by Bo Reid
“Okay, okay, enough nicknames,” I say, laughing at how upset Nash looks at his new nickname. I might have to make it stick.
“Don’t you dare. I will stop calling you Darlin' and start calling you Brat if you try to make that stick,” he says, pointing his finger at me and I just smile.
My phone starts buzzing in my pocket and I fish it out of my jeans. “Yeah,” I answer.
“We’re going to need to talk, Princess.” I hear Marcus, my father’s right hand, on the other end of the line. Another one with a nickname, Marcus ‘Mad Dog’ Martin has been a member of my father’s operations since the beginning. He’s the only one that has remained loyal through and through. He’s been privy to pretty much everything having to do with the business and our family.
“Yeah, well, things are still hot.”
“I’m just a family friend wanting to pay my respects to my old buddy’s daughter. A daughter that I attended birthday parties for, and even a few piano and dance recitals,” he says casually.
“Okay, old friend, where and when?” I ask.
“Tonight. I’ll pick you and your boys up for dinner. Be ready by six,” he says before the line goes dead.
Oh, goodie. More mob politics, my least favorite pastime. Why can’t everything be as easy as murder?
Dressed to impress for a mob dinner, we head out to meet Marcus downstairs. Sporting all black everything, we look like murderers. Have I mentioned we’re not subtle?
I look down the street and see a familiar black Crown Vic. I throw up a small wave before climbing into the back of a limo.
“Friend of yours?” Marcus asks as I slide in between Ranger and Hunter.
“Oh, you didn’t hear? I’m besties with the feds now,” I say with a smile.
“They’re really trying to pin this on you hard, huh?” he asks as he taps his finger against his chin in thought.
“Yeah, we’re working on it,” I say and wave him off.
“Care to share?”
“Do you?” I ask, and he raises an eyebrow at me. “Cut the shit, Marcus, and let’s get down to it, shall we?” I ask and he smiles.
“That’s why I always liked you, Princess, right to the point.” I roll my eyes and gesture with my hand for him to continue. “Alright, Princess, what are we doing with the business?” he asks.
“I don’t want it. You know I was never meant to run things. I can’t handle the politics, makes me stabby,” I say, shrugging.
“What doesn’t make you stabby?” Hunter chuckles. I glare at him but he’s not wrong, I’m pretty stabby all the time.
“Well, we can’t just back out, we have contracts and orders and people counting on us.”
“No, Maddie, you have people counting on you. The only thing people expect from me is a clean kill and fear,” I say. He rolls his eyes at the childhood nickname I gave him.
Nothing breaks down a mobster’s heart faster than a small girl with bright green eyes calling them something silly like a play on their hard mobster name. Marcus ‘Mad Dog’ Martin has been Maddie since I was two years old.
“Are you in a position to handle things?” I ask him.
“Of course.”
“Then you’re taking over. I’ve already gone over the offshore accounts and started changing things according to dad’s files. You’ll be given access to a single account which you will conduct business from. I get my father’s cut on top of my current cut. The guys’ cuts remain the same.”
“And you remain The Reapers?”
“No. We’re done. As far as everyone knows we’re still around, but I’ll take the kills I want to take when I want to take them. I won’t have my actions dictated. Find others to take our places. After we sort out this fed shit, we’re moving out of Sanorah.”
At that Marcus blanches.
“Moving? Where the hell are you going to go? No offense, Princess, but not everywhere will be as welcoming to a ruthless killer as Sanorah is.”
“We’re not starting up a new operation, we’re disappearing. Don’t worry about us, Marcus, just worry about keeping things running here as dad would want them. And if I see a penny out of order on those accounts, well… you already know what happens when I get heated,” I say, and even the six-foot five-inch mountain of muscles that every gang member and mobster this side of the border fears quivers at the thought of me being upset with him.
We pull up to the restaurant in order to keep up appearances for our federal friends. We eat and drink, and then Marcus sends us home in the limo he rented while his driver picks him up separately. We all play our part just as we’re expected to.
When we arrive at our apartment, I see none other than agents Marks and Holt lurking. Have I mentioned I’m so sick of constantly being followed around everywhere?
“Morana!” he calls just before I have a chance to enter our building codes.
“What?” I turn around and glare at them.
He holds up a stack of files. “We need to talk.”
Chapter 11: Ammonia
Morana
“Hey, Sweetheart, what are you doing?” I look up from my place at dad's desk to see a man standing in the doorway to his office. I narrow my eyes at him.
“What are you doing?” I ask back and he smiles, stepping into the office.
The way he watches my every move has my nerves on edge.
“I’m here to see your father,” he says as he steps up to the desk and looks down at the papers I’m sorting through. I slam the small ledger closed and lean my elbows on the desk, looking up at him.
“Well, he isn’t here right now, but I’ll be sure to let him know you stopped by mister…” I trail off for him to fill in his name, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits across from me in one of the high-backed chairs in dad’s office.
I casually lean back in father’s large chair that swallows my small frame, sliding a hand down my thigh and gripping the knife I always keep on me. I run my thumb back and forth along the blade to calm my racing heart.
