everything and only left me for dead.

  He knows better.

  You don’t turn your back on an enemy; you make sure the last puff of breath has left their lungs before you walk away.

  Maybe Mia’s got his head all fucked up. God knows she’s good at messing with your head. I didn’t think she could mess with his, but maybe she has messed with his head too, just not the same way she fucked with mine. He’s much more controlling, so our responses to the same bullshit would be very different. I may have given her hell about the shit she pulled, but he’d probably just shut her down if he saw anything she did as a potential threat. He used to love watching Beth flirt and toy with men—until it became a problem. He nipped it in the bud a little too late; she already had the cop in her pocket.

  He won’t make the same mistake twice. Mia seems to flirt more now than she ever did before, but she also told me he doesn’t let her socialize with men anymore. He might like to watch her play, but he knows better than to let her have any playmates.

  I bet he’s gonna turn her into Beth if he gets the chance. Not on purpose, but he treats people like clay and sometimes he manipulates the form until it crumbles.

  I hope I can break her of that habit after I kill him. I don’t know how he can watch, let alone enjoy watching that shit, but I sure as hell don’t.

  Once I settle into the idea of taking down Mateo, it just comes down to planning. The problem is I’m a one-man show, and that’s gonna make life a lot harder. I don’t have the resources anymore—the people, the money, the information. I can’t even step foot in Chicago until it’s time to enact whatever plan I manage to put together.

  I’m not one to shy away from a challenge, though.

  It’s Wednesday evening, I have the night off, and I’m just about to settle in for a brainstorming session when the knocking starts.

  I catch myself smiling a little as I head for the door. This woman is fucking helpless. It’s kinda cute.

  Since I’ve got a mission I’m in a better mood, I’m not as surly when I open the door and see Carly standing there. “What can I do for you today, new girl?”

  “Can I get your opinion on something?” she asks.

  It’s freezing out today, so instead of making her stand outside like I usually do, I open the door and take a step back so she can come inside.

&n
bsp; “Oh, thank goodness, it’s not an arctic exhibit in here today. You must’ve burgled a good house this week, huh?”

  “I told you, I’m not a burglar.”

  “You did, but your criminal skill set told me other stories,” she teases, glancing over her shoulder at me as she steps past me. “Actually, your criminal skill set is why I’m here asking you for advice.”

  “Working on a bank job?” I ask, closing the door behind her and following her into the living room.

  “Nah, too many cameras.” She breezes past the living room and goes over to my table. I had a notebook set up with a beer and the light on overhead. She peers at the notebook—just an empty page right now, but man, she’s nosey—and looks back at me. “Taking night classes?”

  “Yup. Training to become a criminal mastermind. I’ve got my bachelor’s, but I really want that master’s degree.”

  Nodding like that makes sense, she tells me, “More pay, better benefits. I approve of this decision. When you become a crime lord, I want a job. That sounds really exciting.”

  Rolling my eyes, I tell her, “It’s not as exciting as you might think.”

  Taking a seat in the chair I had pulled out for myself, this girl grabs my beer and takes a swig. “If you’re a criminal, you can tell me. As long as you promise not to rob me or Gus, I honestly don’t even care. Not my business, you know?” Barely missing a beat, she puts down my beer and asks excitedly, “Can you crack other locks? Can you crack safes? What about, like, briefcases? Have you ever handled a briefcase full of money? Is that only a thing they do in the movies?”

  Glancing at the beer I’m not gonna drink now, I ask, “What was that advice you needed? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  “Oh, right.” She shakes her head, pulling her phone out of her pocket and tapping the screen. “I got all swept up in the excitement of your life, I totally forgot.”