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Chapter 3 (Ricardo)
His body lands on the concrete floor with a heavy thud.
“Please,” he pleads through a strangled sob.
“Sorry, man,” I say as I cock my gun. “You pulled the short straw today.”
I look to my right and glare into a pair of frightened eyes belonging to the head of the P.I. team I hired. “You better find her,” I warn him. “Or you and your entire team will end up like your friend here.”
He opens his mouth but the sound of me pulling the trigger halts him.
A mixture of blood, brains, and skull fragments splatter on my suit and I mutter a curse as I step over the body.
“Clean this shit up,” I bark to my men.
I pull out my phone and type a quick text to Tyrone, letting him know I'm ru
I make sure to leave out the reason I'm ru
I wasn't pla
Besides, these bozos needed some incentive.
I usually try not to kill unless it's a last resort, but when it comes to Lou-Lou, I don't fuck around...and neither should they.
“You have one more week,” I inform them. “Or I'll make what happened to your friend look like child's play.”
I want to kill them all right here and now, but they're supposed to be the best.
“We're trying—”
I point the gun at him. “Understood?”
He swallows thickly and nods his head.
“Good. Now leave, you're wasting time.”
I walk over to the set of lockers in the back of the warehouse and grab a change of clothes before heading for the bathroom.
I shut the door behind me and close my eyes.
I need them to find her—I need her to be safe.
I open my eyes, strip off my now blood soaked suit, and glare at my reflection in the mirror.
Dark eyes stare back at me as I lean my hands against the sink and blow out a breath.
When my eyes fall on my right bicep, my chest burns and my throat begins to tighten but I force myself to keep staring at it.
Because it was my fault...and I deserve to live with the pain.
Her face flashes through my head again and my stomach knots.
You can miss someone so much it will destroy you, bit by bit and piece by screwed up piece...that's a fact.
But I'll take it all...every single ounce of it...because she deserves her freedom and her happiness.
And there's not a damn thing I wouldn't do to ensure she has both. I just need to know that her happiness and freedom are coming second to her safety.
But right now this feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me something's wrong.
I just don't know if it's because she's actually in some kind of trouble—or because of my own fucked up feelings and this overwhelming need and want I still have for her.
A need that will never go away—but I learn to live with it.
I turn on the nozzle and stick my hands under the water. The blood stains the white sink and I can't help but acknowledge the slightest bit of shame coursing through me.
Lou-Lou would hate the person I am now—which is exactly why it's not me who's out searching for her.
I won't ever let her see this part of me, this monster I've become.
This demon that lurks deep inside me that I can no longer control.
Because I don't want to.
Because it calms my other demons.
The ones that live in the light and make you feel and experience things like love, happiness, and acceptance.
Which in turn bring you nothing but heartache, grief, and pain.
But my demon in the dark? He doesn't feel any pain.
He causes it.
And the best thing of all?
In the dark, I can't see Lou-Lou or the baby we lost—and I like it that way.
I run the washcloth over my arms and wash away the rest of the blood.
And then I smile.
Because I know it's only a matter of time before my hands will have blood on them again, and the darkness will consume me and suppress all the pain.
“I'm proposing to Shelby the second Jackson's out of jail.”
I damn near crash the car with those words. Instead I end up taking down a slew of orange cones and Tyrone laughs.
Jesus, I really have been distant. I knew he was serious about her, but not this serious.
“When did you make that decision?”
It's not that I don't think he loves her, I know he does. I'm just a little worried about Shelby's head space.
The girl did leave him once already.
And now that he's disabled and fighting like hell every day of his life like a goddamn warrior, the last thing he needs is for her to crush his heart into dust.
Because I'll take her out if she does.
“You'll what?” Tyrone barks, his eyes shooting daggers at me.
Shit, I didn't mean to say that last thought out loud.
I focus back on the road. “I should take her out...you know, to celebrate.”
“You're a horrible liar, asshole.” The corners of his lips turn up. “But a great brother.” His eyes turn hard. “But that don't mean I'm cool with you talking about killing my future wife.”
I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “I'm not going to kill her, Tyrone.” I pause and look at him out of the corner of my eye. “As long as she doesn't fuck you over,” I mumble under my breath.
“She won't,” he assures me. “But it's good to know you still give a shit.”
I huff out a breath, ignoring the guilt fluttering in my chest. “What's the matter, Tyrone? You need some flowers and chocolates? Maybe a warm bubble bath and some scented candles?”
“Well if you're offering.” He barks out a laugh. “Man, I missed this. It's nice.”
“Driving to visit our best friend at Rikers is nice?”
“I meant this.” He gestures between us. “An actual conversation, in person. And not one where you're rushing me off the phone or heading out the door after five minutes have passed. Like you've filled your quota and you have more important stuff to get back to.”
“Tyrone, I—”
“Yeah, I know. You're the head of the mob now. You do big things and shit. I just wish you were around more is all. I mean, hell—when was the last time you stepped inside a ring, brother?”
“It's been awhile,” I admit, hating that my punching bag is no substitute for being inside the ring...or the cage.
Fuck, I miss it.
“I miss it too,” he whispers and my stomach twists.
“I'm sorry,” I say, knowing that no amount of apologies will ever make up for what happened to him.
And hating myself for not preventing it in the first place.
“It's not your fault.” He blows out a breath. “But physical therapy is no match for your coaching skills. Maybe you can carve out some time and we can start training together again.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Did the doctors clear you for all that?”
He nods and grins. “Yup, I've exceeded all their expectations and then some.”
He reaches across the seat and punches my shoulder. “Getting stronger every day. Which means I can definitely train for a few hours with a punching bag. So what do you say, coach? Think you can give me an hour or two a week?”
“Yeah, I can do that.” I think for a moment. “There aren't a whole lot of good boxing or MMA gyms around, but I'll find one.”
Tyrone makes a face. “Why would you do that? Last time I checked, Mr. Wise-guy, you own an entire underground fight club...complete with a sweet-ass gym.”