Chapter 6
I sit with a blank expression behind the wheel of my black Dodge Challenger.
It’s quiet, save for the splatter of raindrops on the windshield.
And amidst the remains of a recently destroyed warehouse, it’s completely dark.
The nearest lights come from floating ships along the Mississippi.
Though, they serve no purpose except to remind me I’m still here instead of somewhere deep in my mind or the personal cell surely waiting for me in Hell.
No, I suppose the only devil present tonight is me as I wait for my special delivery.
The Devil and the angel—perhaps it’s best Darcy left when she did.
I mean, what was I thinking? A mother and child living with me?
I saw her as a welcome light. But what would I have been to her?
What darkness would I have introduced her to?
And yet she captivated me in a way that makes little sense.
I’m a man of logic, not emotion. At least, typically.
And so, I try to find my way back to him, back to myself.
I lower my head and grip the wheel as if it may absorb the many thoughts running through my mind—my affections and curiosity for the woman I barely know, as well as my longing for her.
I tell myself that I’m bored or desperate.
Tired of searching for a housekeeper, I fixated on her.
But I know it’s a lie. She’s different, an enigma.
And while her leaving without accepting my offer leaves me with the same dilemma I woke with, it also presents a new one.
How will anyone compare to her? The simple fact is they won’t.
Every day I wake to someone else in my home will be a reminder of her—Darcy.
“Fuck!” I curse. Releasing the steering wheel, I inhale deeply and sink back in my seat. The echo of her name inside my being forces her to the forefront of my mind, as if I’ve been able to think of anything else since I first laid eyes on her.
I picture her long, wavy blonde hair, and crystal blue eyes.
I try to remember every detail of her sweet scent and shy smile.
I close my eyes and replay the moments of attentiveness between her and Delilah, the delicate way Darcy chews her food, even the way her body moves when she walks.
A small smile tugs at my lips until the memory of her leaving me at Broussard’s plays behind my closed eyelids.
That walk, unlike the others, brought me no pleasure.
All it did was leave me feeling empty and full of questions.
My questions begin with the mark on her back and end with the tension that consumes her every time I get too close or look at her a bit too long.
She’s scared, uncomfortable, intimidated, cautious.
And, while perhaps I do elicit those emotions from her, I know I’m not the cause of them.
Someone has made her this way. Someone hurt her, presumably her ex-husband.
And I’d love nothing more than to be meeting him tonight rather than the punk bartender who insulted her. Though, for now, he’ll have to do.
It’s then that my phone vibrates, forcing my eyes open just as two headlights appear.
I glance at the text from Zane, one of my top soldiers still loyal despite the abolition of Amato rule.
As he and his twin brother, Xander, pull their SUV to a stop, I undo the third button of my black dress shirt and roll up my sleeves to my elbows.
Next, I put on my black leather gloves and Mexican skull mask, otherwise known as a Calaca.
Since this is personal rather than a Mafia related matter, it’s both fitting and functional to wear, as I’m both Italian and Mexican and I haven’t yet decided if this asshole is worth one of my bullets.
Still, I grab my gun from the passenger seat, place it in my hip holster, and take a deep breath.
Somewhere in the symphony of raindrops, I find it—the sound of my beating heart.
It’s what keeps me focused during times like this.
It’s what fills my head instead of my victim’s screams or the sounds of bullets ripping through the air.
It’s the only thing that keeps me sane, given the horror I’ve both witnessed and caused—a dissociative measure that enables me to get the job done.
Because whether it be a warning, a war, or an execution, the same principle applies—never give in to emotions.
Emotions—fear, rage, and despair—get you killed or worse.
And, while tonight is no comparison to my darkest day, I still find a sense of calm in old habits.
As Zane and Xander, who also wear masks, drag the bartender from the backseat of the SUV and force him onto his knees, I open my car door and step out into the darkness, both literally and metaphorically.
As I walk toward my prey, raindrops seep through my clothes, soaking my skin.
It’s a pleasant reprieve from the August heat, though thoughts of the temperature make me think of Darcy.
The way she walked into the bar dripping in sweat, the red marks on her shoulders from carrying her packs, her simple request for a drink this asshole denied.
And what of her now? Those packs weren’t typical backpacks.
They were heavy enough to contain the belongings of two people who left somewhere without plans to return.
And, if she was still carrying them, then that means she didn’t have anywhere to leave them.
She doesn’t have anywhere to stay tonight, does she? And now it’s raining and…and—
As I reach Zane, Xander, and the man too cowardly to look me in the eye, my focus is gone.
The sound of my heartbeat gives way to the constant thumping of the rain.
My mind fixates on nothing but Darcy. And, suddenly, all my frustration from earlier is amplified by fearful thoughts of where she and Delilah are now and all the things that could happen to them on the dangerous streets of New Orleans.
Both angry at myself and the man before me, I ball my fists and throw the first punch. Then another and another. Zane and Xander take several steps back to give us some much-needed space.
“Why? Why is this happening? What did I do? Who are you?” I’m not sure how much time passes or how many punches I throw before the bartender finally speaks. All I know is he is beaten, bloody, and missing at least two teeth.
“If you have to ask that, then you clearly haven’t learned your lesson,” I say.
It’s then that I bend down and pick him up by the collar of his white t-shirt.
I pull him up onto his knees just so I can knock him down again.
As I do, I imagine how Darcy must’ve felt knocked down by his rude remarks.
I remember her defeated expression and heavy sigh as he implied hurtful things merely because of the way her dress hugged her body so perfectly.
I bite the inside of my cheek as the memories have me reaching for my gun.