“You know, Sweetheart, this will all be yours someday,” he says, gesturing around the room. I narrow my eyes at him and try to place him in my memory but come up blank.
I prick my finger on the blade, feeling the warm blood start to pool and seep into my jeans. Sometimes a little violence is just the key my brain needs to retrieve the memories, but nothing comes. Even as I come up blank I know in my gut I’ve seen him before, somewhere.
“I’m no leader,” I say, shrugging a shoulder casually.
“No. No, you’re not, are you? You’re so much more,” he says before standing from his seat and turning towards the door. “Be seeing you, Sweetheart,” he taunts before exiting the room.
Ranger
Sitting in the living room with two FBI agents sets my every nerve ending on edge. Everything that I’ve been taught since that first night in the Valdis mansion tells me this is wrong.
Morana’s been staring out the window for the last ten minutes, not saying a damn thing, lost in her own mind. I don’t miss the way Agent Marks tracks her slight movements. The way he watches her, the way his eyes light up when she bites her bottom lip. He looks at her the same way we did when we first met her. Not quite like a love-sick puppy, but damn close.
It’s that moment right before you realize just how amazing she is. That moment when you know there’s something about her, but you don’t know what that something is. When he figures it out, he’ll be done.
And in true Morana fashion she doesn’t notice a damn thing. For someone so damn smart, so intuitive, she misses when anyone gives a fuck about her.
“So, Malic Connors is really Malic Wilder, William Wilder’s half-brother. Different mothers? His mom got knocked up, tried to give her son a better chance by giving him up. What happened to her?” Morana asks from her place at the window.
“Homicide. Unsolved,” Hunter says while looking down at his phone.
“It was William Wilder Sr.,” she says definitively.
�
��You don’t know that, there’s no evidence,” Holt says, and I fight to roll my eyes.
What does Nash see in her? Morana cocks her head to the side before Hunter tosses his phone to her which she catches without even looking. She taps on the screen a few times and then turns it around to show the screen to Holt.
“This level of overkill means a personal kill. Look at how her face is battered. They wanted information. Look at how the gun shots are concentrated in her lower abdomen, her uterus. William Wilder Sr. found out she gave birth to his son and that she gave him up. He beat her to try to find him. She didn’t crack so he took his rage out on her uterus. What we need to figure out is if Malic knows about his connection to the MC or if he’s dirty for a whole other reason,” she says as Holt’s face pales.
“How do you know any of that?” she asks, shocked.
Morana just shrugs.
“That Psych degree must serve you well in the mob world,” Talin comments under his breath, but we catch it. Nash, Hunter, and I share a look, and then fix our gaze on Morana. She just shrugs.
“Morana…” I start but have to take a deep breath. I don’t appreciate anyone knowing more about my girl then I do.
“What? I took some online classes.” She shrugs and Talin snorts a laugh that has me clenching my hands into fists. If he isn’t careful he’ll become very well acquainted with my fists.
He finally looks up at us and the stupid smile on his face falls. “Oh, you guys didn’t know?” he asks and looks over to Morana who glares at him. “Shit, sorry.” He shrugs.
She rolls her eyes. “I have a few online degrees. It’s not a big deal,” she says. I start to open my mouth, but she waves me off. “You can yell at me later.”
Having to rein in my temper for the rest of the evening while feds sit in my home and converse with my girl isn’t an easy feat. I’m pissed that once again some new fucker walks into our lives and knows something about my girl that I don’t.
“You guys need to watch your backs. Malic claims to have an eyewitness that can place you at the scene the night your father was killed,” Talin says.
“That’s impossible. I was here, and I have three witnesses to prove it,” Morana says, crossing her arms.
“I’m aware of that, but for some reason, he wants you for this. And that new MC connection raises a ton of questions. Just be careful,” Talin says before they leave.
“Any other secrets you need to share with us?” Hunter asks as Morana turns around.
“I don’t understand what the big deal is. So, I did a few online classes over the years. I’ve been telling you three to enroll at the college for four years,” she says, crossing her arms putting her defenses up.
I can see her putting her walls back up as she does it. This time I’m not sure if I can handle her distance, not after everything else too.
“And not once did you tell us you were taking classes. We could’ve all enrolled and gone together,” I say. “Why wouldn’t you just tell us?”
“I didn’t think I needed to tell you everything.”
“Since when do we have fucking secrets?” I yell, throwing my arms up in frustration.
“We’ve always had secrets,” she says calmly.
“Not from each other.”
“Actually, Morana’s always kept secrets. Haven’t you, Darlin'? It’s what you do,” Nash says.
She shrugs. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
“Fuck. I can’t do this,” I say, the words catching in my throat. I run my hands through my hair before moving towards the front door. “When you decide I’m good enough for you to let me into your heart the way I’ve always let you into mine, let me know,” I tell her before doing the one thing I swore I’d never do; walkout.
I hear the door to our apartment open and close, but I don’t turn around. The heavy footfalls sound behind me on the stairs. Hunter and Nash are apparently fed up with this shit too.
For the first time in seven years we all walk out, and we do the one thing we always swore we never would. We leave Morana alone in the darkness of her own making. Alone, just like she always wants to be.
