Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Four Months Later
Dominic waved when Max Bennett stepped into the pub. His fingers drummed the table as he waited for the man to order a drink at the bar.
It had taken a lot of courage just for him to invite Max here tonight. Now he had to figure out the right things to say.
I can do this, he thought. I have to.
Max set down his glass and slid into the other side of the booth. “Dominic. It’s been a while.”
“Thanks for meeting me.” Dominic had to speak up over the noise. It was a rowdy place in Culver City, crowded with twentysomethings in T-shirts and flannel. Not his usual hangout, but Dominic had picked a location where he wasn’t likely to see anyone he used to know.
“No problem,” Max said.
“This is weird, right?” The two of them, meeting for drinks. Like they were friends.
“A little weird.” Max gestured at the beer in front of him. “I mean, they’ve only got fruit-flavored beers on tap here. I don’t get it.”
Dominic barked a laugh. “Yeah. I’m drinking a pineapple IPA. It’s better than it sounds.”
“Some things are like that.” Max shrugged, sipping from his pint glass. “You seem different.”
Dominic stared into his beer.
“Not in a bad way. I was surprised to get your call, though. I thought you’d left.”
“I left West Oaks. Still in L.A. County. I live in Burbank at the moment.”
The man’s brow tightened. “Don’t you miss the ocean? Why the valley?”
“It’s anonymous. And very slightly less expensive.”
Max tilted his head, acknowledging the point. “But you’re alive, I see. That’s good news.” He lifted his drink like he was toasting.
“I’m glad you think so.” That was the closest Max had ever come to complimenting him.
Only a couple of Syndicate captains had survived the massacre at Charles Traynor’s house. The US Attorney had filed charges against them for murder, racketeering, and whatever else. Dominic hadn’t paid attention. He just knew the trial was at least a year away with all the complications involved.
Raymond was living in some city where Dominic couldn’t reach him, except through special channels. He wasn’t allowed to know his brother’s address or the new name the US Marshals had given him. They’d see each other at the trial to testify, but that was a long way off.
The West Oaks DA’s Office had dropped Dominic’s murder charge, as well as any charges related to him skipping bail. He was a free man now. In some ways.
“Why did you decide to stick around?” Max asked.
“Wasn’t ready to give up completely just yet.”
There were still people he cared about here. One person, especially. He probably didn’t have any chance with her now, but he couldn’t completely break those ties, either.
At first, when he’d gotten out of jail after the massacre, Dominic hadn’t really cared if the remnants of the Syndicate came after him. He’d almost been daring them to do it by staying in So Cal, living under his real name, and meeting with government agents all the time.
But nobody showed up to deliver vengeance.
As the months went by, Dominic hadn’t felt anybody following him. Like he wasn’t even important enough to kill anymore, which might’ve hurt his feelings back when he was pretending to be the ruthless leader of the Silverlake Syndicate.
Dominic had spoken to Warren since, and the eldest Crane brother assured him nobody was going to bother him.
Warren said the Syndicate was finished, their territory and market share absorbed by rival groups.
Those few people the Feds had rounded up to prosecute hardly amounted to anything, and even they blamed Charles and Raymond more than Dominic himself.
Victor and many of his Russian mafia henchmen had survived the massacre.
But the Feds had decided not to bring any sweeping charges against that group.
Instead—according to Raymond—the US Attorney wanted to flip more of the low-level guys to bring a racketeering case against the higher ups later on.
The massacre at the Traynor house barely ranked on the scale of shit those Russian mob guys were into.
Dominic felt like just one more cog in a big machine, where defendants constantly turned into witnesses to save themselves and pass the blame along. He assumed the US Attorney would eventually get to the top of the criminal food chain, but by then, he and Raymond would be long forgotten.
Max took another sip of his beer. “Do I need to keep an eye on the exits? In case your old friends are planning an ambush?”
“Anybody who cared enough to kill me is already dead.”
