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by Jennifer Ryder

“If I email you some documents and the background, do you think you could help me out?”

  “Has this got to do with the suit that took you for everything?”

  She didn’t forget.

  “Yeah, it does. He’s come out of the woodwork and now he’s paying off the debt because he wants me back, but I want rid of this debt before anything else. I need to know that the bank can’t come after me again.”

  Vicky gasps. “You’re thinking about taking him back?”

  “Not in a million, babe, but he doesn’t need to know that.”

  “I’m at home today, so send the documents to my personal email. I’ll take a look at them and will get back in touch. If you agree, I can contact the bank on your behalf. Anything for a friend.”

  My heart just melted a little. Another woman I’m lucky to have in my life. Seriously, who needs family with awesome mates like these?

  “That’d be great. You’re the best, Vicky.”

  “Anything I can do to help.”

  I make the trek to my building, with my backpack strapped tight around me. I walk a little farther off the path from the road. Ain’t no madman on a bike gonna get me again. A light drizzle starts to leave a gentle imprint over the car bonnets and forms a shiny blanket over the perfectly groomed grass. The steady stream of peak-hour traffic zooms past.

  A police car is parked in a no stopping zone near the main entrance. I wonder if someone else got robbed? Shit. I hope not. I pick up the pace, power-walking as I come within fifty metres of the vehicle.

  A female cop exits the building first and gets into the driver’s side. A man dressed in black with tattoos up his arms walks out next.

  Wait a sec. Is that Rocco?

  A tall male cop escorts him into the back seat.

  “Rocco?” I call out, as I jog towards them. When the brake lights come on, the car pulls away from the curb. My legs move of their own volition into a sprint. “Stop!”

  The police vehicle zooms into the flow of traffic and travels north. What the hell is going on?

  I unhook my bag and shakily dial his number as large raindrops fall on the screen. It rings and rings and then finally goes to voicemail.

  ‘This is De Luca. Leave me a message.’ His voice drawls in that bored tone.

  Beep!

  “Goddamn it, Rocco. Where are you? I just saw you leave the unit. Can you call me, please? Let me know what’s going on. Tell me what I can do.”

  I disconnect the call and grip the phone tight in my hand. “Shit!” I curse to the sky, which is now teeming with rain. What is going on with him?

  I ring Spencer.

  “Yeah,” he says, almost breathless. I guarantee him and April have been making like bunnies again. In this moment, all it does is make me mad.

  “Enough of the heavy breathing, already. Can you give me any logical reason as to why Rocco would be being placed in the back of a cop car and taken away?”

  “Fuck. When did this happen?”

  “He literally left a minute ago.”

  “I’ll try and call him.”

  “You can, but I’ve tried and he’s not answering. I’ll go up to the apartment and see if there’s any sign of what’s happened. Maybe he left me a note or something.”

  “Good. I’ll keep trying him. I’ll get April to ring Mac and see if he knows anything.”

  “Thanks. Keep me posted.”

  “I will.”

  There’s two cups of what look like coffee on the bench, which is scattered with flour and long strips of pasta. He was cooking when they came?

  Clearly, he left in a hurry.

  I search the rest of the apartment for some kind of sign. There’s nothing that gives me any clue. His phone is sitting on the coffee table, with messages lighting up the screen. Hence, no answer. Fuck.

  ****

  ROCCO

  The morgue is closed, but the cops have a key. They lead me down a series of corridors, and stand me in front of a glass viewing-window, with a beige curtain closed on the other side.

  The male officer stands behind me to the left and the female officer walks into another room. My heart thumps in my chest like a frightened bird trying to escape.

  Then the curtains open. A silver trolley with a white sheet laid over a human figure is wheeled closer to the window.

  I rub at my eyes. Am I really doing this?

  She slowly pulls the white sheet up, exposing bare feet. She folds the linen back, so it rests on the figure’s collarbone.

