Chapter 4
Aubergine.
Thursday was Dad’s last round of chemo.
I spent the morning and most of the afternoon with him at the clinic. We watched reruns of his favorite detective shows on the tablet I brought while the medicine slowly dripped into his arm.
He never complained once.
By this point, we had the after-care routine down to a science.
I drove him home. Helped him settle into bed. Made him eat something. He’d been stomaching yogurt okay. Then we would watch television together until his eyes grew heavy.
I would wait until he fell asleep before quietly slipping out. This time though, I stilled at the doorway and studied him.
He lost a lot of weight. He wasn’t as big or broad shouldered as I remembered. A lot of his hair had fallen out. I didn’t want to say he looked weak, but…
This had to be it. The last treatment. The one that worked. He had to go into remission. And then everything would start getting better for us.
It had to.
Because right now, things looked so fucking bleak that the only little ray of sunshine had been a mafia don bringing me a sandwich and smiling at me seconds after I was convinced he was going to kill me.
And, come on. That was just sad.
…
He really did have a nice smile, though.
I was dead asleep when my phone started vibrating across my nightstand. With a groan, I fumbled for it and lifted the screen. 11:03M burned into my retinas. Unknown number.
“Hello?” I answered, voice hoarse from sleep.
“Aubergine?”
I shot up in bed, suddenly wide awake. “Michael?”
“Yeah, hey.” He sounded almost guilty. “Your dad didn’t answer his phone and...”
He cleared his throat. “Don’t be mad, but Thomas found your cell number.”
“Thomas? The sweet little Thomas who used to follow us around with a Nerf gun? That one?”
Mike snorted. “He’s not sweet or little, anymore. He’s actually a massive asshole. But… really good with computers. Anyway, sorry to wake you.”
I rubbed sleep from my eyes. “I’m guessing you need something cleaned up?”
“Yeah.” The hesitation in his voice made my stomach tighten. “It’s a big one, Abs. You gonna be alright handling it by yourself?”
I looked at my ceiling fan and frowned. I didn’t exactly have another option.
My bed sheets were thrown back. “I can do it. But if it’s that bad, I’m charging double.”
Mike laughed under his breath. “Really? Come on.”
“I literally just got a manicure. They’re gonna get completely destroyed.”
“Jesus, how expensive are manicures nowadays?”
“Oh, shut up,” I laughed. “Are you paying double, or not?”
A resigned exhale crackled through the speaker. “...Yeah.”
I grinned to myself. “Text me the address.”
After Michael hung up, I tossed my phone onto the bed and stretched.
Well… that was Dad's rent covered for the month! Maybe enough to cover utilities, too.
The address sent took me to a poorly lit, seedy looking dock area full of cargo containers.
Michael and I stood facing a blue shipping container sprayed with blood that oozed all the way down to the concrete and pooled.
“Who did this?” I gestured wildly around. “A fucking firing squad?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “...One of the younger guys got a little carried away.”
“A little?” I pointed at the walls. “There's blood splatters six feet off the ground!”
“The Ferraro's have been pushing into our territory up and down these docks.” He shrugged. “People got worked up.”
“Testosterone and automatic weapons. What a great combination.” My gaze swept across the dock, then landed back on my feet. “And we’re on raw concrete.”
Michael looked down at his boots. "So?"
“So it's unsealed. Concrete's got a bunch of tiny, porous holes and the blood sinks in. Usually stains it.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Teach your men how to use a tarp.”
“They did," he insisted. "They just… missed.”
“Yeah, they missed by a fucking football field.”
“I did warn you.” A sheepish look spread across his face. “So, uh... double?”
I held out my hand.
Michael’s wallet appeared like magic, and he pulled out a fresh stack of hundreds. He was like an ATM machine.
Twenty crisp hundred-dollar bills were counted into my palm.
Two thousand dollars. Just like that. “Thanks, Mike.”
“No, seriously, Abs. Thank you.”
Then he disappeared back toward the loading docks.
The coagulating powder and the shovel took care of the worst of the mess.
