Cease (Bayonet Scars Book 7)

by Jc Emery

  "I hope you're better at defense when you're home with our boys."

  Our boys?

  I don't put a voice to the words that fly through my head, but I know damn well that my face is saying it for me. He has got to be fucking kidding me. I struggle every single day to be a decent mother to my own kid and because Jim can't step up and be a fucking father, I've got Ryan too. And he has the nerve to suggest that I can't take care of those boys on my own? Hell no and fuck that and fuck him, too.

  And because this man makes me lose my marbles and doesn't even have the courtesy to patronize me a little, I let out another scream and throw the bag of trash at him. I don't run, which is really what I should be doing right now. MC's are all the same. The club is about brotherhood and the brotherhood is about pride and respect. Even though the guys try to turn the bullshit off with their women in private, they never fully do. Those patches and that ink becomes who they are, whether they like it or not. Jim would find me quickly, but at least I'd have a head start before I had to deal with the consequences of my actions. Because there are always consequences.

  Always.

  But I don't run because I promised myself I'm going to do different, better even, than before. I told Ian that we're home now, and I meant it. So I dig my heels in, chest heaving, eyes narrowed, and I dare Jim to say a word to me.

  And because he's fucking stupid, he does.

  Roaring up off the bed, he's in my face in a matter of moments. With our height difference, he bends at his knees to meet my eyes. His stubbled jaw is locked in place. And we stand like this, each about ready to clock the other, in total silence. I'm pretty sure if I speak right now, it'll be to tell him to go fuck himself, and he'd probably be saying much the same thing to me.

  The last few weeks Jim's been even more distant and the soft and flirty thing he does has been fewer and further between. I should be grateful that this is my biggest issue in life. My boy and I have a home, he even has a regular pediatrician, and he's fucking killing it in summer school. We read every night and work on our math and vocab words every afternoon. Ryan's doing good, too, but he's such a pain in the ass about doing his homework. At this point, I'm just glad I've managed to find ways to get him to do it. It was touch and go for a couple of weeks there, but once I figured out his vulnerabilities, I've been able to exploit them. Which is another thing--my kid has friends. As in plural, as in holy shit, my poor, sweet little boy plays with other kids and he smiles and he fucking laughs. Jim doesn't get why that hits me so hard. He told me I was overreacting, but Silvia got it. She doesn't know Ian's history--nobody here does--but she's a mother. She doesn't have to know my boy's damage to appreciate my happiness over something so small. She's not doing great these days, but she hides it well in front of the boys. I give her what support I can, but Silvia Stone is not one to accept help no matter how much she needs it.

  "Well, you gonna stand there all day or are you gonna yell? I got shit to do," I say. In the time it's taken my mind to wander over how much worse my situation could be, he's stood stock still and just stared at me. His eyes are at first blazing hot and crinkled in the corners, like he's angry; but then he's just kind of spaced out from the looks of it. Which might actually be worse because I can't figure out what he's thinking.

  And he doesn't tell me. Instead, he reaches out and cups my face in his hands and pulls me in. In a rush, his lips are on mine and they feel damn good. All soft and velvety and... like bubble gum. Only, he's not chewing bubble gum. I straighten my back and try to pull away, but he won't let me, and fuck him for this shit. What an asshole. Jim's lips are never this soft and he damn sure doesn't go around chewing bubble gum. Without another option, I reach up, and place my hands on his chest. And I bite down on his lower hip. Hard.

  He pushes himself off me, sending me back into the door frame. Pain radiates from the back of my skull, but it doesn't matter. The quick rise and fall of his chest in partnership with the narrowing of his eyes is all the satisfaction I need.

  "You stupid bitch," he hisses. For the first time since I got to know him, a sliver of genuine fear runs through me. Jim won't hit me, I tell myself. He's not like the rest of them. But he takes a step forward, and it's so slow and calculated that I recognize it for what it is. He won't hit me, I promise myself. Another step and he's almost on me. But he might. Because that's what men do--even good men.

  "Stop." The word leaves my mouth as something between a command and a panicked shout.

  "You're going to pay for that."

