Chapter 12
NICK
I shiver myself awake, gasping in the same heavy, damp air. A chill covers me, and I can’t stop shivering.
“Hey, fucker, wake up, I ain’t got all night.”
I bolt upright to Samson hovering over me. Only it’s a much younger Samson from years ago when we first met in Brooklyn.
He reaches out his hand to me. “You ready to do this shit?”
“Who are you supposed to be?”
“You know who I am, fucker. I’m your first ghost, and as much as I hate taking orders from that deadbeat, Sal, I’m your Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“My past? I sure don’t need to revisit that shit-show. Once was enough, thanks.”
“Well, you don’t have a choice, and neither do I, so strap up, it’s gonna be a bumpy fuckin’ ride.”
I blink my eyes, and magically, I’m standing in my old apartment in Brooklyn.
Adult me is watching a scene of my mother and myself at around ten years old in our kitchen.
The same age Portia is now. I can smell my mother’s delicious empanadas.
I want to reach out and grab one off the plate, but Samson holds me back with a shake of his head.
Doors slam, and a cold draft wafts through the room.
“What the fuck are you cooking?” my father bellows, supporting himself on the doorframe.
“Chicken, rice and—”
My father grabs my mother by the arm and spins her around. “I told you I don’t want any more of that spic food in my house.”
“But, Dad, it’s good and—”
My father’s hand lashes out, knocking me to the floor. “Shut up. When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”
He reaches for the stove, grabs the handle of the pan, and pitches it across the room. “I told you I’m not eating that shit.” He slaps my mother, and she falters against the counter. He sneers down at her, then storms out of the kitchen.
My mother reaches out and hugs me to her. “No te preocupes.”
“When I get older, I’ll get you away from him.” I hug my mother tight. “I’ll make enough money for both of us to go far, far away from here. I promise.”
“My mother deserved way better than she got.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I never got to keep that promise.”
“That promise molded your whole life,” Samson said. “It made you tough and hard, and willing to do anything for your version of success. Unfortunately, along the way, you convinced yourself that money brings happiness.”
I can’t look away from the desperation in my mother’s eyes. It mesmerizes me until I can’t bear it any longer.
“I don’t wanna see any more,” I whisper.
“Sorry, that’s not how this works,” Samson says.
I blink, and we’re outside on the sidewalk of the same apartment building. Only this time, I’m eighteen.
I swallow hard, knowing what’s coming, and turn to Samson. “I’m not going in there.”
“You got no choice.”
The summer air is hot and sticky, like walking through water, and unless you were from Brooklyn, you couldn’t know it. On nights like this, everybody hung out on the front stoop because their tiny, airless apartments were stifling.
I climb the stone steps, and the animated crowd becomes silent. They stare and whisper behind their hands, and I know something’s wrong.
The cops block my entrance, asking if I know anything about domestic fights, yelling, and screaming. I know too much about it.
“Please make it stop,” I plead to Samson.
Arms hold me back, but I break free and follow the trail of yellow crime scene tape to my mother—dead on the kitchen floor. My heart shatters into pieces, but her bloodied face and broken body aren’t a surprise.
“It’s too much.” I swipe away the tears leaking from my eyes.
Samson grips my shoulder. “I know, brother.”
Guilt propels me out of the room. The cops grab me, but I break free, and hit the street running. By the time I barge into Frank’s office, I want revenge. My mother’s death wrecked me. I want my father to pay for what he did.
“These tragedies made you tough—maybe too tough.”
Another flash of light and we’re in a narrow, dark alley.
I knew exactly where to find my father. I’d spent plenty of nights dragging him home from his sleazy hangout.
I call him out to the alley, and we face each other, father and son.
“You finally did it,” I said. “You finally killed her.”
“She was nothing but a worthless tramp.”
“Shut up.” My hand shakes as I point the gun at my father.
“You don’t have the balls to pull the trigger,” my father taunts, “‘cause you’re useless like that cunt mother of yours.”
I hold the gun with both hands to control the shaking.
My father spews out a mean, harsh laugh. It’s the last sound he ever made.
A shot rings out a second before his knees buckle. His eyes register one emotion: shock.
Footsteps, then Frank steps to my side and slips the gun from my limp hand. “I didn’t think you’d be able to do it, kid.”
I stare at my father’s limp body, then nudge him with my foot.
“Don’t worry; he’s dead.” Frank unscrews the silencer from his gun. “You don’t take a shot like that and live.”
“I didn’t know you followed me.”
“I figured you might need some help.” Frank holsters his gun.
“I wanted to do it but . . .”
“That’s why I came for backup.” Frank cups my shoulder. “The first time is the hardest. Then it gets easier.” Frank eases the gun out of my hand, then nudges me down the alley. “Get outta here and let me take care of it.”