“I heard something about that. Might have made the news?”
That was an understatement. “There were a few articles.” Some with his face on them.
Max pointed at Dominic’s cheek. “I’m guessing that’s where you got the scar. Too bad.”
“Doesn’t bother me.” He touched the spot where a thin, white line of scar tissue striped down his cheek. Courtesy of Aaron Sandford’s ring.
“I hear some women are into scars.”
Dominic appreciated Max’s attempt at optimism. “I wouldn’t know. I’m steering clear of women these days.” And that just made him think of Sylvie. He’d promised himself he’d wait at least ten minutes before asking about her. But now he couldn’t think of anything else.
“How’s Sylvie doing?”
Max grimaced, setting down his drink. ”I doubt you want me to answer that. If she’s good, then you’ll feel bad. And if she’s not good, you’ll feel worse.”
“Is she good?”
Max shook his head.
Damn. He was right. Dominic did feel worse.
“Is she seeing anyone?” Hope made his breath catch.
“I really shouldn’t answer that.”
His stomach dropped. “Because she is?”
“No, because it’s not my business.” There was an awkward silence. “Is that why you wanted to meet? You could’ve asked me about Sylvie on the phone. I would’ve given the same nonanswers.”
“That’s not why. Not really.” Dominic’s finger ran through the condensation on his glass. “I was hoping for advice. I need advice.”
“From me?”
“You seem like somebody who has his shit together. And mine’s all over the place.”
“Thanks. It’s only a recent development for me, actually.”
“Really?”
“Believe it or not, Crane, I had a crappy childhood, too. Different from yours, but still bad in ways it took me a long time to work through.”
Dominic decided not to mention that his name wasn’t “Crane” anymore. He’d just gotten the court order changing it to “Anderson.” Nice and generic. Not a brand-new identity, like his brother in WITSEC. But the new name felt like something he’d needed. A baby step toward moving on.
“Tell me what you’ve been up to,” Max said. “How’ve you been keeping yourself busy?”
Aside from living in a shithole apartment off money his brothers sent?
“I’ve been consulting with the FBI and state task forces on organized crime. Sharing everything I know. There’s a ton of stuff I can’t testify to in court, but that could still help law enforcement strategize.”
“That’s admirable.”
“It’s really not. No need to patronize me.” He was just paying back a small part of his debt to society.
“Okay, then I won’t. So, what’s the advice you need?”
“Can I turn this into a more permanent gig, do you think? Former bad guy consulting with the good guys? I’m short on career options. No degree, and my past employment references have limited usefulness.”
Max knew all about the private side of security and investigative work.
Dominic had figured the man would have some ideas.
But he had to do something because he couldn’t keep mooching off his brothers.
Warren was making license plates or some shit in prison, and Raymond was a college student for god’s sake, though he did get some money through the WITSEC program.
The government had seized most everything else, except the house in West Oaks. But they’d sold that property to fund their dad’s long-term care in a home for people with dementia, and Dominic donated the extra proceeds to a charity for crime victims. None of them spoke to their mother.
Maureen was a little like a mother to him, and she’d offered to help from her meager savings. But aside from the occasional home-cooked meal, he couldn’t accept. Even he wasn’t that contemptible.
“There are opportunities like that, sure. But is that really what you want to do? I get that you’re starting from scratch, but that also means you could do pretty much anything. Why not pick a job that suits you, and not who you used to be?”
“Who else would want anything I could offer? My past is all I have.” Sad as that was.
“I could be wrong, but from the things you’ve told me—and things Sylvie has mentioned—I would’ve thought you’d be trying for something different.”
Suddenly, it didn’t seem like they were just talking about career options. “I did want that. I do. But it doesn’t seem possible for…someone like me.”
“Here’s some real advice. It’s the best I’ve got, and it comes from experience. If you want someone else to believe you deserve a second chance, then you’ve got to forgive yourself first.”
