by P. W. Davies
The man on the other side, however, looked nothing like either his brother or his brother’s lover, Christian. Taller than both, with hair a lighter shade of brown, the person who answered peered at him with quizzical, green eyes and a barely-present smirk. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yeah, um, maybe I have the wrong place?” the visitor asked. After making an exaggerated show of looking up and down the hallway, he tried to look past the other man and found him unwilling to step to the side. Instead of trying to force his way through, the visitor sported a toothy grin back at the look of mistrust being directed at him. “I’m looking for Victor Mason.”
“And who might you be?” The way he stared at the visitor indicated he recognized the name.
As such, the visitor’s smile shifted into something wolfish. “The name’s Wesley Mason,” he said. “And I’m his baby brother.”
Pushing the door open enough to enter, he rolled the suitcase into the vestibule and deposited both it and the backpack inside the condo. While Wesley made himself familiar with the man who had answered the door – who introduced himself with no apology as Victor’s ‘boyfriend’, Peter – another person prepared to arrive in the City of Brotherly Love. Wesley’s flight had brought him there from Las Vegas, Nevada.
This man departed from Christian’s hometown of Exeter.
The bag he packed barely contained three days’ worth of clothing and while he knew better than to attempt bringing anything that resembled a weapon, a simple lock pick disguised as a pen made it into his suitcase. When he arrived, three days after Wesley had landed, he didn’t start with the same address the younger man had as his destination. A piece of paper containing the location of a bar had been folded and slipped into his wallet, and the ample amount of money which accompanied it tucked in a discreet, carry-on bag.
Tony Marlin tended bar the night he stepped into the notorious meeting place several of the city’s shadier individuals worked out of. While his boyish looks and wavy hair hardly made him look like a seasoned criminal, the weary look in his eyes provided enough identification for other rogues to accept his presence in places like that. A small scar by his left eye managed somehow to serve as both a silent means of identification and a conversational topic, something he excelled in when he opened his mouth to talk. That night, though, he remained quiet, his baggage stowed in a car he’d rented.
“Can I get you somethin’?” Tony asked, walking up to him. Looking at him from the other side of the bar, the displaced Southerner raised an eyebrow at the second visitor. “I don’t remember seein’ you ‘round here before.”
The second visitor extended a hand across the counter. “Paolo Bellini,” he said through a thick, Italian accent. “Though I’d offer you a large tip to keep that name to yourself.”
“Whether I keep the name to myself or not’s up to my discretion. Let’s start with your drink order. Then you can tell me what you’re doin’ here.”
“Beer would be fine. Something other than the cheap American ones, please.”
“Think I can manage that.” Nodding at Paolo, Tony walked away long enough to pluck a clean glass from behind the bar and filled it with one of the favored, local IPAs. As he placed it in front of the foreigner, Tony wiped a small dribble which had spilled with a dish rag hanging from his shoulder. It wound up tossed onto the floor once he finished. “The drink’ll cost you five,” Tony said, leaning on the counter. “It becomes more expensive than that if you don’t have a reason for bein’ here.”
Paolo smirked, lifting the drink to his mouth and swallowing part of it down. The bitterness wiped his smile away, replacing it with a grimace. Muttering something first in his native language, he set the glass back down onto the counter and sighed. “Do you always greet people like this here, Mr.…”
“Marlin. Tony’ll do. And no, but I know our kinda ilk when I see ‘em.”
“Your ilk.” The term met with the same disapproval the beer had. Paolo chuckled and rested an arm on the worn, scratched-up wood in front of him. He raised an eyebrow. “I’m looking for a specific man. A friend said this was where I’d find him.”
“Your ‘specific man’ have a name?”
“Christian. I’d describe him, but he’s a man who’s known better for his reputation.”
Tony laughed. He shot a quick, conspicuous glance toward the back of the bar and trained his attention back to Paolo. “If you’re comin’ here asking after Christian, then you know him well enough to know givin’ any information about his whereabouts can be hazardous to a person’s health.”
“I think you’re going to do it anyway.” Paolo turned his head in the direction of where Tony had just glanced. Examining the collection of men and women shooting pool near the back exit, his eyes landed on one familiar face before returning to the bartender. He cocked a thumb in the direction of the man he recognized. “Tell Roland my name,” he said. “And when you return, you can tell me where to find Christian.”
A long, questioning look preceded Tony sighing and nodding, excusing himself from the other clientele seated at the bar before stepping out from behind it. Paolo waited patiently, sipping the beer that had been poured for him and not bothering to look at either Roland or Tony as he waited. When he’d managed to finish half the beer, he pushed the glass away and lit a cigarette. The embers had barely had a chance to catch before Tony returned.