I stare at my father’s limp body.
No more guilt.
No more anger.
Freedom.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I huff out a breath. “Living it once was bad enough.”
“Yeah, I know, it sucks,” Samson says. “But since I’m the only one who really knew you then, I got the job.”
Another flash of light and we’re down by the Brooklyn docks.
“Ahhh, shit, not this.” I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming, and it’s bad—real fuckin’ bad.”
“I told you it was gonna be a bumpy ride.”
He nudges me forward until we’re in the warehouse, then Frank’s office. The last night I saw Cheryl ten years ago.
“And what if I refuse?” I shout. “What if I tell you to go fuck yourself? I’ll walk away and let you have it all to keep Cheryl in my life.”
“I don’t think so.” Frank flashes a shit-eating grin.
“No, I won’t let you do that.” Cheryl’s strangled plea rips through my gut.
“What if I say I don’t care about the new club and that Cheryl and I want to be together?”
“That would be unfortunate,” Frank deadpans.
“I’ll do it. I’ll give it all up if you leave her and me alone.” I shoot her a look. Her eyes wide and filled with disbelief.
“Are you also willing to give up your lavish lifestyle, or have you forgotten about everything you and Samson own—the penthouses, the cars—it all comes from the money I give you.”
The bastard is right. Back in the day, we signed some papers, but neither me nor Samson checked it out with a lawyer. We’d been too busy raking in the money and living a life neither one could’ve imagined, never realizing it was nothing but a house of cards.
“I don’t give a shit about that stuff if it means keeping Cheryl in my life.”
“Impressive, but are you willing to take chances with her life?” Frank jerks his thumb at Cheryl. “I think you saw in Miami how easy it was for someone to make you a target. Are you willing to put that same target on her back too?”
I drop my gaze to the floor.
Frank cocks his head. “I guess the big question is, are you willing to put her life on the line?” He nods to Cheryl. “Or have to look over your shoulder for the rest of your lives?”
I never doubted Frank’s far-reaching power.
I’d seen what he was capable of doing, and I knew better than to push the mob boss, aware of the consequences, but I still couldn’t believe it.
I’d come so far, had it all figured out in my head, yet Frank managed to fuck with me again.
Any future I planned with Cheryl went up in a puff of reality.
A consuming exhaustion creeps through my bones.
“I think I made my point.” Frank shuffles the papers on his desk. “Just sign the contract, and you’ll have everything you want—except Cheryl.”
“No fuckin’ way.” I wouldn’t do it. I’d give up the club, the lifestyle, everything except Cheryl. Frank could go fuck himself with his offer.
“Fine.” Cheryl steps forward. “I’ll do what you ask. I’ll go to California and never see Nick again.”
“No fuckin’ way you’re leaving.” I lunge forward, and one of Frank’s goons holds me from behind.
“I refuse to be the reason you lose your dream and everything you’ve worked for.” Cheryl's eyes glisten with tears. “We tried to make a life together, but sometimes you have to know when to—”
“To what, give up?” I shout. “Don’t let him win.”
“He already has.” She sucks in her lower lip, and something inside me breaks. “It’s better this way for both of us.”
“No, no, you don’t believe that. Don’t—”
“We were stupid to think we could work.” Cheryl throws me a sad smile, turns and leaves the office.
“Wait.” I reach out to Cheryl’s vision. “Don’t go.”
“She can’t see or hear you,” Samson reminds me.
“Fuck.” I lower my head, and the same pain from ten years ago radiates through my gut.
“You were willing to give up everything and hand it all over to Frank for her.” Samson barks out a laugh. “Let me tell you, back in the day, I was fuckin’ pissed when you told me you even considered giving up the club and all we worked for because of a woman.”
“Not just any woman.”
“Right, and that’s when I figured out what she meant to you.”
“She means everything to me.” I turn away from Samson’s smirking face. “Her and Portia.”
“Yeah, well, why don’t you start showing them that, fucker? You tortured yourself for ten years, then she comes back to you with your daughter, and you barely spend any time with them.”
I spin around to face him. “Ya know, you’re really starting to piss me off.”
“Only cause I’m spitting the truth.”
“I’d like to punch that smug face of yours, but the last time I tried to fight with a ghost, I nearly dislocated my shoulder.”
“That’ll teach you. Don’t fuck with the supernatural. We’re a vengeful bunch.”
“You got any more words of wisdom?”
“Just don’t fuck it up.”
The exact words Samson said to me in my office yesterday.
“Thanks.”
“My gig is done, but I hope this trip down Memory Lane got through that thick skull of yours.”
I’m just about to deliver a snarky response when the fucker disappears, and I’m back on my patio overlooking the pool.
I stumble to the couch, grab the bottle of bourbon, and swig it straight from the bottle, then I collapse onto the couch.