Eventually everything solidified into one horrifying pile, and I made the executive decision not to think too hard about what I was scooping up and dumping into buckets.
Some questions didn’t need answers.
An hour passed before Michael wandered back to me. I was on my hands and knees, blotting soaked rags of peroxide into the concrete.
“Hey," he said.
I slowly stood up, then tugged off my hood and mask.
“The guys are grabbing food.” He jerked a thumb toward the parking lot. “You want anything?”
I started to answer, but gunfire exploded.
Bullets whizzed just overhead.
Before my brain could even process the sound, Michael slammed into me. The force knocked every ounce of air from my lungs.
My side hit the concrete hard.
His arm wrapped around the back of my head, shielding it from impact as another burst of gunfire cracked through the air.
“Stay down!” He shouted. Michael rolled off me just enough to glance through the aisle way of stacked shipping containers. “It’s the fucking Ferarros.”
He peeked around the corner. “I’m clocking like five... six guys out there.”
I stayed on my side with my arms over my head, curled up as I stared at him. “Wh-what do we do?”
A bullet ricocheted off the corrugated steel container we hid behind, and like the coward I was, I shrieked.
Several feet away, a man jerked backward before collapsing onto the concrete.
I screamed again.
Time warped and my vision tunneled. Everything around me slowed down. I was vaguely aware that people were shouting.
Men were returning fire. I watched Michael rip the pistol from the fallen man near us.
He grabbed me by the shoulders. His mouth was moving. It took me a second to hear him.
“Abby!”
I blinked as I was pulled to my feet.
“Listen to me.” He guided me by the arm with urgent yanks. Shoved open the door of a large shipping crate tucked to our far left. Far away from the action.
He gestured. “Get inside.”
"What?”
“Inside!”
I stumbled forward. The crate smelled like old wood and machine oil.
Michael turned me until my back hit the wall and I was facing the door. With his hands on my shoulders, he urged me to the ground.
He knelt in front of me and pressed a handgun into my trembling hands.
“Mike, I don’t know how…” My voice trailed off as his hands closed over mine in the dim light.
He turned the pistol slightly. “See this? It's the safety.”
His thumb rested over mine and guided it into place. “The second I leave, push it down.”
I swallowed as his gaze burned into me. “If anybody opens this door before you hear my voice.. you don’t hesitate. Squeeze the trigger.”
My heart hammered violently in my chest. I felt like I was going to pass out and throw up in the same breath.
“M-Mike. Please don’t leave me,” I whispered. My hands were both curled around the pistol like he’d left them, but my arms were trembling. “Please.”
He squeezed my shoulder once. “I’ll be back. It'll be okay."
The crate door closed, and darkness swallowed me whole.
My eyes had nothing to adjust to. It was pitch black. I could hear muffled gunfire and shouting voices. Mostly, my erratic breathing echoed in the empty container.
The gunfire faded in bursts until the dock settled into an eerie silence.
My shoulders ached. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been gripping the pistol until my fingers started cramping.
Every sound made me jump. Every footstep outside the crate sent my mind reeling.
“Abby!” Michael’s voice cut through the darkness. “It’s Michael. I’m coming in, alright? Turn the safety back on.”
The crate door slowly creaked open.
My thumb fumbled over the little switch until I felt it click. But whether my arms were frozen or not, I couldn’t lower the gun.
Flashlights spilled into the darkness, forcing me to squint against barrage of light burning my eyes.
Michael crouched in front of me. His black hair was a mess. A streak of blood ran across one cheek, though I couldn’t tell if it belonged to him or somebody else.
“Hey.” His voice was gentle again. “How you holding up?”
I stared at him for a long moment before I found my voice. “...Is it over?”
"Yeah." He looked down at the pistol still clutched in my hands. “You can put it down, now.”
I tried. My fingers didn’t move.
He wrapped his hand around mine. “I’ve got it.”
Slowly, one finger at a time, he peeled my hand away from the grip. Then the next. And the next.
Only when the pistol was free did he pass it back to one of the men waiting at the door.