  I put up shaking hands and take a deep breath. I say it again when he doesn't listen, but my voice breaks under the effort. My hands clench into balls at my sides as my lungs strain for breath. Jim's black hair lightens to the darkest brown I've ever seen. It's no longer a windswept mess around his face and is slicked back with an expensive mouse that keeps it set. His pale skin darkens and takes on an olive complexion that is purely Mediterranean. Gray eyes darken to a deep brown and the man before me grows a few inches. It's no longer Jim Stone, my infuriating friend, who stood before me moments ago is no longer. In his place, is Carlo Mancuso. Mike when I knew him. And his lip is curled, his voice spitting venom, and he's holding my six-year-old son to him with a knife to my boy's throat. I try to shake it away, knowing it's just an illusion, but it feels so real. Short pulls of breath are all I can take in, they're not nearly enough to keep the pressure from swimming in my head. My eyes fall closed as I try to regain control of my mind and body. I can barely think clearly enough to suck what little air I can into my lungs. It's just... my throat is so tight. This doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense.

  Jim says my name, but it sounds like he's far away, and his voice still carries a thick New York accent. I reach out, but lose my balance. No sooner than I'm falling forward is Jim catching me in his arms. He cradles me against his hard chest, soft murmurs of words I don't understand. I suck in a deep breath, knowing it's Jim and not Mike. The anger that flowed through my veins is gone now, and all that's left in its wake is a sorrow I don't understand. Jim isn't Mike and I know that, but the fear still lingers.

  A subtle tingle starts in my toes and works its way up through my legs to my torso and finally my arms. As it travels, it feels less like a tingle and more like a buzzing, but then a heaviness takes over me and it feels so right and perfect that I welcome it. Mike's image slowly fades from my mind, but before it disappears completely, I relive the worst moment of my entire life as Mike's blade pierces Ian's flesh. Blood spills from his small, frightened face, mixing with tears that stream his cheeks. Not my boy. Not Ian.

  "No, Mike. No," I whisper to myself, knowing Jim can hear me and he's going to ask questions. I just can't stop myself. This moment still haunts me, despite the passage of time, it doesn't cease to hurt.

  "Who the fuck is Mike and what did he do to you?"

  When the fog lifts and it's just me and Jim once again, I stiffen in his arms. He's asking questions and demanding answers. Answers I don't want to give, moments I don't want to relive. But I have to. Because Jim doesn't want me and the only way to convince him of that is to tell him the truth about the woman he calls his girl.

  "Won't ask again, babe."

  "No," I say firmly. Once I tell him, this is all over, and he doesn't get to dictate my pain. "I'll tell you when I'm ready and I'm not ready now. You don't have to like it, but you do have to deal with it."

  "Just tell me," he says softly and it breaks down my walls just a bit. "I want to know you. Every broken little part of you."

  "Why?" I can't think of a single reason.

  "I can't put you back together if I don't know where you're broken."

  Sucking in a deep breath, I force myself to speak the words I never have before. Not to anyone.

  CHAPTER 11

  Mike Mancuso

  Brooklyn, New York

  November 12, 1994

  There are some things no mother should ever have to experience, and the loss of her child is right there at
the fucking top. If I'm not careful, my self-loathing is going to shine through my carefully crafted demeanor. There's still time to back out, I tell myself. But one look to my right, at my wife, and I know that the only way out of this situation is with a bullet between my ears.

  "Roll up the window, Carlo," Esmeralda says. Her voice is tinged with an irritation I almost never hear. I give it a minute before complying, letting the drops of rain hit my forehead and cheeks, bathing me in a kind of clarity I'm sorely lacking. My wife--my dear, sweet, quiet Esmeralda--refuses to use my preferred name. "Mike" isn't a boss's name, in her opinion. "Carlo" commands respect, and I'm the son of the boss, so I better be fucking respected. Not that it matters. If my men knew what I'm about to do, they wouldn't respect me. They might fear me as their capo, and they might do as they're told, but that's not respect. Fear doesn't buy loyalty--only respect does that.

