Ally
There was so much noise. It shrouded everything, like a blanket of death and destruction around us. I couldn’t see, couldn’t do anything other than whimper in Malachi’s tense grip and feel bodies squashing in against me. That was his power over me in the minutes – what his strength and protection is around me. And now it’s quiet and I’m panting and this adrenalin inside me is pounding my chest as if it might explode.
I tuck into his side, as he directs these men inside the building, trying, and failing, to ease my neck from his hand. It almost feels broken in his grasp, like all the bones have been mutilated in his possession of it. For once, I’m one hundred percent comfortable with that. If this is what I mean to him, and that grip defines who I am to him, for him, I’m in for the long haul.
As long as we make it out of this alive.
The sharp cut of his jaw flicks in my direction, dark eyes scowling at me under the light bleeding out of the warehouse. This is the man who hunted me. The same man who lurked in his corners and made people shrink in his presence. Still such a contradiction. This grip might be painful, but the skin on his hand is still soft, silken even.
“How would you like to kill him?” he asks.
I pant, searching my thoughts for an answer to that question. I don’t know. I haven’t thought about that. I mean, I have. I’ve mulled it over countless times – gunshot, knife, strangled, but now it’s upon me I’m at a loss for what’s deserving. I just need to be in front of him – see him.
Malachi gets something out of his pocket, places it in his palm. Two red pills lay there, the same pills he told me to never take.
“Clear,” one of the men says. “Sir?”
The pills get dropped in my hand and he begins towing me into the building, no room for indecision in his stride. I’m pushed by the neck whether I want to go or not, and the sight that I find isn’t what I thought it would be. I don’t know what I did expect, but an old Franco Greene on the dirty floor in the middle of the room wasn’t it.
He looks up at us as we approach, grey hair on show and wizened features that I don’t remember at all. He was younger back then. Attractive in his own way. This man is a shell of that. He’s nothing, certainly not now he’s been invaded by Malachi’s team of elite whatever they are.
My fingers tighten around the pills in my hand, revulsion and hatred making me remember the years before now. He’s a killer, or was. Still is maybe. My father’s dead because of him. My mother too. And we’ve done nothing but run our whole lives because of the threat he laid on me.
I look around him and see all the other dead bodies and upturned tables scattered around. All dead. Because of me. I thought that would make me happy. Thought it would give me some sense of freedom or joy. It doesn’t. None of it does. Not even seeing Franco himself cowering in front of me does. Not that he is. He’s anything but cowering under the six guns pointed at him. He’s defiant even now, almost amused at this situation he’s in.
The grip on my neck loosens until it eventually lets go completely. I feel lost without it for a second or two, as if that grip held me together through the adrenaline. Malachi looks at me, flicks his head in Franco’s direction. “Do whatever you need to do, Alice,” he says. “Quickly.”
I walk away from him slowly, still keeping my eyes locked with his dark ones. I don’t know what I want to do – don’t know what I want to say either. I thought I would. I knew, in my head, all the words that I needed to get out so that he’d know how I felt. But now they’re gone, and all I’m left with is an old man, a broken down warehouse and my own vacant mind.
My boots are loud, as I cross the room and look at Franco again. And then even more noise catches up, as two of the men protecting me move closer. I’m flanked by the time I get three feet in front of him, two semi-automatics pointed at his head with me in between them.
“Alice Contreas,” he says.
Phlegm launches out of my mouth the moment he says my name, spat hard and fast at his face. “You don’t get to say my name,” snaps out of me. “Ever.” He wipes it away before I get a chance to tell him not to, then dares to glare at me under those old features. I’m so enraged by the sound of him that any sense I was trying to make is gone. I can hear the steely tone that used to rule our lives, almost see the printed papers that told of his power on our streets. Franco Greene, infamous gangland king. He’s no king. Certainly not now with his men all dead and his dirty clothes.
I wipe my own eyes, pushing the tears that are building away. It’s not fear, nor care. I’m just overwhelmed, lost in what I should do. All the years, all the running, hiding, feeling fearful of every next step, and now the end is in front of me and I can’t find the fucking words or emotions. They’re just a jumble of chaos and confusion, of blood and my mother's and father's eyes.
Turning, I look at Malachi behind me, unsure why I am doing but needing his strength to help me somehow. He just stares at me. Flat features, vehemently angry under the cool outward appearance. I don’t even know what I think he can do. He’s done all he can. He’s done everything I asked him to do despite his initial refusal. I’m here, in front of Greene, and I should know what to do now. I should. I don’t.
My lips quiver, the tears still building no matter how much I’m trying to stop them, and I squeeze the pills in my hand again. My whole body begins to shake, as I turn back to look at Greene, a riot of feelings consuming me to the point of no return. I want to scratch his face off, make him pay, make him understand what those men did to me, what his son did to me. I want to scream it. Shout in his face so he knows. But what does that do? That shows him his power over me still. That’s all that does. There’s no vengeance there. No punishment.
Just shove the pills down his throat. That’s what I need to do. Tell him to open his mouth and make him swallow them. He’ll be dead then and we can live free. Simple. Quick. I can watch him die like I said I needed to. Know. Be sure. Why can’t I do that?
Why won’t my feet move to do that?
I don’t understand that. It’s all I’ve wanted and now I can’t do it?
Time’s fucking endless here. It just stays with me, not moving, not going forward, not offering me a way to get this done so I can move forward.
Footsteps behind me. Malachi’s. I keep shaking, keep gripping the pills, and keep staring at a man I hate, somehow needing these pills to jump out of my hand and fly down his throat on their own. They don’t. They just stay there in my trembling grip, making me weak and alone in this moment.
A hand goes around my waist, pulling me backwards a few steps. I fight it, not ready to accept that I’m unable and yet more unable than I’ve ever felt.
“I’m here,” he says.
Here.
I nod. Knowing that. He is here. Will always be here now. He’s vowed it. Promised it.