Can I do that? How would he even know if it happened? What would it feel like?
“If I figure out how to do that, do you think someone else might forgive me, too?”
“I can’t tell you that. Probably depends on what you need her to forgive. But if she cares about you, and you earn it, she will.”
“Is that something else you’ve learned from experience?”
The corner of Max’s mouth ticked up. “I’m going to ask Lana to marry me. I…don’t even know why I just told you that.” He exhaled. “I’ve been stressing about it. See? Not all of my shit is together.”
“Stressing because you don’t think she’ll say yes?”
“Not really. It’s because I worry I won’t be enough. It’s not about any single thing I’ve done to prove myself. It’s being enough every day.” Max shrugged. “But she’s worth it.”
Dominic was happy for them. But if a successful guy like Max still doubted himself, Dominic didn’t know what hope he had.
They finished their beers, chatting about less serious topics. The weather, the Dodgers’ current record. When Max left, Dominic saw a note the man had left behind on the back of his bar receipt.
Sylvie’s cell, it said, along with a number.
That night, Dominic stared at the contact he’d programmed into his phone. He wanted to write to Sylvie more than anything. But he didn’t know if he should.
The last time they’d seen one another, at the police station, he’d been reeling from everything they’d been through. Watching so many people die and knowing that, because of him, Sylvie had blood on her hands.
Yet that day, he’d also felt like he was seeing things clearly for the first time in a while. He’d been a fool to think he and Sylvie could have a future together. He could hardly take care of himself, so how could he have taken care of anyone else?
You have to forgive yourself first, Max had said.
Dominic didn’t hate himself. He just hadn’t seen how he’d get beyond the limitations of his past.
But he’d been making progress in the last few months.
Digging himself out of the hole he’d made.
Maureen had been teaching him some basic cooking skills.
His apartment only had a hot plate, but he could make pasta and scrambled eggs.
He’d liked going to the local government offices in the mornings and grocery shopping at night, which wasn’t glamorous but made for a routine.
Nic Anderson had a simple existence, but at least he was doing something to make the world a little better.
After four months of surviving, he didn’t feel quite so much like a shell of a person.
It was getting easier to sleep through the night.
He thought of himself as Nic, and that was how he introduced himself whenever he met people now.
He was still Dominic, too—but the sharp edges had worn off the old memories.
Thoughts of his brothers, and even his flakey former friends, made him smile.
The darker spots in his past just made him sad instead of debilitating him with guilt.
So maybe he had forgiven himself, at least part way, and just hadn’t acknowledged it yet. And didn’t know what to do with it.
But he missed Sylvie. So fucking much.
The feeling wasn’t going away. With each day that passed, the agony of missing her only intensified.
Her smile and her soft kisses. The way she’d seen the best parts of him and wasn’t afraid of the rest. In his mind, he’d replayed every hour they’d spent together in the West Oaks house, every conversation.
Now, his yearning for her was a gaping hole in his chest, his heart ripped clean away.
And he was staring at the phone in his hand, thinking how easy it would be to reach out.
Would she answer?
Dominic: Hi. It’s Nic. You said we could talk when I was ready, and—
No. That wasn’t right at all. He deleted it.
Dominic: Hi. It’s Nic. I really miss you and I was thinking if you miss me too, then—
Fuck. No. Terrible. Delete.
He lay on the couch for a while. Then he started typing.
Dominic: Dear Sylvie, I hope you’re doing well.
I’m better than I was, but still working on myself.
I can’t think of what to say except I miss you, and that doesn’t begin to describe how I feel.
I would love to talk with you sometime if you’re willing, even just on the phone. I would love to hear your voice.
It’s hard staying positive, but it helps to remember the beautiful things. Music and art and books I’ve enjoyed. People who’ve made me see the world—and myself—differently. The very top of that list is you.
Love,
Nic
He hit send.
Dominic stayed awake as long as he could, checking his phone for a response. But it didn’t come.