Destructive: Combative Trilogy #3

  Destructive

  Combative Trilogy #3

  Jay McLean

  Copyright © 2020 by Jay McLean

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For W. McLean.

  You are my glue,

  holding me together

  when I break into pieces.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Epilogue

  Excerpt From Heartache and Hope

  Also by Jay McLean

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Nate

  “Get up!”

  I should’ve been surprised at the sound of the single demand, at the rough tone in which it was said—but I wasn’t.

  We’d practiced this.

  Planned it.

  Prepared for it.

  While Bailey slept in my arms, her breaths barely a whisper across my skin, I’d kept my eyes open. My ears alert. I’d heard the slide of the key into the lock, right before the click. There was no sound to accompany the door being pushed open, just the gentle groaning of the floorboards above as footsteps closed the distance between us and Bailey’s future captor.

  Next to me, Bailey screamed, and I winced at the sound, at the fear trembling there. I kept my arms at my sides, my fists balled, and I let my eyes close. Even though deep down, I knew it was for the best, I could barely stand what we were doing. If I had to actually see it…

  The bed dipped, became colder without her presence beside me, and then an “oomph” between her cries.

  Her cries for me.

  No longer quiet or needing to be hidden, footsteps became thuds as they climbed the stairs, and I swallowed my fear, my mistakes, and breathed through the ache in my chest. My hands grasped at the blankets, now at my waist as I sat up, still refusing to open my eyes.

  I’d never had to wonder what it felt like to have a broken heart.

  I was born with one.

  Live with one.

  But then the front door opened, and thunder cracked, and I could hear the rain pouring heavily against the driveway. I imagined Bailey there—a pillowcase over her head—just like we’d planned. I pictured the rain coming down on her, soaking the fabric until her breaths reshaped the cloth. Breathing in. Out. “Nathaniel, please!” she screamed, and my eyes snapped open.

  My heart cracked.

  Shattered.

  I rushed out of bed, regret plaguing every cell of my being. My bare feet hit the concrete floor of the basement, cold and unwelcoming.

  Pulse pounding beyond pain, I ran up the stairs and to the front door, pulling it open—the word “Stop!” stuck in my throat as I watched the wheels of the car spin across the gravel, the tail lights a blinding red. Through the sheets of rain, I could barely make out a few feet in front of me. But I could make out her. Make out the hand that clapped against the rear windshield, and I knew she could see me.

  I could feel her cries.

  Feel her tears.

  Feel her helplessness like a lead weight building inside my ribs.

  But it would be one time. Just now. And then she’d be free.

  Free from me and the confines of the life I’d offered her back when…

  Back when she’d begged and pleaded for me to kill her, and then save her, and then kill her because I couldn’t save her…

  I closed the front door.

  Remembered why I was doing this.

  In the basement, my phone sounded with a text.

  The room felt void, empty without her.

  6590 She’s calmed down now. This is for the best, Boss. For everyone.

  I slumped to the edge of the bed, my hands in my hair, my eyes taking in the hundreds of fall leaves hanging from the ceiling.

  “I know,” I whispered to no one.

  I knew because I couldn’t save her.

  Just like I couldn’t save my mother.

  1

  NATE

  It rained the day of my nonno’s funeral.

  Fat, heavy droplets that physically hurt when they landed on my skin. I’d wanted to complain about it, but whenever I looked up at my mom, her tears seemed heavier than the rain, and so I did what my dad told me to do; I held her hand and stood silent next to her.

  There were a lot of people in the cemetery. I remember thinking it was the most people I’d seen besides the time Nonno took me to Madison Square Garden to watch Latrell Sprewell play one of his final games for the Knicks. “He’s a goddamn hot head,” Nonno had said, over and over, his voice gruff from all the cigars he’d smoked. Mom used to tell him it would be the death of him. Wishful thinking on her part, I suppose, because my nonno was murdered coming out of a bodega at three in the afternoon, Cuban cigar between his lips, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, and a titty magazine in the other.

  My nonno was the original Don. The Godfather, if you believe the hype. I guess that made my mother a princess and me a prince.

  We were Mafia royalty.

  The family.

  That’s the story anyway.

  Or myth.

  Urban legend, maybe?

  Hell, I don’t know.

