Destructive: Combative Trilogy #3 Page 2

  “What girl?” I ask through gritted teeth. Tiny shifts, a move so inconspicuous I’ve no doubt everyone else in the room missed it.

  “The girl who killed Pauly. The one you shot in the head and threw in the river… so you say.”

  I lick my lips, ignore the truth in his accusation.

  “Parker knows who you are,” Declan cuts in. “And he knows your hand in his brother’s death.”

  A beat passes before I ask, “So that’s why Davis is following me around?”

  “It’s personal for both of them,” Declan answers. “Parker wants revenge. Davis wants justice.”

  I drop my hands beneath the desk to hide my trembling fingers.

  “They might not be blood,” says Benny. “But, they’re brothers.” He glances at Tiny, and I get his message loud and clear.

  “Parker’s going to be at the fight in a few days,” Declan states.

  I nod, the heaviness in my heart forcing my eyes to close.

  “Nathaniel,” Benny sneers, and my eyes snap open, my jaw tight. “Be careful. Don’t let this guy get inside your head,” he says, tapping at his temple. “One wrong step, one wrong decision, and your life is over. After everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve built, you can’t let one man take you down.” His stare on mine hardens. “Your father was the same. Too soft. Too trusting. Look where that fucking got him.”

  My nostrils flare. “My father died because he had a bad heart.”

  “No.” Benny shakes his head. “He died because he had a weak one.”

  4

  NATE

  My mother once told me that she’d only ever seen my dad cry once. The day I was born. There were no sounds to accompany his cries, just the tears that streaked down his cheeks. There were three of them, she said, one for each hole in my heart.

  The holes are still there.

  One each for my parents and one for…

  I look down at the laminated fall leaf in my hand, the one that lives permanently in my wallet. I try not to think about her, not to let the thoughts consume me. But it’s hard. It always is. And Tiny knew that. That’s why he came up with the plan for her.

  That’s why I’d agreed to it.

  He stands next to the car a few yards behind me, giving me the space I need. We’d driven around for a half hour after we left Benny’s, going around in circles, just like the thoughts that were spinning through my mind. I didn’t say a word. He stayed quiet. Until: “Benny’s right.”

  My eyes narrowed, and I looked down at my phone, tapped it randomly so he wouldn’t see the anger flowing through me. “Fuck off.”

  Tiny huffed out a breath, releasing the wheel and then gripping it again. “Not about that Parker guy getting in your head—well, maybe a little. But Bailey?”

  I snapped then. “We had a deal.” And we did. After he took her that night, we weren’t to speak of her again. It was best for everyone involved.

  “Fuck the deal, Nate. Bailey was with this guy’s brother?”

  “Don’t speak her name.”

  He sighed, defeated. “You want me to take you home?”

  I thought about what was waiting for me there, and it was the last fucking thing I wanted. “No.”

  His shoulders relaxed with his heavy exhale. “So, we’ll just keep driving then?”

  I took a breath, my chest aching with the weight of it. “Can you take me somewhere?”

  Without flicking on the blinker, he turned around quickly on the empty road, already knowing where I wanted to go.

  I’m grateful he understood my silence.

  I’m grateful for him.

  Like almost every other time I came here, the gates of the cemetery were closed, but Joe, the night guard, saw us coming. As soon as he saw us, he came up to the window with his hand out, palm up, and Tiny handed over a hundred-dollar bill for him to open the gate and act as if he never saw us.

  Now, I’m here, sitting in front of my parents’ graves, trying to make sense of the mess I’d created.

  Because Tiny’s right.

  And so was Benny.

  At some point since I’d taken over my dad’s role in this dumpster fire of a company, I’d gotten too soft.

  Too trusting.

  When the fuck had I let that happen?

  I remember Mom’s screams, muffled by my hands covering my ears. She was singing the song, pleading for me to do the same. And so I sang the stupid song, my throat hoarse, my seven-year-old body shaking with fear. Liquid filled my ears—sweat from my palms—and I cried out her name, “Mamma! Mamma! Mamma!” And then it got quiet.

  Too quiet.

  The front door opened and closed, and her sobs—though soft—felt like a freight train running through my mind. I got up from the floor and made my way to her room, wiping tears from my eyes. My dad had always told me that when he wasn’t around, I was the man of the house. I had to be a man. I had to be strong. I had to be just like him.

  Pulse in my throat, I opened the door quietly and whispered her name. She was on the floor, her clothes ripped, strands of her long, black hair sticking to the tears on her cheeks. I said her name again, a question this time, and she looked up at me, those hickory eyes clouded with red. “You’re a good boy, Nathaniel.” She said it in Italian, her accent thick. “And you must never tell your father about this.”

  She made me swear I never would, and stupidly, I kept that promise.

  Though I thought about it often, I didn’t truly understand what happened that day. Not until three years later, when I got home from school and walked in on it happening again. That time, I caught the face of the man, and that time, I was prepared. I raced through the house, my heart pounding, my fingers trembling as I picked up the gun…

  The gun that would inevitably end my mom’s life.

  After she died, I spent many nights alone in a house that felt forever cold. My dad couldn’t even speak to me: his son, the murderer.

