Did none of them fucking get that I did what I did in my past for my famiglia? I took the only path available to me and kept my famiglia going, I kept my mamma’s medication flowing in. And yeah, I fucking paid in blood, King blood… but what the hell else was I meant to do? I was a kid on my fucking own trying to fix problems I couldn’t fucking fix…
Seeing a red neon sign for a liquor store, I abruptly turned right and screeched my car to a stop. Storming out of my car into the store, I headed straight for the rows of whiskey. And grabbed a bottle of Patron and J?germeister while I was at it.
I needed to drown in liquor for a while.
I wanted to forget who I was for a while… at least for tonight. Forget it all. The last few weeks, the last few years… everything… just for a fucking while.
But as I walked to the cash register, the damn Spanish record blaring through tinny speakers changed, the familiar Latino tune making me stop dead in my tracks.
It seemed as much as I wanted to forget, God had other plans.
Closing my eyes, I could still see Aliyana dancing to this song, “Amor Prohibito”, standing in her white shirt and pink Doc Martin pink boots, swinging her hips as she painted the wall of the gallery.
Hearing the little Mexican guy unlatch something from behind the counter, I opened my eyes to find him watching me, a terrified expression in his eyes. His hand was tucked under the caged counter. I really had to work hard not to lose my shit.
I’d tried real fucking hard inside to learn how to rein in my anger. But at times, I struggled, really struggled with it.
Marching forward, the man’s face paled as I slammed the three bottles on the counter and pulled out some cash. He swallowed, then shakily reached out his hand to take the cash.
Narrowing my eyes, I snapped, “Keep the change,” before grabbing the bottles and skulked out of the door.
As the cool evening air hit my face, I paused, muscles tensing as I tried to calm down. Gasping for breath, I headed to my car.
As I slid into the driver’s seat, I glanced to my right seeing a group of guys hanging out the back of the strip mall. My stomach churned. Everyone of them was dressed in dark loose clothes, crew tattoos covering every inch of their skin… and inked teardrops running down their cheeks, proving who they belonged to.
Staring at the brothers laughing as they stood together, dealing coke or whatever the fuck it was they were pushing, I felt a moment of nostalgia. The only time I’d ever felt like I belonged in this life was with the Heighters.
With Gio.
A sharp pain sliced through my gut at the thought of Gio. He’d pulled me from my shit life and had given me something to live for. I spent every day with him, he was my best friend… and I’d had him killed. The fact of which fucking haunted me every minute of every day.
I’d had to get my best friend killed to protect my brothers. No one knew what the guilt of that did to me.
I huffed a laugh to myself. My brothers that I’d done everything for didn’t even want me. Gio’s death buried any ties to my crew. And now I had a price on my head… and a damn ugly scar on the back of my neck to show how close my old crew brothers came to cashing in on it.
Moving my bottles of liquor to the passenger seat, I reached into the glove compartment and took out a roll of fifties I kept in there.
I stared at the crew again, and before I talked myself out of it, I headed in their direction.
A member of the crew clearly saw me coming, and pushed to the front of his brothers, his face stern and ready to take me on. I smirked as he did. The asshole had no idea who I was, who he was fucking with if things went south.
“What the fuck do you want?” the pint-sized punk asked as I joined them in the shadows.
Smiling coldly at the little Hispanic leader’s ballsy attitude, I reached into my pocket. All the brothers staggered back, reaching to the front of their jeans to pull out their guns. Without flinching, I pulled out my roll of fifties and held it up.
“Snow,” I said coldly. The leader relaxed and gestured, calling off his boys.
Handing me a couple of bags filled with white powder, the leader pressed them into my palm, the feel of those plastic packets so familiar that, weirdly, it soothed me. Turning on my heel, the leader shouted, “You with a crew? You got enough markings that say you are.”
Stopping, I glanced back, seeing the camaraderie amongst the guys standing protectively around their leader. I missed that. That shit was family to me. That was life.
“Not no more,” I replied sharply, feeling that long scar at the back of my neck burning like the day it was made.
Walking quickly, I got to my car, shoved the bags of coke into my jeans, cracked open the Jim Beam and drove back to the studio.
Kicking open the old wooden door to the studio, I pounded through holding the stash of liquor to my chest, whiskey already open, half empty from my ride home. The amber liquid was warming my chest, giving me a perfect fucking buzz. The studio was dark and cold and completely silent.
Silence… I couldn’t stand fucking silence.