  “Oh, fuck,” I whisper as the harsh reality hits me like spear through the heart. “Fuck!”

  It’s him. My baby brother.

  It’s not supposed to be him.

  “Mr De Luca, is this your brother, Vincent De Luca?”

  It’s him, but it’s more like a wax version. There’s no pinkish colour to his cheeks. The familiar tattoos weave over the pale skin of his shoulders and neck. The jagged scar on his left cheek is more pronounced. All essence of who my brother was has left him. Now, my only sibling is nothing but a shell.

  It breaks my heart into a thousand worthless pieces.

  I nod. “It’s him,” I choke out.

  What a waste. He had such potential. I know we’d had our disagreements, but I loved him like no other. He was all I had left. We were the last of the De Lucas. Now, I’m it.

  It’s a cruel kick in the guts seeing him lying there. I wasn’t with him in those final moments. He died in jail. Alone.

  I did this to him. He told me not to say anything. I did this.

  I wanna hurl him into my arms, squeeze him until I’m too weak to stand. I want to cry until I’m dry, and I never fucking cry. I hate it. Crying is for the weak. Standing here before his lifeless body, I’m as useless as I’ve ever been. I wanna fight with him, ask him what the fuck he was thinking. Why did he get involved in the MC in the first place? Why did he have to be so fucking proud and choose to ignore me, and side with our prick of a father instead? I wanna yell and wrestle him to the ground as I did when we were kids, but I won’t get the chance to do that ever again.

  The cops are watching me. As if they give a damn about V. They probably see shit like this every day. He’s just another death to them, but to me he was everything. He was all I had.

  Whether they’ve tried to cover them up or not, there are puncture wounds down the side of his neck. One. Two. Three. Counting each one churns the acid in my gut, compelling it up my throat. I swallow down, and cough as the sting subsides.

  Whoever did this, they meant business. Was it revenge, or was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  Where did he die? The yard? In his cell? Who was with him? Who could commit such a vile act and get away with it?

  “Can I touch him?”

  “I’m afraid you can’t … not until the coroner has released the body.”

  I look down at his pale feet. “Why the fuck does he have a paper tag on his toe?”

  “It’s for identification.”

  “He’s just lying there like a piece of meat. Isn’t he cold?” I bash my fist up against the window frame and suck in a deep breath. “It can’t fuckin’ be him. He’s the only family I have left.”

  A small hand is placed between my shoulder blades. “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss. If there is anything I can do for you, please call.”

  “Can you bring him back?” I shout. “’Cause that’s all I fuckin’ want. Bring him back.”

  The male officer guides me away from the window with his large hands on my shoulders. Hot tears pour down my face.

  “I just want my brother,” I choke out.

  “I know, mate. I know.”

  They make me sign some piece of paper identifying him for the coroner. I want to rip it to shreds. It’s another cruel validation that he’s gone.

  “Now what?” I sigh.

  “The Coroner will release the body in a day or so, and then you can make the necessary arrangements with a funeral director,” he says.
/>   I swallow down and nod.

  I can’t see him in a box. He’s fuckin’ twenty-five, for Christ’s sake. He doesn’t belong in a box. He doesn’t belong six feet under the ground in the cold, dark earth.

  “Unfortunately, I’m unable to provide you with any recommendations for a funeral director. Is there someone I can call for you who can help you with the details?”

  This is all on me. My responsibility. No one else’s.

  “Nope. I’ll do it.” I wipe my runny rose with the back of my hand. “When do I find out what happened? I need answers. Someone has to pay for this.”

  “We’re interviewing witnesses. As he died in custody, there’ll be an inquest into the circumstances of his death. We’ll conduct our own criminal investigation, but I need to tell you though, it can take a few weeks to gather evidence and take statements. The coroner can take a lot longer to deliver their findings.”

  The female officer emerges from behind me and hands me a business card and a large brown paper bag.