  Esmeralda clears her throat, and because I can't handle a disagreement about getting rain on the fucking leather of a car she didn't work to buy and doesn't even drive, I press the button, effectively cutting myself off from the outside world. A world where most people make it through their entire lives without getting blood on their hands. Inside this car, though, the world is a very different place. It's no place for children.

  "What are you thinking?" Her voice is back to being soft and careful, as if I'm going to punish her for speaking.

  "We could turn around," I say. My voice is even and cool, as if I don't care. It's a lie. I care too much.

  "Nonsense, honey. We're going to pick up our babies. You still want them, don't you?"

  A disgusted laugh escapes me at the sound of the bullshit flying out of her mouth right now.

  "It doesn't matter what I want."

  "That's not true. We made a deal. I get Michael and Alexandra for my own in exchange for my acceptance."

  Sliding over the seat, I sidle up to the woman I swore to love, honor, and protect, but I feel like doing none of that shit right now. "Acceptance?"

  "I accept that, no matter how much I love you, we both know you married the wrong sister."

  I turn my body toward her and drag my hand up the tops of her thighs, over her flat, barren stomach, between her breasts, and to her neck. My hand clamps down and squeezes until she gasps for air. My nose skims across her cheek, and I position my mouth near her ear.

  "I do this for you, and you learn to keep your mouth shut. You are my wife, my property, not my fucking equal. This is my penance for liking the feel of your sister's pussy more than yours, but don't mistake this gift for anything more than it is. If I had my way, we'd forget your bitch sister exists."

  I push her away and ignore her panicked gasping for breath as I slide back to my original position and roll my window down again.

  "We are forgetting her. After this, she's gone," she says softly, almost fearfully. "It'll just be you and me and our babies."

  "If you want those little complications to see their first birthday, I suggest you don't leave them alone with me. Accidents happen, especially at their age. I'd hate for your niece and nephew to drown during bath time."

  "My son and daughter, Carlo," she snaps loudly and with an anger she's never exhibited before. "Those babies belong to me, not that bitch. You demand my submission, but you don't have the courtesy to respect what you're given. You want me to learn my role, well, daddy, you need to learn yours."

  The driver pulls us up to the curb of a cheap motel and stops the car. I feel vaguely ill at what I just said but push it down. There's no room for weakness in my world, especially now. So I get out of the car, ignoring Esmeralda as she climbs out the other side.

  We didn't always used to be like this. I met Ruby first, and then I met my wife. One pursued me, and the other had to be chased. Twins, but so very different. Nearly identical in everything but their coloring and demeanor, Ruby is pure fire and Esmeralda is icy cool. Ruby is loud and insufferably opinionated, while Esmeralda is what my father calls "the perfect Mafioso wife." The woman I married was perfect. At first. Once I'd resigned myself to taking Esmeralda as my wife, I reveled in her quiet power. The gentle way she would ask for things, the manner in which she supported my choices while still giving her opinion. She never once argued with me or fought for something if I'd already said no. Not until she found out about Michael and Alexandra, at least. I should have been pleased that she finally found something to fight for, but not this. This, she should have let go. But she didn't, and here we are.

  I right my shoulders, straighten my back, and button the jacket of my suit. The motel before me is run down with chipping paint and crumbling plaster. Ruby didn't have to live like this. She had plenty of choices, but she didn't take any of them. I wish she'd just done as she was told to begin with. We could've had our family without me losing my marriage.

  "She brought this on herself," I mutter to myself. Not quietly enough, though, and Esmeralda's jaw ticks when she hears it, but she says nothing. I take a look at my wife, the last look of her that I afford myself before I ascend the concrete steps up to Room 201 and become the man my father already thinks I am.

  When I'm in front of the door, I stand and wait for my man, Benny, to come up with the key. The motel clerk wasn't hard to shake down. A couple rocks and he was giving her up. Personally, I hate drugs--they turn loyal men into rats--but that's the way the market's going, so the Mancuso organization has to evolve, or we'll get left behind.

