Blue (Love in Color #2)
Author: S.M. West
Three years ago
Evan ~ 32 years old
HIDDEN IN THE DARKNESS of the alley outside the bar, I wait. My mind is at war, hoping the impending confrontation is futile but unable to deny the internal tug that says it isn't. I've never questioned the details around the death of my parents and my best friends' father-a bloody drive-by that not only ruined the sanctity of a place we considered safe, but also significantly altered all our lives.
We were told it was a mistake.
Yet while inside the bar tonight, I overheard a drunk share a story that was eerily familiar. It awoke a slithering serpent of truth low in my gut. Their deaths have never made sense, and his telling of the hit explained things. The snake's long, cold body twists through me, chilling my bones and sparking a rage I buried long ago.
The older, overweight man-the braggart who callously spoke of killing like he was talking about what he had for dinner-stumbles out of the club. He's alone. Perfect.
His uncoordinated steps head my way, oblivious to the fact that he's my target, and I grab him by the shoulders. He's unaware, and I effortlessly jerk him into the shadows. His back slams against the brick wall and his cries momentarily satisfy my thirst for justice.
While his arms flail haphazardly in a pathetic attempt to hit me, my forearm presses into his windpipe. I further incapacitate him by yanking his arms in front of him while my body pins his lower half. I've easily got half a foot on him, if not more.
"Who ordered the hit on The Waters and who was the target?"
"Get off me, you fucking asshole." His voice is strangled. "I'll kill you."
Chuckling at his empty threat, I push down on his airway again and he wheezes. This fucker needs to get the memo-I'm not kidding.
"Look, asshole, answer my questions and it'll be like this never happened."
In another attempt to strike me, he raises his knee for my balls, his tenacity impressing me, given he's three sheets to the wind. Before he knows what's happening, my fist jabs his flabby gut and he sucks in air on a jagged groan.
Rapidly losing my patience with this joker, my aggression ticks up and I violently flip him. His face kisses the hard, rough brick, and like a baby, he cries out as I lean into his ear.
"Last chance, motherfucker, then you'll really know I mean business. I've obviously been too nice. Who ordered the hit?"
Lenient and sloppy, that's what I am right now. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was the one who was drunk. I'm roughing him up less than twenty feet from the entrance to a nightclub. My only defense is that it's almost four in the morning. The chances of being spotted or someone calling the cops are slim, but I've got a hell of a lot to lose. Why the fuck am I being reckless?
"I don't know what you're talking about." His pleas are gruff and shaky.
With another ruthless cut to his torso, my fist does the talking.
"Okay, okay." He coughs. "I don't know who ordered it. All I know is that it came from Angelo Gatti's crew."
"Gatti?" The name sounds familiar; it's mafia, but which outfit?
"Cavallo," he says reluctantly. Confusion swirls within me at the confirmation that it was one of the biggest mob families in the city.
"And who was the target?" Pressing into him, I leave no room for him to fight or stall.
"Ciaran Hart."
My father's name fires out of his lips like a bullet to my chest, ripping through my heart as chills run down my spine. Why the hell would one of the most powerful and ruthless mob families in New York City want my father dead?
Was any of my childhood true or real? My world tilts as everything I've ever believed comes into question. Where do I even begin to figure out why they targeted my father? Did I even know him? Is this jackass's intel even true? Making sense of this, figuring out what is real or not, will be hard.
"Why?"
"Fuck, I don't know, man. I'm not paid to ask questions. I just do a job."
"You did the job? Killed three people?"
The air between us shifts, slow and heavy, tightening around both of us like a boa constrictor. He may be intoxicated, but he senses the deadly change and its significance. As if I have a gun to his head, he stills, his breathing now rapid and shallow as he swallows hard.
"No, I lied inside. I didn't do anything. I only know of the job." Without me having to drill him for further details, he spills like a piñata smashed open. "Manny was one of the guys. There were two, Manny's dead, figured I could lie."