“What lesson?” The man chokes, but I ignore him as rage pulses through my veins like a drug.
It’s with a heavy hand I unholster my weapon.
With it dangling at my side, I notice Zane and Xander exchange a look, though neither of them speak.
For one, they know better. Second, Zane is the hot head of the bunch, and he never shies away from violence.
He’s like Damon in that way. And Xander, well, he’s more level-headed like me.
He knows if I pull my weapon, it’s for a damn good reason.
Although, as my finger inches closer to the trigger, I question myself.
Emotions will get the best of you if you let them.
Perhaps he’s had enough. Darcy is more important than revenge. I need to find her. I need to make sure she’s okay. And, whether or not she wants my help, I’m not taking no for an answer.
As visions of her alone and afraid come to me, I find new focus in the fearful expression of her light blue eyes. It’s then that I pinch my own eyes closed and take a deep breath.
Just as I center myself and move to re-holster my weapon, the coward finally looks up at me from his place amidst the rain-filled puddles. My shining silver gun still dangling at my side draws his attention like a spotlight. It awakens him to the gravity of the situation, to his fragile mortality.
“Please,” he begs. He must utter the word fifty times in a mere matter of seconds as he pushes himself up onto his knees.
Hands clasped in front of him, he pleads for his life, and I let him.
Fear will humble him and perhaps that will be lesson enough.
“Whoever you are, you’ve got the wrong guy.
I don’t owe anyone money. I don’t do drugs. I don’t even know anyone like you.”
“Like us?” Zane asks. Suddenly reminded of their presence, the bartender spins around, startled.
“And what exactly do you mean by that?” Zane takes a threatening step forward with his arms crossed.
If I weren’t ready to end this, I’d let him play with him a little longer, but we’re all soaked.
And I can’t think straight until I know that Darcy and Delilah are safe.
“I just…I…criminals! There, I said it, low-life thugs!” The bartender faces me then, spitting at my feet. I cock my head to the side as my eyes narrow.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Xander says then.
His words are a warning, not a threat. Neither he nor Zane make any moves toward the man on his knees before me.
They know he’s mine. And as I look him in the eyes, I find myself both sick to my stomach and thankful I took it upon myself to deal with him tonight.
I’ve seen this expression before. Arrogance and self-righteousness in the face of death are characteristic of predators.
It reminds me of faces I wish I could forget, but never will.
Having decided his fate, I take off my mask.
Zane and Xander do the same. They know what this means.
As I reveal myself, the pathetic asshole finally puts the pieces of this most unfortunate evening together.
“It’s you. Mr. Moretti?” He looks up at me, dumbfounded.
After all, how could a low life thug afford the drinks at his fine bar or the suits I constantly cycle through?
I squat down, still gripping my gun, so that he may memorize my face and remember the last words he will ever hear.
“You disrespect me and my colleagues,” I say then.
“Although, you’re most egregious offense, and reason for your missing teeth and blood dripping down your face, has nothing to do with me. ”
It’s then that realization dawns on him.
“This is about that blonde bitch with the kid, isn’t it?
” he asks. His words flatten my lips into a grim, straight line.
In a matter of seconds, I drop my gun to the ground and lunge at him.
I take him down by the throat. Locking my arms, I put all the force of my upper body onto his neck while using my legs to hold him in position.
“You do not speak of her in that way!” I growl.
“You do not speak of her at all. You do not deserve to breathe the same air as her and in seconds, you won’t breathe at all.
” My head feels hot and my vision blurs as adrenaline courses through me.
I see just enough to watch the man beneath me humbled by death.
As his arms flop to the side and I feel his life source leave him, I release my grip.
“Boss, we’ve got it from here,” Zane says, taking a step toward me.
“I’m not done yet.” I pull a knife from the hidden pocket beneath my belt and use it to carve the mark of the Amato crime family into his chest—an X meant to signify the execution of an enemy.
Though he doesn’t move, assuring me he’s dead, I slit his throat for good measure.
He was right to call me a criminal. I am.
I own it. But I am also a gentleman, and a gentleman defends and protects the innocent, especially the ones he cares for.
And I will not stand to see Darcy disrespected. “Now, I’m done.”
As I stand and collect my weapon, Xander says, “Never thought I’d see that again,” as he takes in my handiwork.
I holster my weapon as the pouring rain rinses away the bartender’s blood from the concrete beneath us.
It’s then that I look at them, finding them curious and proud.
They want to know about the blonde the bartender referred to, but they know better than to ask.
Instead, I say, “We may not have a King. We may not have power. But we have each other. We have loyalty, respect, oaths, and traditions that bind us together. Never forget that. A threat to one is a threat to all. Disrespect of one is disrespect of all. And we will handle those threats and disrespect as we always have.”
“With pride,” Zane says.
“With custom,” Xander says.
“With honor—for the ones we love,” I finish. Nodding, I lower my head. “Now, take care of this, will you? And take care of yourselves.”
“You too, Boss,” they both say.
With their parting words, I return to my car.
As I sit, sopping wet on the leather seat, I make a mental note to have it cleaned.
But that task comes second to the most pressing.
Reaching for my phone, I quickly dial The Compound.
It’s our French Quarter base of operations for the soldiers still loyal to me and Alister. Milo answers.
“I need you to find someone for me.” I give him all the information I have on Darcy and Delilah and tell him her last known location.
He’ll be able to tap into the cameras around the Quarter and track her from Broussard’s.
I just pray by the time he finds her she hasn’t found herself in any trouble or the bartender won’t be the only body I drop tonight.