  Benny makes his way up the stairs. Stomping. He's slamming his feet down on the cement like we got nothing to lose here. This shit gets out of hand, and Benny--as much as I like the guy--might end up in a place his mother will never find him. As much as I'd hate to do it, I'd have to. My father would insist upon it. My wife would drive me crazy until I fixed it. Hell, even my mother would nag me to fucking death until I handled my shit. But Benny isn't thinking about the position he's putting me in. I don't say anything, though. He makes enough noise, pisses Ruby off, and maybe she'll shoot him for me. Only problem is I'd have to shoot her, then, and I'd prefer not to have to do that. What we're doing here is already bad enough.

  I'm on autopilot as Benny starts talking to me about how we're going to play this out. We got my driver down by the street, keeping an eye out for trouble. We got one of Benny's soldiers in the office with the day clerk. Ruby has nowhere to run, is likely unarmed, and has three kids with her. She's not as much of a threat as Benny seems to think she is, but I let him keep yapping until he's satisfied we've handled all our shit. I sense Esmeralda about to open her mouth a few times, but a slight shake of my head ensures her silence.

  "Open the door, Benedict." I wave an arm at the closed door. Benny takes his time inserting the key and turning the lock. My eyes fall closed, and I give myself this moment. I don't think about the first time I met Ruby or the way she looked at me. I don't indulge in all the memories I shouldn't hold close but do anyway. Instead, I focus on the last time I saw her and the hate that filled her eyes and her words. She promised to destroy me if I took the twins. She said she would kill me with her bare hands. I'm not supposed to show weakness, I'm not supposed to be afraid, but I was then and I am now. Ruby is tough. She knows how to survive.

  I open my eyes and give my wife a look. She is stone-faced, callous even. I don't know how twin sisters could end up being so different, but I don't dwell on it. I let my hate for the woman at my side settle and burn in my chest. I let it consume me until all I can think of is making my life bearable once again. I loathe the man I see in the mirror, but I hate the woman in my bed even more. There is no divorce, no getting out. There is only one way to make this end, and that's by doing exactly what my family expects of me--by getting rid of the woman I love.

  I kick open the door so hard that it bounces off the wall behind it. The room is small, with a variety of cheap pieces of luggage strewn about atop the old, worn furniture. A secondhand stroller sits between the bed and the wall. It's clean but a total piece of shit. I hate the idea of my childre
n riding in that thing. On the other side of the bed is a sizable pile of plastic bags filled with a bunch of baby shit. Judging by Esmeralda's recent shopping trips, babies are expensive and need a lot of things. I wouldn't be surprised if the money I gave Ruby is almost out by now. She won't be able to support three kids for much longer anyway.

  "Ruby," I shout. "I know you're here."

  Esmeralda takes a step forward, but I put up an arm to block her movements. Benny keeps guard at the door, knowing better than to move. Having both my wife and my soldier in place, I move deeper into the room. I should draw my gun, but I don't. Maybe if Ruby shoots me, she'll put me out of my misery.

  At the back of the room is a bathroom sink and mirror affixed to the wall. To left is a small closet that blocks the rest of the bathroom from view. It's a typical motel room setup, which is good, because there's only one place she could be hiding.

  "We could make this easy, Ruby," I say with ease, taking a few more steps toward the bathroom. Still, she says nothing. Just when I'm doubtful that she really is here, I remind myself of the stroller. The twins are only a few weeks old. She can't get around without the stroller, especially with her son Ian in tow.

  "Come out, Ruby. I won't hurt you."

  A few more steps toward the bathroom and I stop. I crane my neck and open my ears as much as I can. Soft whispers are coming from the bathroom, followed by the choked sobs of a child. I walk as delicately as I can around the closet and focus in on the closed bathroom door. I can hear him much better from here. Ian is whispering to his mom, telling her everything is okay and he'll protect her. My stomach sinks.

  I have to do this.

  "Ian, dude. It's Uncle Mike," I say in my best kind voice. He's a little boy and he trusts me. I've known him since he was just a toddler, and we've always gotten along. Hell, I even like the kid.

  "Mommy, it's okay. It's Uncle Mike." His little boy exuberance is almost too much to take. Despite his excitement and relief, Ruby lets out a frustrated sob.