Chapter 21
21
M ACKENZIE
My impression was that we’d drive back to Brooklyn.
I met him there.
The woman who works for him lives there. His men patrolled the streets over there.
I ran into him in Brooklyn this evening.
So, all the signs point to Brooklyn, as far as I’m concerned.
Then I realize we’re headed to Long Island.
I’m fine with it, although it’s far from where I live, and it might be difficult for me to come back home.
Mulling over that thought, I check the view outside.
“We’ll get there soon,” he says as if aware of my concerns.
The road is, for the most part, empty as Christmas is now celebrated between the walls of these cozy places.
I expect him to turn right and enter the driveway of any of these homes and don’t expect anything out of the ordinary.
If you ask me, I thought he’d be living in a condo.Or maybe a brownstone.But I’ve gotten quite a few things wrong about him. And I have a feeling I may be wrong about this one, too.
We take a turn and enter a densely wooded area before reaching a large clearing where a two-story house looms in front of us behind a gate.
Most windows are dark, and only a few are dimly lit.
My mouth falls open with surprise.
“Is this your house?” I ask.
“It’s my parents’ house,” he says dryly, and my heart skips a beat.
Is he taking me to his parents now?
“Don’t worry,” he says, steering his ride into the round driveway. “They’re dead,” he adds unceremoniously.
It sounds like a dark joke, yet neither of us smiles.
The gate we've passed through slides closed and clicks locked while he’s pointing to the entrance.
“Shall we?” he murmurs as I still stare at the gate.
“Is it locked for good?”
“Locked for good. And that is an electric fence,” he says casually, pointing over his shoulder. “No one can get in. And no one can get out.”
He seems serious. Or he’s fucking with me.
Not that I see myself climbing the fence. And then getting home, how exactly?
“Are you kidnapping me?” I timidly joke.
He cracks a smile, centering his focus on the main door.
“I already have. I’m so smooth, you haven’t even noticed.”
I tilt my head to the side, not entirely amused.
“How am I getting back?” I ask seriously.
He looks at me, a grin on his face, and shrugs a shoulder softly.
“I don’t know. I’ll drive you back… If you behave.”
“If I behave?”
My voice beams with surprise when he pushes the door open and invites me in.
“Don’t worry. You’re mine now,” he says, turning the lights on, still joking––I suppose. “Are you coming in or making a run for the electronic gate?” he asks, not looking at me––focused on setting his car keys and phone on the entryway table as I stare at his back from outside the door.
He shifts his eyes to me before closing the space between us and bringing his hands to my face.
“You’re not going home tonight…” he says quietly, his voice bearing no threat of any kind. “I won’t hurt you or do anything you don’t want me to do to you. You’re just spending Christmas with me. And when we’re done with each other, I’ll take you home.”
Home.
What is home for me right now?
The meaning of the word has changed since I met him.
What if my idea of a home has morphed from a cozy space outlined by silence to a perimeter where we would live together?
And what does he want to do to me?
Does he only want to create some memories with me, get lost in a new world for a few hours––away from his complicated existence––and then resume his life like nothing happened?
Even if he does––and I do, too––there’snothing wrong with it.
“You all right?” he asks, studying the conflicting emotions on my face.
“Yeah. Yes, I am,” I say with renewed confidence. “Let’s do it… Whatever it is that you want us to do.”
“Good,” he says, satisfied with my answer, and walks me in.
The armored door closes behind us, a swift reminder that there’s no turning back.
He places our coats on hangers in a closet before showing me around the ground floor.
Things are in order, the place is well kept, and you can tell it belonged to a different generation.
Valuable art adorns the walls, and antique furniture blends into the updated, comfortable, modern look.
Every object in his house has a meaning––artistic, decorative, or sentimental. Or all of the above.
They all relay the story of the house––a multi-generational home that has seen births, anniversaries, weddings, and perhaps deaths.
Framed photographs are strewn across the hallway, offering bits and pieces of that history.
