CHAPTER 23 Matteo #2
Elio’s voice is the first thing that cuts through.
Not the pain, the pain is secondary, arriving late like bad news delivered by someone who’d been working up the nerve.
My brother’s hand closes around my arm, pulling me sideways, and I let him because my legs have decided to have a private conversation with the ground about whether they still want to participate.
We make it to the container. My back hits the metal and I register it distantly, the cold of it, the rust smell.
I look down.
The handle is still there. Black, utilitarian. The kind of knife that isn’t made to impress anyone, just to go in and stay in. There’s not as much blood as there should be, which either means it missed everything important or my body hasn’t caught up yet.
“How bad,” I say. It isn’t a question. Questions imply I don’t trust my own assessment.
“I can’t tell with the knife in.” Elio’s jaw is tight. He’s scared. He’s doing an admirable job of not showing it, but I’ve known this boy since he was twelve years old and I know exactly what fear looks like on his face when he’s trying to hide it from me. “We need to pull it.”
“Not yet.” Around us, the fight is still going. I can hear it all, the crack of shots, shouting in Russian. “Tell me what’s happening.”
“Matt—”
“Tell me what’s happening, Elio.”
He exhales sharply, eyes flicking to the yard. “We’re getting pushed back. More men than we expected. Raffaele’s—” He stops. Looks past my shoulder. “Raffaele’s not here yet.”
Right.
Fuck. “Well, we can’t leave out men to fight without one of us standing with them, brother. Go find out where Raffaele is. In the meantime, I think it’s best to leave this thing in for now.”
“No. You can’t return like this. Just hang in there.” He takes his phone, frantically making calls.
I press my hand over the wound. The pressure is unpleasant in a specific, clarifying way, the kind of pain that doesn’t make you want to lie down so much as make you very aware that lying down would be permanent. I breathe through it.
I think about Leo. The way he’d said, “Daddy, look!”, holding that dead toad in his palm like it was treasure, his eyes bright with the complete sincerity of a child who hasn’t yet learned which things are worth being excited about and which aren’t.
I think about how he’d looked at Lindsay across the video game controller, telling her she was a sore loser, and how she’d laughed, that real laugh, not the polished one she gives people she doesn’t trust yet. The one I got plenty of times before I made her mine.
I think about this morning. Her asleep on my side of the bed, one hand curled under her cheek. So fucking beautiful, so fucking perfect.
“Pull it,” I tell Elio.
“Matteo—”
“Now, fratello. While I’m still thinking clearly.”
He meets my eyes. Nods once. His hand closes around the handle.
I look away. Not because I’m afraid of the sight of it; I’ve seen far worse and felt nothing. I look away because I don’t want the last image behind my eyes, if it comes to that, to be a knife handle.
I’d rather it be Leo’s smiling face. Or her, standing in that penthouse bar, turning around with those impossible blue eyes, saying my name like a question.
Matteo Vitale?
Like she hadn’t decided yet whether I was real. I want to whisper it into her ears buried deep inside of her. “I’m real baby, we’re real.” And as much as I didn’t think I wanted it, what I feel for her is real.
Elio pulls.
The sound I make is not one I will repeat or acknowledge. The world tilts. My palm slams against the container to keep myself upright and I stand there, breathing, counting, waiting for the tilt to stop.
It stops.
“Okay,” I say.
“You’re not okay.”
“I’m upright.” I look at him. There’s terror in his face, which is almost funny. Elio, who has seen things that would unhinge most men, going pale over a knife wound in a shipping yard. “I need thirty more seconds and then I need to finish this.”
“Raffaele’s here,” he says, looking past me.
And there he is. Arriving the way Raffaele always arrives, like the concept of a dramatic entrance took human form and decided to carry a gun. Three shots into the sky. That manic grin, and his famous first words at almost every scene:
“Who wants to die first?”
I exhale. Allow myself to feel something close to relief.
Then I push off the container and go find the Pakhan.
The Pakhan’s making a run for it. A growl leaps from my throat as I raise my gun, aiming for the table first. The sound of wood splitting stops the old man in his tracks. With careful steps, I move from behind the container, making sure to face him as I raise my gun.
Behind me the sounds of shouting and gunfire start to quiet. The fight wraps up. It all fades as I stare at the Pakhan, whose composure is finally gone. His face bulges as he spits out some words in Russian.
“I think he just cursed at us,” Raffaele notes, amusement in his tone.
The old man reaches for his gun, but I’m already moving. Two shots. One to the chest and another to the head to end it. He staggers back, hitting the floor before growing still.
I stand there for a moment, my chest steady although my pulse is erratic. The battle is over behind me.
I let myself stumble when Elio wraps an arm around my shoulder. I’ve earned it.
“I’ll call the doctor,” Raffaele announces before turning to give the rest of our men clear orders.
They’re to bury the dead, all of them, including the Russians. Our own dead are treated with more care. Their families will be well compensated for their sacrifice.
I took care of another one of your demons today, baby.
Now I just need to make it home.