  According to the tales told around neat whiskey and fast women, my nonno had lived a life far greater than any man before and even after him. I don’t know if they tell me these things to hype me up and make sure I live up to the legacy he left behind or if they’re true. Either way, I am not like him. Neither was my dad, no matter how hard Nonno had tried to break him.

  Along with his infamous legacy, Nonno left everything to my mother and father, who would later leave everything to me.

  Even the parts I didn’t want.

  Sometimes I wonder if my parents didn’t want it either.

  A few days before my mom died—I mean, before I killed her—I was picked up from school by my driver and taken home. My mom was waiting for me on the other side
of the door, her hair up in a perfected knot on the back of her head. She was holding a box in front of her, her gaze gentle and kind, the way it always was when she looked at me. I still remember the way my eyes widened along with my smile, making my cheeks hurt. “You got it!” I yelled, dropping my school bag in the entryway and taking the box from her. I didn’t even thank her as I ripped it open, the giant world globe cold against my fingertips. I was ten years old—and maybe too old to be excited over such mundane things—but I think, in a way, my mom made it a priority to keep me sheltered, to keep my soul young and innocent for as long as possible.

  Too bad that ended only days later.

  Too bad she didn’t prepared me for the real world, the harshness of it, the dangers of the future that awaited the grandson of The Godfather.

  Il Principe. The Prince.

  With the globe hugged to my chest, I ran upstairs and toward my room, my mother’s laughter floating behind me as she followed, her steps much slower than mine. By the time she reached my room and leaned against the doorway, the globe was perched on my desk, spinning and spinning and spinning. I sat on my bed, eyes lit up, green and blue whirling in my vision, and my bed dipped, my mother’s hand going to my shoulder as she settled in next to me. “Where to?” she asked quietly. I pushed out a breath, eying her sideways, my innocence forcing my lips to curl at the corners. Then I lifted my hand, a single finger pointed, moving closer and closer to the globe until I pressed down, forcing it to stop.

  Mom and I held our breaths as we leaned forward, our eyes squinting to see where I’d landed…

  2

  NATE

  I’ve never left the country. Barely even left the state. Not by choice, anyway. I was born in New York, raised there until I was around seven or eight. After my nonno passed away, Mom packed up our lives and moved us all to Philly to get away from the wrath her father had left behind.

  It didn’t help.

  “Canada?” Tiny asks, looking over my shoulder as I tap away at my phone. “You want to go to Canada?”

  With a shrug, I shove my phone in my pocket and lean back against the brick wall of O’Malley’s bar, watching the headlights of the cars pass by from the alley. “What’s wrong with Canada?”

  “What’s right with Canada?” he scoffs. “There’s nothing there but horse cops, hockey, and maple tree—” He cuts himself off, thinking he knows where this is going.

  Honestly, I don’t know if he’s right or wrong.

  Dropping my gaze to my hands, I ball my fists and dig my nails into my palms. I create pain where it doesn’t exist, so I can ignore the real pain of my existence.

  “You know…” Tiny starts, his tone hesitant. “Maybe you should hit up Italy. I mean, it’s in your blood, and you’ve never even—” A car pulls into the alley, headlights blinding, cutting him off. But he doesn’t need words for me to understand. His eyes say it all. It’s been four years. I should be over this shit. Should be over her.

  When the car slows to a stop in front of us, I open the door leading to the basement of the bar where the underground MMA fight I’ve been planning for months is in full swing. I signal to one of my men, he signals to another, and a moment later, one of the bartenders is hauling a keg filled with cash down the narrow hallway and into one of the storerooms.

  I wait, hands in my pockets, while Tiny leads one of Franco’s men into the room, duffle bags of our merchandise in each of their hands.

  The exchange doesn’t take long. It never does. We stay at O’Malley’s until the fights are over so I can make sure the cash I handed over to the owner is split between him and the winning fighters. Then we wait for the place to clear out so we can share a drink at the bar after another hard night’s work.

  Halfway through the second beer, Tiny gets a call. Benny, of course, but it’s after midnight, and he has no reason to call unless it’s an emergency. Eyes narrowed, I listen to Tiny’s phone exchange, my pulse quickening when he looks at me with concern in his eyes. Immediately, he’s on his feet, and I do the same. We make our way outside, well aware of the set of eyes watching us from behind the wheel of a black SUV parked across the road. He thinks I don’t see him. That I don’t know him. Detective Jackson Davis isn’t the first to follow me around, the first to attempt to get inside my head, my job. But like the others before him, he won’t find any dirt on me.