He leads me to the dining room, where a working fireplace offers the intimate atmosphere of a house you want to live in.
Lights and shadows flutter across the walls as the logs crackle in the melting hands of fire.
“Don’t turn them on,” I say as he pivots to the wall to touch the light switch. “There’s enough light,” I go on, pointing to the unlit candles on the table and the fireplace mantel.
“Works for me,” he says, lighting some of those candles.
“Who cooked for us?” I ask, noticing the plates of food kept warm by the glass cloches.
“My staff cooked dinner for me . They always do in on Christmas Eve.”
Resting my hands on the sculpted back of a chair, I wait to meet his eyes.
He finishes lighting the candles and looks at me.
“They cooked for you, and you went out? I don’t understand,” I say.
He turns to me, candlelight glinting in his eyes.
“It’s a tradition in this house,” he says. “We used to sit around this table. My family…” he murmurs and stops, undecided whether to go on.“Things are a bit different these days as I am mostly by myself,” he finally adds.
“So what happens when you’re not bringing someone home?” I ask.
He seems wrapped in a thin veil of melancholy.
“I don’t bring people home. You’ve been an exception,” he says without emotion in his voice. “Normally, I’d get back in the morning, have something to eat, and go to bed.”
“You say normally… What else might happen on a night like this?”
I can’t not look around and take in the beauty of this room.
It’s right out of a fairy tale.
A Christmas tree guards the window.
Someone took their time to hang the red, silver, and green ornaments and stretch the garlands over the branches before finishing their work with a tree topper.
I shift my eyes and find him contemplating my face.
“Sometimes I don’t come home. Or I come here a day or two later…” he says, gauging my reaction.
My disappointment is stark, stemming from some old resentment harbored in my soul. This is not about where he’s supposed to spend Christmas Eve.
He is free to do whatever he sees fit.
He is not accountable to anyone.
But seeing all this and him running away from it, when this is everything I’ve ever wanted, hurts my soul.
Life is so unfair sometimes.
But he must have his reasons for doing that, so I won’t question it. In a way, I’m happy that we’re here.
He’s made an exception and considered it worthwhile to spend the night here with me.
I lower my gaze, feeling the edge of emotions across my chest.
He says nothing in return, so I lift my gaze to him, muster a smile, and speak again.
“Since you have made an exception for me tonight, let’s make it an unforgettable experience.”
He searches my eyes a little longer, a kernel of emotion gleaming in his stare before he invites me to take a seat.
“Feel yourself at home,” he says, pulling the chair for me and waiting for me to slide into my seat.
CALLAN
I’ve been convinced for some time that things are set in stone.
A horrible event, damaging emotions, or a horrid path to nowhere appeared to have been carved in the certainty of death before something like this happened.
I watch her check the food on the plates and decide what she wants to eat.
Her hair has curled at the tips from the moisture outside, her eyes burning with curiosity.
She seems at ease, and the only reason for that is that she doesn’t know the truth.
She has no idea how many things have happened between these walls.
If you press your ear to one, you’ll hear the music, the voices, the laughter, and the gunshots of the past.
A little to her left, just below my father’s portrait and right behind a vase crammed with white tulips, two bullets have marred the wall.
Those two bullets killed my grandfather, and while we had the house remodeled many times, my father insisted on leaving the marks alone so we could never forget how dangerous it was to live like us.
People often believe we have chosen this kind of life.
That we have loved money and power and, ultimately, living dangerously.
But this kind of life is like any other kind.
Everybody gets stuck at some point. Even regular people with regular lives.
People walk paths they hate all the time. Some succeed at removing themselves from the brink of perdition, while others carry on, not having a choice.
It’s not a matter of being capable or having the will.
It’s a matter of fate.
You have to do what you’re supposed to or need to do.
And that’s what we did.
A price comes with it, and we’re paying the price too.
That’s why we got jaded.
And that’s why it’s hard to believe a woman like her has found her way into this story.
For a long time, I’ve been afraid of changing anything.
