Eulogy

by Rachel Van Dyken

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Everyone has darkness — I’m the master at wielding it.”

  — Ex-FBI Agent P

  Chase

  I don’t think I could’ve been more shocked if I’d tried — and I wasn’t a man who was easily surprised. I’d immediately assumed she was running to the cops, not getting harassed by one.

  Every man in that police station owed me a favor.

  And I respected each and every one of them — except Hank. Hank was the one officer I had the most trouble with, questioning everything, and not knowing when to shut up when he was told to.

  Not that I was going to tell Luciana, but that was his third strike, meaning there would be a follow-up, and while I wouldn’t kill him, there would be blood as a reminder of who he was.

  Of who I was.

  King.

  I might not be boss, even though it was my birthright, but I had the city of Chicago at my fingertips. That was how Nixon had wanted it — let him lead in the background, let me do the smooth talking.

  It worked.

  Until I forgot the smooth part.

  Now I talked with my gun.

  Which only got us more friends.

  Less enemies.

  But at the cost of every human part of me that still remained.

  Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t even realize we were at the grocery store until Luciana started unbuckling her seatbelt.

  I followed her into the familiar store.

  The same one that Mil used to frequent when we needed groceries or when I needed her to grab something for dinner.

  Luciana paused and started reading the signs for the aisles.

  I checked my Rolex and sighed then made my way to Aisle Two and increased my pace before standing in front of so many pink and purple boxes I wanted to shoot every last one and then torch them for good measure.

  I grabbed a tampon multi-pack and the pack next to it then held them up to her. “We done now?”

  Luciana’s face couldn’t physically get any redder if she tried. It was endearing, that look, and the way it snaked around my insides making me lose my breath for a second.

  She nodded without looking at me.

  “Luciana,” I called, “you promise this is all you needed?”

  She chewed her lower lip causing the red to fade to a pale white as she bit down harder and harder. “No.”

  Honesty, huh? Imagine that from a woman. “Okay, so what else do you need?”

  “Tylenol, protein bars.” Didn’t see that coming.

  “Let’s go.” I jerked my head toward Aisle Eight and after that, Aisle One, and then made my way to the front of the store before dumping everything onto the belt.

  “Mr. Abandonato.” The cashier cleared his throat.

  “Ricky.” My curt response.

  Luciana was silent as he rung her up; when she reached into her giant black purse, I stopped her just as she pulled out a shiny purple billfold that looked like it had seen better days.

  “I’ve got this.”

  “You aren’t paying for my—”

  I stared her down.

  “—tampons,” she finished with a blush and hoarse cough.

  “Apparently…” I swiped my Amex smoothly through the card reader. “…I am.”

  “Did you need your receipt, Mr. Abandonato?” I hadn’t looked away from Luciana; I found her too fascinating. The way she blushed over something so insignificant was astounding to me.

  And then she lifted her head and said, “Thank you, Chase.”

  Her thank you was like an arrow sailing through my body. I physically flinched, not because I was offended, but because it had been so long since I’d heard a thank you for anything.

  “Don’t you like it?” I was giddy with excitement. The Maybach had been on a pre-order for six months before it was finally delivered for Mil’s birthday. “It’s black like your soul,” I winked.

  She just stared at the car and then back at me. “Chase, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll get naked in the back seat. They recline.” I pushed a button.

  Her smile didn’t reach her eyes as she put a hand on mine. “It’s too much… I can’t drive around in a car like this when the rest of the Family is struggling as much as they are.”

  A sick feeling built in my stomach. “Mil, they know we’re married. They won’t give a shit, and if they say anything, I’ll just kill them.”

  She laughed at that.

  She always did when it came to life or death.

  “Alright,” she said in a small voice.

  But no thank you.

  She drove it once.

  And died six months later.

  “Mr. Abandonato?” Ricky called. “I was sorry to hear about your wife.”

  Luciana’s eyes bulged.

  Ah, taken down by a cashier at Fred’s.

  Too bad I actually liked Ricky.

  “Don’t be,” I said, putting on my sunglasses. “I’m not.”

  I drove in angry silence the entire way back to my car, didn’t even say goodbye as I jumped out of the Maybach, Mil’s car, and left Luciana on the side of the road.

  “Thank you.” Her words echoed.

  Bullshit.

  All women wanted was my face, my body, or my money. They didn’t want me. I knew that now.

  I knew what to expect.

  Expect them to fall in love with the idea of me.

  But the real Chase?

  Never fucking enough.

  Never. Again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Your only job is to kill or be killed. Have fun.”

  — Ex-FBI Agent P

  Luciana

  By the time I got back to my prison, there was no sign of Chase. The garage door was open, so I quickly drove in, cut the engine, grabbed my bag, and made my way into the kitchen, only to see him sitting there drinking.

  Again.

  I walked past him.

  Or attempted to.

  When his arm snaked around me. “Next time you leave without telling me, I’m putting a bullet through your hand, so every time you text, you think of me.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said quickly. “I-I’ll text.”