The bartender’s expression had completely shifted. Skepticism still lingered somewhere beneath, but had been shoved to the background, in favor of curious awe. “Was told to give this to you,” he said, setting his hand on the counter in front of where Paolo sat. “Roland says the beer is on the house.”
“Gratzie,” Paolo said, looking down when Tony lifted his hand. Taking a drag of his cigarette, he reached forward with his free hand, plucking the piece of paper from the counter and unfolding it. While an address had been written on it, much like the one in his wallet, a different form of penmanship had scrawled this Philadelphia location in a different color of ink. He only studied it for a moment before slipping this one with its mate.
Standing from the bar stool, he saluted Tony, smoking his cigarette as he exited.
Paolo walked away without giving the establishment a second look, waiting until he reached the other side of the block before reaching inside his pocket for his phone. The screen illuminated, a host of neglected messages flashing on the display that he promptly ignored in favor of loading his GPS. Inputting the address that he’d already memorized, he waited for the app to give him directions and frowned when he discovered it further than a short walk away. He swore in his native tongue. Then, he turned for where he’d parked the rental car.
It took a short drive through unfamiliar streets for him to find the same Rittenhouse neighborhood Wesley had ventured into only three days beforehand. Out of habit, he parked a reasonably far distance away from the building itself and lit another cigarette while walking toward what appeared to be a high-rise filled with condominiums. Not making eye contact with any of the other pedestrians, Paolo kept himself tucked inside the confines of his jacket, counting his steps out of idle habit and examining the vicinity when he was sure nobody was looking. He took a long draw from the cigarette and flicked it away before reaching his destination.
A bench situated near a city park provided him a good vantage point of the building’s entrance. While reading the neglected messages on his phone, he stole occasional glances at the front, making careful note of each person who entered and exited. It took an hour of waiting for him to spy what he’d been looking for. When he did, though, he couldn’t help but to stare for a few moments longer than he should have.
The man he remembered from Exeter stepped out of a gray-colored Ford Mustang, accompanied by a taller man Paolo didn’t recognize. They spoke briefly to the driver before stepping back from the curb, watching the car drive toward an adjacent parking garage before relaxing. While something about their proximity to each other bothered Paolo, wh
en their bodies touched, his heart lodged in his throat.
He didn’t have the chance to look away before Christian and the taller man shared a kiss.
Silently, he wished he’d lit another cigarette and more Italian expletives drifted past his lips while he counted to ten and looked up at the two men once more. The kiss had ended – mercifully, he thought – and as they slowly drifted toward the building’s entrance, they seemed engaged in some discussion, as though Christian should have been anywhere out in the open. When the man he assumed had been the driver joined the duo, he drifted into their conversation like he enjoyed the same intimacy with both men and Paolo regarded the space they’d occupied long after they vacated it.
Taking a deep breath, he attempted to steel himself. Maybe later, he thought, he’d drink himself to sleep and try not to interpret everything he’d witnessed. Whoever they were, they meant something to Christian. Much the same as he once had.
“Amico mio,” he said. “You are one stupid son of a bitch.”
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Also by P.W. Davies
writing as Peter Dawes
Click the cover - Available for Kindle, iBook, Nook, Kobo, and more
A boy orphaned by violence grows up in the shadow of his father's murder. His older brother offers him a home, but the life of a farmer is a poor fit for Christian Richardson.
Set in England in the 1400s, the Wars of the Roses litters the country with plenty of jobs for a young mercenary trained in how to wield a sword. Christian grows out of his youth and becomes a capable fighter, one who inherited his father's blade. As a member of the Brotherhood of the Black Rose, he puts coins in his pockets and food in his stomach, but every day he searches for the sigil of the men who took his father's life.
Finally, after years skirting the edges of a group called the Luminaries, he'll make a discovery that will put him in reach of his goal. Vengeance.
The sword was not the only possession his father had given to him, though, and unbeknownst to Christian, the Luminaries have been hunting for Richard's son - the boy who escaped from them nearly a decade ago - just as he has been scouring for signs of them.
An almost successful attempt on his life reveals hidden gifts, and even more secrets that his father had taken to the grave. As Christian reaches the threshold of claiming revenge, he faces the realization that retribution might come at a high price. Will he listen to the pleas of his loved ones, cautioning him away from danger? Or will his pursuit for justice take him down a path from where he can never return?
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Fin.