  I don’t carry it around.

  All my dirt is where it belongs.

  Six feet under.

  3

  NATE

  It takes a good ten minutes of us driving around in circles to lose the detective. Once we’re sure he’s no longer tailing us, we make our way to Benny’s. The gate’s already open when we get there, and a familiar car sits in the driveway. According to Tiny, Officer Declan—a fine upstanding member of the Philly P.D…. who just so happens to be on our payroll—needs to notify us of something. Something that involves me. Something that obviously couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

  That’s all the info Benny was willing to give Tiny over the phone.

  Benny’s in his usual spot behind his large desk, his hair and clothes disheveled. He looks pissed. Either from being woken from his sleep or because whatever Declan has to say is bad. Or both, going by the way he works his jaw as he watches me casually stroll across his office and flop down on the chair opposite him. His gaze shifts to Tiny, who stands by the doorway. I realize now that Benny’s alone. His capos who usually flank him aren’t here, replaced by Officer Declan, who stands next to him with his arms at his sides, a manila folder in one hand, his phone in the other. Wearing gray sweats and a black hoody, he looks more like the loving husband and father of two little boys than the intimidating member of law enforcement he showcases on the daily.

  “Nathaniel,” Benny greets, and I hate when he calls me that. My mom was the only person who used my full name.

  And then Bailey.

  I keep my anger in check and raise my chin at him, nod toward Declan. “What’s going on?”

  Declan takes a step forward while Benny leans back in his chair and runs a hand down his face. The folder lands on the table with a loud thwack. Declan keeps his eyes on mine, and I stare back. After a moment, when he realizes I have nothing to say, he opens the folder. “You know him?”

  I let my gaze fall to the picture on display. An unknown man stares back at me. He looks like every other guy who steps foot inside my MMA gym. A scrapper. A fighter. And going by the fact that the picture I’m looking at is a mugshot, it wouldn’t surprise me if he is. What does surprise me is his eyes. It’s my job to read people, to be able to figure out within seconds of meeting them if they’re trustworthy or not. This guy, though, his eyes give away nothing. Nor do any of his features. His stare is blank. Empty. My eyes lift, land on Benny, even though my words are for Declan. “Should I?”

  “Not yet, but you will.”

  I pick up the picture, inspect it closer. “Keep talking.”

  Declan goes on to tell me the guy’s name: Kyler Parker. He was arrested last night for assault and battery even though the guy he’d beaten the shit out of was barely able to make a statement. Officer Declan had spent the majority of the past twenty-four hours tailing him, an order given by someone who had spent the majority of their past twenty-four hours tailing me. My stalker, Detective Jackson Davis. According to Declan, Davis and Parker cut a deal: Parker has to get inside my head and then inside my circle.

  He’s going to be an informant.

  Just like the man standing in front of me.

  The only difference? Parker’s target is me.

  I run the back of my fingers across my jaw, taking in every word Declan has to say while my heart beats unsteady in my ribcage. I glance at Tiny, and just like the picture in my hand, his eyes give nothing away. Not here. Not yet. My gaze locks on Officer Declan, my neck craning back and forth, ridding the impending tension building there.

  Declan pushes the open folder toward me. “This is all his information. Addres
s, date of birth, what I can gather of his past.”

  I scan the page quickly, the words Army and Afghanistan sticking out.

  “What’s Davis’s hand in any of this?” I ask.

  Declan clears his throat, his spine straightening. “I did some investigating of my own…”

  I’m getting sick of Declan’s verbal mind games and Benny’s silence. “And…?”

  “Parker and Davis grew up together. Lived together in their teens.”

  I nod.

  Clarity.

  “And Nate?” he adds.

  “What?”

  “The drugs you’re pushing—they killed Parker’s brother.”

  All air leaves my lungs. “You don’t know that for sure.”

  He nods toward the folder. “It’s all there.”

  Benny’s silence ends, and he heaves out a breath as he leans forward, his elbows on the desk. “He died the same night Pauly did. PJ says he was with the girl.” His voice hardens on the last two words, and my heart stops, my throat closing in.