When he turned back to me, both of his hands gently rested on my shoulders. “Listen, you’re in shock. But you’re alright. You’re safe.”
I nodded automatically, though I wasn’t convinced by any of it.
“I'm gonna get you out of here." He reached toward me.
Without thinking, I flinched and reeled back.
He froze and both palms lifted where I could see them.
“It’s just me, Abby.” He gave me a soft smile. “Remember? We used to play Marco Polo in my parents’ pool.”
My breathing hitched.
“You taught me how to make baked ziti. And that soup, um…”
“Pasta e fagioli,” I answered and my shoulders loosened up a bit. “Your pool was nice.”
“It still is.” His head tilted to the side. “You should come swim sometime.”
A shaky laugh escaped me before I could stop it and I shook my head.
“I... I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Mike. But I hope I never see another Moretti again after tonight.” The words broke on the way out from my throat. “I can’t do this. Just look at you. You’re not even fazed.”
Michael’s expression softened. “I grew up with it. That’s not something to admire. But you’re right, you don’t belong in this.”
His head turned to the side, glancing over his shoulder, his voice lowered to a whisper. “Fuck, most days I wish I didn’t, either.”
When our eyes met, his expression softened. “Can I carry you out of here?”
I looked toward the open warehouse door. My legs still felt like jelly.
“Yeah.”
One arm slipped beneath my knees. The other supported my back. He lifted me as though I weighed nothing.
“Put your arm around my neck.”
The night air hit my face was cooler than inside the crate as he carried me out.
Michael eased me down onto the hood of his Range Rover.
“There you go.”
The cool metal grounded me and I spread my fingers over it.
“I want twice the amount of patrols.” Nicola’s voice carried across the dock. "Thomas is reviewing the security footage. I want to see where those little fuckers slipped in."
I slowly lifted my head.
He stood beneath the warehouse lights, surrounded by half a dozen men. He looked exactly like his father did in my memory. Calm, collected. Confident and completely in control.
“The north entrance stays manned all night,” he continued. “Rotate the crews every four hours.”
The men nodded. No one interrupted him. No one questioned him. He pointed toward the docks.
“I want every shipment inspected before sunrise. No more fucking surprises.”
Men moved at his orders. Afterward, Nicola’s eyes lifted and immediately locked onto me. Across the dock, our gazes met.
His expression didn’t change. No grin, no wink. No wave.
One of the capos spoke into his ear, and his attention snapped back to business.
I swallowed. I was in love with the man who sat and ate lunch with me in the stairwell. The stupid extra avocado.
But that wasn't the whole picture. This was Nicola’s real world. Gunfire. Orders. Bodies.
Slowly, I dropped down to my feet. I pulled off my hazmat suit and my covered boots. Michael approached me and I pushed them into his arms.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore.”
He didn’t try to argue, and passed off my PPE to another man. He whispered an order to bag it up and get rid of it.
When he looked at me, he nodded once. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
His hand was on my shoulder as we crossed to the parking area to my little silver sedan. It wasn’t full of bullet holes, which was a small mercy.
Michael opened the driver’s door for me. I climbed into my car, my fingers still trembling as they wrapped around the steering wheel.
“Drive safe.”
I didn’t say anything, and he shut the door. Before starting the engine, I glanced back one last time.
Nicola was still talking, giving orders. I watched his arm gesturing out wide, pointing.
I turned the key into the ignition, then, unable to help myself, I glanced into the rear view mirror.
At almost the exact same time, Nicola's head turned. His eyes started at the Range Rover, then searched the parking lot.
I looked away before he could find me, and pulled onto the road.
I couldn’t do this.
Dad could. Maybe he lived through enough nights like this that fear had simply become part of the job. But I couldn’t keep stepping into a world where bullets flew just feet away from me and men died at my feet.
Cleanup was different. I could look at it as nothing more than moving organic matter without ever putting a name to a face. There was distance, a detachment.
Enough to let me sleep at night.
But I could say with confidence that no amount of money was worth that experience.
No matter who was asking.