Epilogue
Vito
The Previous Afternoon
T he sweltering heat struck me first. Followed by a splitting headache. The burn of something tight around my wrists. They were tied together behind my back.
Sweat dripped into my eyes. It stung almost as bad as my wrists every time we hit a bump. Light leaked into the trunk through the door seams and where the rear lights fixed into the body. But with my vision, even blurred as it was from the crack on my head, I could make out that the trunk was empty.
My head throbbed in time with my heart. My natural healing lifted the grogginess without effort, but I held onto my power. Didn’t know what I’d need later, and only a fool used what they didn’t need. Didn’t know what shape Gina was in either. They took her too. The man with the gun—Siobhán’s brother—had pulled her into the car.
Option one—break the bindings on my wrists. Wouldn’t be difficult, but what about Gina? She’d been shot. He’d held a gun to her temple, and that hadn’t felt like an idle threat. My gut told me he did that on purpose, that he knew to hold it there and not somewhere else. Even with my speed, I couldn’t outmaneuver a bullet at point-blank range.
Option two—bide my time. Yeah, I was angry as hell, but I wasn’t a hothead. Couldn’t be an enforcer for as long as I’d been and be a hothead. Gina needed me. Best way to protect her was to keep cool. I could be angry once I found us a way out of this mess.
The car made a slow turn, and metal on metal, like a commercial garage door, clanked over the rumble of the engine.
The car lurched to a stop. Car doors opened. Muffled voices and shuffling. More metal on metal, likely that same garage door closing. Car doors slammed, and the trunk popped. I squinted, adjusting my vision to the bright lights. A man’s silhouette grabbed my biceps, hauled me out, and aimed a gun at my head.
The un-air-conditioned garage was large enough to house four cars across. It was bright with fluorescent lights and the sharp, metallic smell of tools and oil. The two spaces to the right of the Hyundai were empty, and oil stained the concrete. A car stripped of doors occupied the fourth spot up on a lift. On my left, two men in coveralls leaned against the counter smoking cigarettes. They eyed me and my escort. No sign of Gina.
“Move.” The man who popped the trunk nudged me in the back of my head with his gun.
I moved in the direction he pushed, toward the single door in the corner. I took inventory of the garage, an accounting of anything that might clue me into location, potential weapons, or an escape. It was a run-of-the-mill chop shop, and based on the accents and who took us, my guess was Charlestown or Southie.
He opened the door. It was heavy. Reinforced. He kept the gun trained on my head and shoved me inside.
An office. Sparsely furnished—a desk, chair, and TV straight out of the last century, knobs and everything. Shelves of parts, paint, and oil covered all but one of the walls. No windows, but at least a portable air conditioner kept the space at a reasonable temp.
Gina sat slumped against the wall cradling her left arm. Her head rested against the exposed brick, eyes closed. Blood seeped through the rag wrapped around her biceps and stained her fingers. The pained expression on her face stoked my anger as much as the smear of blood across her left cheek. I clenched my fists.
The door clicked shut, and the rattle of keys in the lock sealed our fate.
She lifted her lids enough for me to see why she’d kept them closed; they glowed a faint red.
I sat to her right and leaned against the brick. “Is it bad?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice raspy. “I’ve never been shot before.”
“Lemme see.”
I peeled the rag-bandage away to reveal Gina’s bloody left biceps. Most of the mess was dried blood, but a ragged wound leaked, a steady drip down her arm. I lifted it. She winced. The entry hole on the inside of the muscle was dark red but a perfect circle.
“It went through,” I said. “Good.” The exit had done more damage, but at least the bullet hadn’t hit bone. “Would be a real pain on both of us if I had to dig it out.”
Her lips flattened, and she side-eyed me.
“Small favors,” I said with a shrug. “We should clean it up though. The less mess, the fewer the questions when it heals up quick.” I pushed myself to my feet and glanced around the office.
“It won’t heal as quickly as I’d like,” she mumbled.
I frowned over my shoulder.
“I had an appointment with my Source tonight. It was supposed to be Sunday, but I rescheduled after everything with Luca.”
I found a case of bottled water in the cabinet behind the desk. “Here,” I said and sat back down. I took the rag, wet it, and cleaned the blood from her arm. “You’ll be fine. It isn’t that bad.”
I’d tended to too many bullet holes lately. Yeah, I had experience doing it, but playing doctor wasn’t exactly something I enjoyed. Done enough of it in the War, then again under Big Frankie. Being Marco’s consigliere suited me just fine.
I removed most of the dried blood, leaving the area around the wounds alone. Didn’t want to disrupt her body’s natural healing. “Hold out your hands.” I poured water into them, and she rinsed the blood off.
“You’ve got…” I wiggled my finger at my left cheek. She lifted her fingers to her right. “No. Here.” I dabbed her face with the rag, cleaning off the smear of blood.
“Thank you.” She laid her hand across mine and leaned into the touch. Tears brimmed her eyes beneath her long lashes. “Thank you for protecting me.”
I cleared my throat and put distance between us. I wrapped the rag around her arm with as few blood stains showing as possible and secured it with a knot. I sat back against the wall and handed Gina the water. She took it and drank.
“What are we doing here?” she asked and handed me the bottle.
I drained it. The water was room temp, but after the sweltering heat and being locked in a trunk, I’d take it. Didn’t know the next time we’d get fresh water.
“No idea,” I said.
Keys rattled in the door.
“But I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”
THE END
* * *
Thank you for reading!
Luca and Siobhán finally found their happy ending,
but Boston’s blood demons have more stories to tell.