  He shoved my hand away and gulped. “Good.”

  Would it always be like this? Hot and cold? Strategically placed eggshells scattered all over the house like grenades, just waiting to go off with one misstep?

  I squeezed my eyes shut and started to walk but then stopped. It wasn’t just curiosity, it was more like I was trying to find something — anything that would show me he was human, that he cared. I mean, murderers don’t just buy tampons for an employee, do they?

  Maybe his humanity was all gone for the day.

  He’d used it up after walking down that aisle.

  But he’d walked down it as if he was familiar.

  He bought the tampons as if he had no shame.

  The word wife burned across my line of vision until I finally just blurted out. “What happened to her?”

  Aka did you kill her like you’re going to kill me?

  The room fell into a sick heaviness that had me ready to claw at my neck for air as the sound of him standing and then walking over to me slammed into my ears.

  He didn’t touch me, but I felt him, the thickness of his body, the heat of his breath as it fanned against the back of my neck. “I didn’t kill her.”

  “I didn’t ask that.”

  His laugh was humorless. “You didn’t have to.”

  I shivered as he pressed a hand onto my right shoulder.

  “Someone beat me to it.”

  That was all he said before walking past me and leaving me alone in the kitchen ready to hyperventilate into the nearest paper sack.

  I clutched the grocery bag in my hand and steadied my breathing then made my way back up the stairs to my office.

  I didn’t see him the rest of the day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


  “You find the weakness. You tap in to it, you call to it, beckon it, make it believe that you’re its opposite — strength. Then you rip it away. You steal. You leave them more broken than before.”

  — Ex-FBI Agent P

  Phoenix

  I didn’t sleep.

  Correction, I hadn’t been sleeping, unless Bee held me, unless I could see my son a few dozen times a night and know he was breathing. I woke up at least three times an hour just to check on him.

  I always brought my gun.

  I was always ready to kill.

  And I hated that I had so much weakness in my soul, my blood.

  I made my way into Nixon’s house and sighed when Frank sat down the newspaper and stared right through me.

  “So.” Frank reached for his coffee. His silver hair was combed back, his jaw clean-shaven, a scarf wrapped around his neck into a knot, and the guy was wearing a suit.

  Always a fucking suit with this one.

  “So.” I pulled out a chair and sat my ass down in it then put my Glock on the table, one of five that were on me, and leaned back. “Good morning?”

  He shrugged. “You realize what this will mean?”

  I looked to my left, out the window, the same window I’d looked out when I was a kid, when my dad would beat me into submission and expect me to do the same to all the young girls he sold on the black market. I used to look out that very window and wish for a better life, one where I didn’t taste fear on my tongue every day, one where I didn’t crave the evil that crept through my veins just begging to be set free.

  I was not a good man.

  Never had been.

  Never would be.

  But I held on to the truth that somehow, my mentor, Luca, had seen something in me worth keeping, and because of that, I would die to my old self.

  I owed it to my family.

  I owed it to Chase.

  I owed it to Mil.

  My son.

  My brothers.

  I tapped my tatted knuckles against the wood table. “I know what it means to cut ties from my birthright and take on the Nicolasi name.”

  Frank wiped his hands over his face, aging before my very eyes. “The commission, they will have to do the break. There will be a blooding.”

  I nodded. I knew what it meant for the five Families.

  It would cut us down to four.

  “Cut out the poison,” I whispered. “Kill one to save them all.”

  Frank’s blue eyes pierced through mine like a knife. “This will only encourage the commission to allow Chase to attack the De Lange bloodline. This will end in more death than we’ve seen in a hundred years, Phoenix. Your chess piece could destroy us all.”

  I stood. “You’re wrong.”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  “You forget,” I smirked. “I know everything there is to know about the Families, about our enemies, our friends. My fucking chess piece is the only hail Mary we have. It’s our only hope to bring life back to the dead.”

  “We aren’t talking about the De Lange dynasty anymore, are we, Phoenix?” he said wisely.

  I grabbed my Glock. “No. We’re talking about what it’s like to be a man broken from the inside out, with no hope of finding his soul again. We’re talking about giving him something to live for, to fight for—”

  “The way Luca did for you,” Frank finished thoughtfully.

  I gave him a jerky nod. “Her blood stains my hands — I get to live with that — but her betrayal? It fucking stole his soul.”

  Frank let out a long breath before taking a sip of coffee, standing, and offering his hand. “You have my blessing, son.”

  “Thank you.” I squeezed his hand back.

  He gripped tighter. “Not that you needed it. We all pretend to have a leash around you, but I know the truth. Men like you cannot be controlled, only placated.”

  I snorted out a laugh. “You’re getting so wise in your old age.”

  He waved me off with a smile. “I’ll tell the others. Nixon won’t be happy.”

  “Nixon can kiss my ass.” I shrugged.

  “Morning, Phoenix.” Nixon walked into the room with low-slung jeans and a white t-shirt. “Why am I kissing your ass?”

