21. Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
Marco
T he distant sound of screeching tires caught my attention, snapping me from the stupor I'd been in all afternoon and into the evening. I boggled at the time as I pulled my phone out from under the pillow to squint at the too-bright screen in the darkness. It had been a rough day. One of many, truth be told. It was exhausting always having to wear a mask. Always having to pretend I was okay when I was anything but. My desperation to keep up the fa?ade was wearing me down more and more every day. Where I was typically able to spend long days and night in isolation, only needing to put on a show during brief encounters with my family or while working, I now had inserted myself into a living situation with a partner and his roommate. The task of keeping myself on an even keel was getting harder and harder every day, but my need to stay with Brandon held a stronger pull.
The sound of the apartment opening and slamming shut spiked my anxiety. King’s excitable yapping made my headache instantly worse and sitting up too fast invited a dizzy spell to the party. I needed to eat something. The idea made me more nauseous just thinking about it. I waited on the edge of the bed in the darkened room, anticipating Bran’s entrance, but he never came. It wasn't like him to not be home by this hour. A spark of anxiety zipped through my body as I winced through the act of standing up. My obsession with him was reaching an unhealthy level, but I couldn't be bothered to care about that. We all needed a reason to live—mine just happened to be Bran.
I crossed the bedroom and tugged the door open, wincing at the harsh overhead lighting as fireworks bloomed in my vision before it finally adjusted. Expecting to find Bran, I paused in confusion to find Jericho glaring at me with murder in his eyes.
“Hey,” I hedged, eyeing the bristling dog at Jer’s side. King was never on guard when I was around, and I was always around lately. “Where’s Bran?”
“Out doing your dirty work,” Jericho bit back with a scowl as his arms crossed over his chest. “Again.”
My brow furrowed and I took a step further into the living room. King’s ominous growl froze me in place.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I eyed the dog and flicked my gaze back toward Jericho.
“Figures. Fucking figures.” His hands flew up and he made a disgusted scowl. “His blood is on your hands, Marco. You're so fucking short-sighted, you can't fucking see it.”
Jericho was typically the calmest of the group. His words were usually the most clear-cut and bluntly honest. The fact that he was uncharacteristically dysregulated and speaking in fucking riddles had my nerves dialing up into the redline of anger as a coping mechanism.
I advanced another step and clenched my shaking hands into fists. “What the fuck are you saying?”
“Bitch, he's on the way to fucking Jersey!” Jericho, in an act completely unlike his typical reserve, launched himself at me and shoved my chest with the flat of his palms. “He's so fucking desperate for your family’s approval, for your approval, he's been doing the jobs fucking solo! And now he's running off to the fucking docks to pick up more fucking guns for your dear old dad!”
I staggered backward, absorbing the full force of Jericho's anger as he pushed me again and again. Even once my back hit the wall and there was nowhere else to go, he kept striking me. Numb, shocked, and growing increasingly concerned for Bran, my Bran, I took every hit, dumbstruck and silent as the words sank in. Like the idiot I was, my jaw went lax before I could formulate words.
“He's headed there now?”
“Yes, you fucking ass! I just said that!” Again, Jericho struck my chest, this time with his balled fists, before turning away and shoving his hands into his hair. “God, I tried to stop him but I just ended up shouting a bunch of shit I shouldn't have. Fuck!”
Jericho kicked a milk crate of car parts, sending metal bits and bolts flying. The jarring sound was enough to snap me out of my daze as the full breadth of everything hit me with more force than any of Jericho’s blows had. I jumped into action, darting into the bedroom to retrieve my phone. The call I never wanted to make but knew I had to connected before I even had both shoes on.
“Marco, my son—”
“Pa, I need help!”
There was a pause, just the briefest moment of dead air, before his soft voice came through the line again. “Of course. Anything. Where are you?”
“Brandon. Henny. It's Henny. He's heading to Jersey alone. Pa, I can’t… he… I can't let him—”
“My son, I'll handle it. We'll handle it. I'm on my way.”
The relief was short-lived, but life-saving. My eyes snapped toward Jericho, pleading. He scanned my face and nodded before I could even voice my desperation. I was not above begging—not when it came to Bran. He whistled to the door, pulled his keys from his pocket, and strode toward the door. I was hot on his heels, snatching my gun from the side table as we fled the apartment on a mission. He had to be okay. I'd make sure of it, even if it was the last thing I ever did.
By the time we hit street level, we were sprinting. Every second felt perilous and precious as it slipped away from us. The fear I'd felt when I had heard he was arrested, the terror I'd felt when Moretti’s men surrounded us at the car show—both combined paled in comparison to the horror in my gut as I pictured him alone in the shipyard under cover of darkness and with no one around as backup. I wanted to wring his fucking neck and simultaneously lock him away from the world. I could do neither because the fucker had jumped into shit alone. My body couldn't decide if it wanted to let the fear or rage win this battle, so I decided for it. Anger was always so much easier.
“God fucking damn it, I'm going to fucking kill him!” I slammed my fist against the roll cage of Jericho’s Nissan, earning me a death glare as he finished strapping the dog into the backseat. He tumbled into the front seat with a grumble, taking off without securing his own belt. He and I weren't all that much different. A complete disregard for our own safety while trying to protect our own. He was silent for a while as the car hit speeds I would have boggled at under ordinary circumstances. When he broke the quiet, it was in the form of a truce.
“You and me, both. Get in line. I call dibs on saving him so I can kill him first.”
Despite the tension and fear and all-consuming anger I felt towards things outside my control and beyond my ability to fix, I chuckled. It startled us both. The flash of a feeble smile crossed Jericho’s face before he held out a fist. My knuckles struck his without any force at all. Leave it to Brandon fucking Fortini to bring us together if only with his bullshit antics. God, he needed to be okay, because I had a lot of choice words for that fucker. Chiefly, the words I love you. At least, I'd tell him that after I called him a dumb fuck. There were priority levels to the things he needed to hear.