  I held on to too many secrets, too many tears, too many different emotions. But, most of all, too much guilt. And then high school came along, and I fought all those things by fighting anyone who’d dare look at me.

  I remember the way Dad stared at me in the principal’s office as if I was a stranger. As if years had passed since he’d really, truly looked at me, and he couldn’t recognize the man I was becoming. We went home that night, a cloud of trepidation hanging above us. He sat me down at the kitchen table, a bottle of whiskey between us, a shot glass in each of our hands, and he told me exactly what he did and who he was. “You can be anything in this life, and I’ll support you… as long as you don’t become me, Nate.”

  My knees bounced, unease kicking at me from the inside. I wanted to tell him everything. All my secrets. All my truths. Instead, I poured whiskey into the glass and closed my eyes when the warmth filled my chest.

  Warmth.

  It was the first time I’d felt it in that house since my mom died.

  “Promise me, Nate,” he ordered.

  “Lo prometto,” I said. I promise.

  I held on to that promise until he died. A heart attack, so I was told. He’d been born with a heart defect, the same heart defect he’d passed on to me.

  I was a sixteen-year-old orphan, and the only family I had was The Family.

  After his death, I was given the opportunity to “honor his legacy.” That’s how Uncle Benny worded it. To me, though, it was a chance to finally let go of all the secrets, the tears, the emotions, and, most of all, the guilt.

  And maybe that’s when it started, this vulnerability. A hopeless, clueless, parentless teenage boy, standing in the Don’s office, an offer on the table, with only one thing on my mind: redemption.

  Or, maybe…

  Maybe it was six years after that… when a single girl broke through my facade, broke me down to pieces.

  Maybe it started with Bailey.

  Maybe Bailey’s the beginning and Bailey’s the end, and everything in between is just white noise, dea
d silence… page after page of blurred lines and empty spaces. Twenty-seven years of life and the only living I ever really did was with her.

  Maybe that’s why dying feels so insignificant.

  Leaves crush beside me now, alerting me to Tiny’s presence. I rub at my eyes while he squats down next to me. “It’s time,” I say, facing him.

  He nods, his eyes shifting between mine and my parents’ headstones.

  I push aside my nerves, my gaze meeting his. “You can back out any time, Tiny. I don’t expect—”

  “You’re my brother, Nate,” he cuts in, and I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m all in.” He motions to where my dead parents lie. “Onora la famiglia.” Honor the family.

  5

  NATE

  I recognize him the moment he enters the basement because I’ve spent the past few days studying his profile, getting to know everything there is to know about him, both physically and otherwise. Kyler Parker has lived a life. Abused and neglected until he was sixteen, and then saved by his next-door neighbor—a scrawny, shy little kid who got the shit beat out of him in school until Parker stepped in and saved him. He was a junior when the school records updated his address and emergency contact to match that of the fine detective’s. Brothers—that’s what the crooked cop had called them, and I get it. They may not have been blood-related, but they were related in other ways not many people would understand. But I did. He has Davis, and I have Tiny.

  Ride or die.

  After graduating high school, he went straight into the army. After that, there’s been no paper trail showing any form of existence besides the military. No girlfriends, no leases, no registered address.

  Until now.

  Tiny and I chose to lay low until fight night, but we did a quick drive-by of his apartment building so we had an idea of his quality of living. Average. Everything about this guy is average. Even his physical presence.

  “He says he wants to fight,” Tiny says through a chuckle as he makes his way back to me. We noticed Parker watching the crowd instead of the fights and figured it was the perfect opportunity to break the ice.

  I offer a short nod, keep my arms crossed as my gaze focuses on Parker. I’d expected as much. If his aim is to get to know me, he needs to do more than just show up and be a face amongst the crowd.

  The current fight goes another round and ends with an armbar that results in a broken bone. The crowd goes crazy for this shit, which, stupidly, makes me happy. At least they’re getting what they’ve paid for. Since Tiny left their conversation, Parker had been watching the fight, enthralled, and no doubt impressed by what he saw. I take my chance to approach. “Idiot,” I murmur once I’m behind him. “He should’ve tapped the second his arm was locked.”

  Parker turns to me, his eyes holding mine, giving nothing away.

  “Tiny tells me you want to fight?”

  “Tiny?” he asks, and I crack a smile, jerk my head toward my best friend. “That’s Tiny.”

  He stays silent, not letting his mask slip. The guy’s good. Almost as good as me.

  “Meet me up at the bar tomorrow. 1400 hours, soldier.”

  Parker’s eyes narrow.

  I don’t let my smirk show. “Your dog tags.” I pat his shoulder twice, let him know I’m in charge. Then I walk away, my back to him, hands in my pockets as I take my first full breath in days.

  6

  NATE

  “Well, that was one of the best dick-measuring contests I’ve ever seen,” Tiny says, chuckling.

  I can’t help but laugh with him. “How many of those have you seen?” I ask, settling in the car. I wait for him to get behind the wheel, smirking when the car groans against the weight of him. “You like watching dick?”

  Tiny’s eyes narrow on mine, then light up when he reaches up to flick my earlobe. “Just yours, baby.”