  “Ah, I’ll let Gramps fill you in.”

  Frank scowled at me.

  The door slammed as I left the house and sucked in the cool morning air between my teeth. It was the first time in a hundred or so days I felt like myself.

  The first time I had hope beyond the weekend.

  The first time, I knew, I was returning the favor given to me.

  And I could have sworn I smelled cigar smoke swirl around me in that moment, following me like a warm cloud the entire walk to my car.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Hit him where it hurts the most — his heart, and if his heart is no longer there, you hit him in the second worse spot. His head.”

  — Ex-FBI Agent P

  Trace

  It had been three days since I’d seen Chase.

  It was slowly killing me.

  Maybe that was why I was driving to his house again.

  Without telling my husband.

  Guilt gnawed at me so harshly that it was getting harder to breathe the closer I got to the iron gates.

  I was a fixer, yes.

  But this was more; it went deeper.

  I kept having nightmares that one day I’d visit Chase and I’d be too late; he’d be on the ground, a bullet to the head, or worse, hanging from the stairway with a rope around his neck.

  The nightmares wouldn’t stop, and every time I woke up Nixon, he didn’t have anything calming to say, nothing that made me feel like he wasn’t freaked out about the very same thing.

  The only difference? He was boss.

  He had more on his plate than the fact that his brother and best friend was having a hard time. I only knew because he shared his burdens with me.

  We still had no idea where Andrei had gone and had quickly gotten word that all of his assets had miraculously been unfrozen.

  Which was impossible.

  And yet? Shipments for Petrov Industries started going out last Friday.

  Drugs and weapons mainly.

  It was driving Nixon crazy that we had a very calculating enemy out there, who knew everything there was to know about us, thanks to Mil.

  It kept him up at night.

  So while he was concerned for Chase…

  He was more concerned for our little girl, more for me. The fact that Mo was pregnant — would probably send him over the edge.

  Things changed when you brought in innocent lives.

  They had to.

  I pulled up the long driveway, cut the engine, and then made the short distance trek to the front door, not bothering to knock. Knowing Chase, he was probably stewing in his office or in the kitchen drinking.

  His two favorite pastimes.

  “Chase?” I called, making my way through the living room and into the kitchen.

  He was perched up on the barstool with a bottle of wine in front of him.

  No glass.

  Great, he was just drinking from the bottle.

  “How drunk are you?” I asked, making my way around the granite island.

  He shrugged.

  “Ah, so drunk you forgot how to speak?”

  He scowled and reached for the bottle. “Brave of you to come back.”

  “The only thing that scares me is the fact that you haven’t had a shower in five days.”

  “Bullshit!” He stumbled to his feet, swaying in front of me. The man was cut like a freaking brick. Every sinewy muscle was on display beneath his dark t-shirt. I looked away. His gaze was too intense, his meaning clear. “I showered this morning…” He frowned. “…I think.”

  “Right.” I licked my lips. “Have you eaten?”

  His brows furrowed.

  I inhaled deeply. “Okay, only alcohol, no food, got it. Why don’t you sit back down, and I’ll make you
a sandwich.”

  “Why don’t you get back in your car, and I won’t call Nixon and tell him his wife’s entertaining second prize?”

  I slammed the fridge door shut. “Does it make you feel better?”

  “What?” His grin was sloppy drunk, stupid. At least he was grinning. “Mocking myself? Yes, it does.”

  “Mocking me.” I slammed a hand onto the counter, and he jumped. “Mocking our friendship, what we had—”

  “We were never friends, Trace,” he interrupted. “Friends don’t kiss friends. That’s not how friendship works, trust me. Otherwise, I would have been friends with fifty girls in college…” His voice trailed off. “No, I don’t kiss friends. Apparently, I only kiss girls that belong to someone else and ones who betray me. Fucking awesome track record, huh?” He lifted the bottle to his lips again.

  I stomped over to him and jerked it out of his hands. He stumbled against me, his hands going to my hip.

  Sadness swept through my body, making it hard to breathe as his pain-filled gaze dropped to my lips.

  I couldn’t give him what he wanted, what he thought he wanted, what he thought would make the pain go away. It would just make it worse.

  I knew that.

  He leaned down, his forehead touching mine. “Please leave.”

  I shook my head.

  “Leave,” he said again. This time, his voice cracked; torment rolled off him in waves.

  I gripped his biceps, righting myself as he leaned down and brushed a kiss to my cheek.

  “Leave.”

  I sucked in a breath. “Who’s going to take care of you?”

  “That—” came my husband’s voice, “—isn’t your fucking problem, is it?”

  I jerked away so fast I knocked over the wine bottle, spilling it into the sink, as a drunken Chase collapsed against the barstool and stumbled to the floor.

  Nixon’s anger was so palpable that the air was thick with it.

  I gritted my teeth. “I was trying to help. I know your hands are full with Petrov—”

  “Just like your hands are full with my cousin?”

  I don’t remember moving.

  But I did.

  I slapped him so hard across the cheek my palm stung.