Chapter 12: Benzal Chloride
Morana
The heart I just realized I had breaks in my chest as I watch them walk out the front door. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to me. I’ve spent years pushing them away. Every secret I’ve kept from them was kept with this moment in mind. The time they couldn’t take it anymore; when it would finally be too much for them.
This was always the plan. I always knew they’d walk out eventually, I just didn’t realize it would hurt so damn much when they did. I seem to have forgotten in the last few weeks that happily ever afters don’t exist, not in the real world, not for someone like me.
How could I let myself forget that love stories are reserved for the good guys? That’s never been me. But maybe it’s not too late for them.
I make my way down to my bedroom, pull out a duffle bag from the back of my closet, and start to fill it. Just the important things. Clothes I can buy more of. Memories are too painful to take with me. But if the memories are all I get to take, then I deserve the pain.
Grabbing a note pad off the kitchen counter I sit down and write a letter I’m not sure they’ll be coming back to read. They each deserve their own note, but I don’t have the time. Typical Morana; doesn’t have the time, doesn’t have the energy, doesn’t have the heart to give them each what they deserve.
I strip off my Reaper ring, placing it on top of the letter. Walking towards our apartment door, I silently let myself out. Hauling my bag down the stairs, I load up my Jeep and drive away.
My chest feels heavy and it’s hard to breathe, but the tears don’t come. I don’t deserve to pity myself, not when I’m the reason this is happening in the first place.
I should’ve let them go a long time ago. I told myself everything I did was for them, but the truth is that everything I’ve ever done has been for myself, while everything they’ve done has been for me. I never deserved them, and they’ve always deserved so much better.
I don’t deserve to know where they went, but I can’t help myself. I torture myself doing drive-bys of each of the other residential houses we own until I find where Ranger’s truck is parked. It’s at one of our downtown houses, just three blocks away from bar row.
I hope whatever, or whoever, they end up doing tonight makes them happy. I just want them to be happy, even if it kills me.
Making my way to Ricardo’s tattoo shop I see that he’s already inside setting up for me. I called him as I was packing up my life, and I’m grateful he was even willing to meet me tonight.
“Mi Hermosa Chica,” Ricky greets me with open arms and a sad smile. “What did you do this time?” he asks as he finishes prepping his station.
“What didn’t I do?” I say with a light chuckle, attempting to lighten the reality. He knows better and gives me a look, motioning for me to sit down.
“They’ll come around,” he says as he cleans up my arms before applying the stencil. “They always do.”
“Yeah, what if that’s the problem?” I ask, but Ricky has no comment. He just puts his head down and gets to work.
We sit in silence with nothing but the buzz from the tattoo machine throughout the night. By the time the sun’s rising and lighting up the shop both my arms are covered in a stunning array of black and grey tattoos. I hadn’t even bothered to look at the design Ricky created for me beforehand. He’s the best, and anything would’ve been better than what was there to start with.
“You want to keep going?” he asks me as we stand up to stretch our tired limbs. I look out at the bright morning sunshine streaming through the decorated shop windows.
“Can you keep going?” I ask.
“We have time to start your torso or thighs but not both, or you can come back later for those,” he remarks.
“Yeah, let’s just do it another time. I’ll be back,” I tell him as I pull a wad of hundred-dollar bi
lls from my pocket which he waves off.
“Not a chance, that’s too much,” he says, but I know his prices and I know he’s worth more than he charges. Instead of arguing I slip the billfold into his toolbox where he keeps his supplies when he isn’t looking. He can fuss over it later.
Turning around, he wraps up my arms, gives me a lecture on care like I don’t know what to do, followed by a big hug, and a kiss on the cheek
“Be seeing you, Ricky,” I say as I step onto the sidewalk and into the sunshine. I raise my hand to shield my eyes from the bright light coming from the warm morning rays. It’s too much. It's always too much.
Ranger
What the fuck were we thinking, walking out last night? Seriously. What. The. Fuck. Is wrong with us?
After a night of pity drinking, we walked back to the downtown house and crashed. Now we’re gathered around the table, staring into our coffee mugs, each looking worse for wear. I don’t think we could ever look how we truly feel, ‘cause we feel like shit, and not due to a hangover.
We walked out on our girl, the one thing we’ve always promised her we would never do no matter what. It just got to be too much. The secrets, the FBI, almost losing her, -- which we never fully dealt with --, her being raped -- which we also haven’t dealt with --, Aeron being murdered -- again, haven't had time to deal with losing the only father we’ve really known. Everything just piling up brought level after level of shit onto our shoulders; onto her shoulders.
And what did we do? Walked the fuck out like a bunch of assholes.
“We’re assholes,” Hunter says as he looks into his coffee mug like it holds the meaning of life.
“Yeah,” Nash agrees, and I nod.
“How do we fix this?” I ask, looking up at the two smarter members of this group. They just shrug their shoulders at me.
“First, we should shower cause we smell like a dirty bar. Second, we go get her back,” Hunter says as he stands up from his seat and pours his mug of coffee down the sink. Nash and I follow suit and head to the various bathrooms in this house that’s ours, but it isn’t our home.