  “If you have any questions at all, please call me. We collected these things earlier from the jail. We thought it would be easier than you having to go down there.”

  She’s right. If I were to step foot in that place, my fists would be swinging until I got answers.

  “Thanks.”

  When the cops drop me back home, I go straight to my room. I collapse on the bed and pour the contents of the bag out in front of me.

  The black dress shirt and jeans he wore to court are neatly folded. I hold them over my heart and breathe in deep, disappointed at the absence of his scent. I pick up the chunky gold cross on a tangled chain. Mamma bought each of us one when we had our confirmation in primary school. I haven’t worn mine in years. I scoop up his chunky silver rings and about a hundred bucks in notes and a few coins.

  Fuck, that’s it?

  I check the bag again. Stuck to the bottom is a faded photo that I printed out for him and gave to him on my first visit. It’s the same picture of us that I have on the fridge. The edges are worn, the photo cracked in places.

  He clutched this photo, just as I’m holding it now.

  The contents of this bag are all I have left of him. How can this be all that’s left of a life?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  SOPHIE

  I ring Spencer and report my findings as I drive to the closest police station. When they don’t give me answers, and threaten to lock me up for being a public nuisance, I drive to the next. After three police stations, I’m running out of options. I’m dead on my feet. What else can I do?

  I ring Spencer. “No one can tell me where he is.”

  “I’ve got nothing either, and Mac hasn’t heard from him.”

  “I guess all I can do is go home and wait.”

  “I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” Spencer says, and lets out a loud sigh.

  “Thanks.”

  “He’ll be okay, Soph. Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s just something stupid like unpaid parking fines. The man never pays his tickets.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  As I dash between the car and the apartment, the pouring rain soaks me right to the skin. When I get inside, the place is as silent as it was when I left it in a flat panic earlier.

  I change into a tank and pyjama shorts and start cleaning up the kitchen bench, tossing the dry, crumbly pasta in the rubbish. I sweep the flour off the floor and wipe down the bench.

  Not having eaten anything for dinner, I lather some butter and vegemite between two slices of bread, and scoff them down in record time. Of course, I end up giving myself the hiccups.

  When I walk towards my room, that’s the moment I hear it.

  The sobbing. The sniffing.

  In relief, I fill my lungs with a long, deep breath. He’s here … but something is wrong. Rocco does not cry. My chest deflates. Whatever is going on behind that door, it doesn’t sound good. No one cries over unpaid fines.

  To put his friend’s mind at ease, I quickly shoot a text to Spencer.

  Me: He’s home. I’ll find out what the deal is and get back to you in the morning.

  Carefully I open his door. A flash of lightning beams into the room through the open blinds, highlighting Rocco’s curled up frame, his back to me.

  “Rocco?” I whisper over the constant patter of rain against the window.

  He sniffs and his shoulders slump, yet he doesn’t say a word. Whether he wants me to or not, I slip under the sheets behind him and squeeze around his middle.

  “What’re you doin’, Suds?” he rasps.

  I tighten my hold on him. He grips my hand and pulls it to his chest.

  “We’ve all been worried sick about you,” I say softly.

  “Who?”

  “Me, Spencer, Mac.”

  “What the fuck for?” he barks. Did I say something wrong?

  “When you left … with the cops and you wouldn’t answer your phone, Spencer was the first person I called.”

  “I didn’t have my phone.”

  “I went down to the nearest police station and asked for you. Demanded someone fucking talk to me, but no one would.” The rain pounds harder against the window frame, sending a chill through me. I hold him tighter, drawing on his warmth.

  “You did that for me? Not even knowing what the fuck the cops were doing here?”

  “Yes. I was worried.”

  He lets out an exasperated breath. “Fuck me, girl.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Don’t ever fuckin’ apologise for shit like that. Not to me or anyone else.”

  “What’s happening with you, De Luca? Talk to me.”

  He fists the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “Argh!” he growls.