The balance was precarious as it was. There was no need to taunt fate anymore. So there were no new people. And no chances were taken. But now she’s here.
Maybe I’ve consciously allowed her in my life.
Maybe she’s just another thing thrown at me by a cruel life.
A little angelic disruptor with sparkling eyes, long hair, and delicate hands.
A luminous promise that better things exist beyond my dreary existence. And even when you think nothing good can come your way, something like her might happen.
“I’m hungry,” she says, piling up her plate.
She lifts her eyes to me.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she asks, pointing with her fork at the greens, Christmas ham, and mashed potatoes––interrupting my contemplation.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
I put food on my plate and we both start eating.
“Can you pass me the cranberry sauce, please?” she says around her food.
I do just that, and she gets excited with how delicious the food is.
“Leave room for dessert,” I say, tilting my chin toward the persimmons pudding and red velvet cake.
Smiling, she shakes her head.
“I don’t know why you don’t like spending time here on Christmas Eve. This place is perfect,” she comments with innocence in her voice.
I give her a grin.
“I’ve never had the pleasure of having someone like you in my house.”
Her smile fades as her eyes glint.
“You’re flattering me now. But frankly, I don’t believe you. I’d love to have someone cook for me,” she says, pointing to the food around the table.
A few moments pass, and her fork clinks as she sets it down.
“So let me see if I can get this straight,” she says.
I gesture at her before she can continue.
“No more questions, Mackenzie.”
Our eyes meet, and she knows I’m serious about it.
She already knows too much about me. And while she doesn’t know the most important things about us––The Bard Brothers––she knows enough to get herself in trouble.
She just had two thugs at her door tonight looking for me.
It doesn’t matter that they didn’t know I was using an assumed identity.Sooner or later, they’ll know the real story.
That I’m after them as much as they’re after me.
That the only reason why they’re still alive is that I still need them to get to the person who thought it was a good use of their time to fuck with me.
She sighs. And she is so cute, doing me a favor by keeping her mouth shut.
Dragging her eyes around the room, she searches for a different topic.
“It’s a unique place,” she says in a different voice. Impersonal and less inquiring.
“Thank you,” I say. “Would you like some wine?”
“Yes, sure.”
I pour a glass of wine for her and give it to her.
“Nothing to drink for you?” she asks, taking her drink from me.
I ponder whether to go for a glass of hard liquor before I opt for a glass of wine.
“You’re not used to drinking wine,” she says, noticing how reluctant I am about pouring myself a drink.
We clink our glasses.
“To us,” I say before taking a sip and setting my glass down.
“I rarely drink alcohol. Tonight was a special night.”
“You wanted to get drunk…” she says, smiling from behind the rim of her glass like a fox. “Before you ran into me,” she adds.
I smile and continue eating.
“What makes you say that?”
“That’s what I would do if I ran from a house like this to spend the night in a club in Manhattan.”
“Have you ever been drunk?”
She sips wine and shakes her head.
“Never. I only rely on myself, so it’s not wise.”
“I know the feeling,” I say, eating again.
A few moments pass before she speaks again.
“How was your life before me?”
I lift my gaze and run a napkin over my lips.
“You mean in general?”
She nods.
“It was eventful. Scary at times. Occasionally boring,” I say.
Chewing thoughtfully, I watch her expression change.
Her eyes glint, and a mist of determination slides over her face.
“What brought you to my neighbor’s place that evening?”
I navigate the next few moments with caution.
“What night?” I murmur before putting more food into my mouth.
She clasps her hands beneath her chin.Her elbows rest on the table.
“The night you played Santa for her.”
“That wasn’t my first night with her.”
“We established that.”
I flick my eyes to her, and she instantly softens.
“I thought you two were passionate, but you were nothing like that, in fact.”
I finish eating and drink wine.
“I can’t tell you what I was doing there,” I say, putting my empty glass down.“It wouldn’t make the slightest sense to you, and it could make you a target in a police investigation if something happens to her and her friend.”
The light goes out in her eyes.