  I swat his hand away. “Fuck off.”

  “Seriously though,” he starts, turning over the engine, “it was entertaining watching that punk try to prove he didn’t give a shit about what you thought of him.”

  I shrug. “I guess.” But sitting with Parker at the bar for all of five minutes didn’t do shit for the nerves I’m still trying to hide. I’d hoped for more clarity on his situation, on him, but he gave away nothing. Nothing besides the fact that he’s in as much control as I’m trying to portray.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Tiny asks, pulling out of the spot.

  “Wait a couple hours, then I’ll send him a text, tell him to go to the gym and work out with Gunner. I’ll give him a short window, see how desperate he is to get this done.”

  “And if he shows up?”

  “Then we make Gunner put him through hell.”

  Tiny smiles.

  “And while he’s there…” I add.

  “Yeah…?”

  “I find out more about our new friend.”

  “How?”

  I smirk. “I break into his apartment.”

  * * *

  It’s no surprise Parker shows up to the gym within the ten minutes I gave him. After some small talk, he gears up and gets in the ring with my trainer, Gunner. The gym, along with a few other businesses in the area, is a front for the real business we do behind the scenes—a way to launder money in and out for all the supply we’ve been pushing lately.

  I give them a good ten minutes sparring in the ring before heading out.

  Tiny stays in the car while I make quick work of finding Kyler’s apartment. The lock’s easy to pick, and I make sure to leave everything untouched. I was hoping to get a little more insight into him as a person, to find something I can hold over his head should it come to that, but there’s nothing here. Literally. A couch, a TV, a bed. There are no photographs, no personal effects, not a dish in the sink or an item of clothing out of place. There is, however, a .22 caliber in his nightstand. I check if it’s loaded—it is—and then wipe down my prints just in case. Then I throw the hood of my sweatshirt over my head and keep my gaze down as I exit the apartment, wondering for a moment why he’s not carrying the weapon with him. Maybe he doesn’t see me as a threat, or maybe he has multiple? I make a mental note to find out how many guns are registered to him. He’s a military man—surely he does everything by the book. You know… besides beating people to within an inch of their lives.

  The elevator dings just as I stop in front of it, and a moment later, the doors part. Two sets of feet, one male and one female, and that’s all I see because I don’t want to show my face. I step aside, giving them the room they need. Something brushes my arm, followed by a gruff voice. “Sorry,” he says, and I nod, my lips pressed tight. Once they’re out, I step inside and face the door, giving myself a few seconds before chancing a peek. The couple is at the door opposite Parker’s now. A man in a suit carrying the offending box that grazed my arm. Next to him, a girl. Woman, really. Her legs are the first thing I notice, creamy thighs hidden beneath a mid-length dress. There’s a tightening in my chest, a longing for a girl I’ll never rid from my soul. My gaze moves up, higher and higher, to her auburn hair flowing just past her shoulders. My head lifts, my back straightening as I catch sight of her profile, and my pulse skips, the hole in my heart—the one she left behind—expanding when she reaches out to unlock the door. The light above reflects off the gold bracelet around her wrist, the charms dangling. If I could get closer, I know what I’d see: a star, a sun, a rainbow, a car… all the things she couldn’t see because she was trapped inside.

  With me.

  Every nerve, every muscle, every breath, every thought stops at that moment.

  I’m brought back to reality when the elevator dings and the doors start closing. It’s only then I realize the man she’s with is staring at me, right into my unmasked eyes.

  7

  NATE

  I don’t tell Tiny about what I saw, or what I think I saw because it’s not the first time my mind’s fucked with me like this. The first year was the worst. I’d see her everywhere—wa
lking around on the streets, through shop windows, driving by in random cars. When fall came around, it almost killed me. I’d sense her there, amidst the sunshine filtering through the leaves of every goddamn tree I passed. But the worst… the worst was the fucking dreams I’d have. I’d wake up, coated in sweat, my heart beating wildly against my ribs. Some nights, I swear I felt the weight of her arm on my chest, the warmth of her hand covering my heart. It was impossible to get back to sleep those nights, having to spend the next few hours talking myself out of doing what I really wanted to do.

  I needed to keep my distance.

  It was best for everyone.

  Or maybe not everyone.

  Just her.

  Me, though? No amount of planning could have prepared me for how to feel emotionally. I knew I was losing my goddamn mind. And as the years went on, things didn’t get much better.

  I still have the dreams—or nightmares—however you want to see it. But my eyes, my mind, no longer deceive me when I’m awake.

  I stopped seeing her every-fucking-where.

  Until today…

  “You okay, Boss?” Tiny asks, pulling me from my thoughts as he parks curbside.

  It’s close to midnight now, and I’ve spent the entire day in a daze. “Yeah, why?”

  He shrugs. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Ghost. Maybe that’s what Bailey is now—a ghost from my past—back to haunt me… to ruin me. “I’m good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  * * *

  I no longer have a home.

  I have a house.

  An apartment, really.

  Or four to be exact, but I only live in one. Situated above a salon, the main entrance sits behind a heavy iron security gate with multiple entry codes to go with the numerous cameras.