  I lower his arms to his chest and take his prickly jaw in my hands. “Whatever it is, I’m here.”

  He chokes on a sob, and it slices right through my heart. “Vinnie.” His voice breaks at the mention of the name. “He’s dead.”

  I gasp for air.

  No. He’s lost his brother?

  The police were here to tell him? Where did they take him?

  “I’m so—”

  “Sorry?” he spits out.

  Tears fall down my face, as I blink and nod.

  “Please don’t fuckin’ cry. I can handle that on top of this.”

  “I’m sorry.” I wipe my cheeks with my palms and suck in a deep breath. “That’s why the police were here?” I try to say it with some kind of composure. I have to be strong for him.

  “I had to”—he strangles a heart-breaking sob—“identify him.”

  Oh my God. I cover my mouth with my hand. He was at the morgue? He had to do that shit by himself?

  “His death is on me, because I opened my mouth and they put him in protection. I did this.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I tell him as I take his closest hand and squeeze. Surely he doesn’t think that?

  Rocco growls loudly and clears his throat. “Fuck this shit,” he curses, and tosses the covers off him. He stalks into the kitchen, still wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with what looks like remnants of flour on it.

  Frantically, he opens and slams cupboard doors until he finds what he’s been looking for. He slams the familiar-shaped bottle on the bench.

  Tequila.

  I thought we’d tipped every last drop down the sink. Did he buy some since or had he stashed some? My Nana had trouble destroying it all, and it took years before she had the strength of will to.

  “Rocco, no.” I try to say it firmly, but my voice is strangled by unshed tears. Don’t cry. You’re not helping.

  He takes a glass from the dish drainer on the sink and sits it hard beside the bottle. Tears stream down his pale face as he unscrews the bottle top.

  “Don’t,” I say in a quiet voice, placing my hand on his forearm.

  “You don’t know how fucking hard this is,” he yells. He can’t even look me in the eye. />
  With my finger I turn his head to face me and stare him down. “You’re right, I don’t, and I’m so sorry this happened. Don’t fall back into old habits now.”

  “Me being sober isn’t gonna bring him back. It doesn’t matter now.”

  “It does matter.”

  “I have no one left.”

  Tears blur my vision, then trail their way down over my cheeks. I dig my index finger into my chest. “You. Have. Me.” With each word I tap over my heart. “I’m here for you.”

  He pours the liquid into the glass, right to the brim. I won’t lie. It hurts like hell. Did he even just hear what I said?

  I want to slap his face, yell at him, but I can’t bring myself to raise my hand. I don’t want to hurt him. Instead, I wrap my arms around his shoulders, and lay kisses on his wet cheek. The saltiness zaps on my tastebuds as my own tears fall.

  This is a man at his lowest. I don’t think I’ve ever been with someone at this point of desperation and sorrow.

  “Suds,” he growls. “Don’t try and stop me.”

  “If you won’t put that drink down for yourself, then do it for me.”

  Something dark settles in his eyes. I’m pushing a man who’s teetering on the edge. His chocolate pools brim with tears. It’s as if I’ve broken him that little bit more.

  His warm lips smash against mine. The kiss is hungry, fuelled by passion and desperation. He flicks the stud against my tongue as he fills my mouth, driving me to the point of breathlessness.

  This kiss is nothing like it was in Vegas. This kiss is opening up my heart to him, and breaking it at the same time.

  There are so many mixed emotions that plague me when it comes to this man. I’m sad for him. I’m proud. Some days I hate him, and some days I really like him … or is it more than that?

  Rocco’s fingers dig into my arse cheeks as he takes hold of me, lifting me onto the edge of the bench. I link my ankles around his waist and squeeze my thighs around him, locking him against me.

  A garbled cry fires from my lips as he moves his hips between mine and rubs the tip of his hard dick over the thin cotton covering my clit.

  With determined strides he carries me to his room, our lips fixed together until he lays me back onto his bed, kneeling beside my outstretched legs.