Brooks
This isn’t how anything was supposed to go.
To start with, I’m not supposed to be in this apartment.
In this crumbling row house.
In fucking Brooklyn.
Christ.
I shove my way through the kitchen, kicking at the stain on the floor as I go, and pull up next to the coffee maker.That’s not up to snuff, either.If I’m guessing, I’d say it’s at least ten years old, and looks like someone was using it in some sort of scientific experiment.
One that included acid.
I snort at the thought and put it in my back pocket, because I’ve never worked with acid before.It sounds...interesting.That brings an even bigger smile to my face, and for a moment I actually feel better.
Then I look outside at the cold, dreary sky and fall serious again.
I reach for the cupboard and grab a mug–dirty, just like the rest of this place–and pour a cup of coffee.I don’t like the fact that there’s no cream or chocolate for it, but it is what it is.
Beggars can’t exactly be choosers, right?
I step through the door and out onto what passes for a porch, and slide into the one chair out here.The weather is cold and rainy, and any sane person would stay inside, but I’ve been here for three days and I’m sick of the tiny apartment.The beige walls.The dirty carpet.I miss my big bed and fluffy towels and the enormous sound system I had installed when I moved into my place.
I miss the security of knowing I’m in one of the safest buildings in all of New York.
I want to go home.
I take a sip of coffee and pull the butterfly knife out of my back pocket, where I’ve been storing it.A quick flip of my wrist and the thing opens, the blade whirring to life like it’s greeting me.
“Hello, old friend,” I murmur.
Another flip and it’s closed, but the moment the shine of the steel disappears I realize I’m not ready to say goodbye to it yet.So I keep flipping.Open, closed.Open, closed.Sharp, dull.Exposed, hidden.
Protected, and not protected.
Feels a lot like my life lately.
I put the knife away and shake myself, then take another deep sip of the coffee.I need the caffeine to start working its magic, because I’m not here to mope around and cry to myself.The fact that I’m sitting here making up metaphors about a freaking knife is stupid and pointless.
A metaphor for what’s going on in my head, if you will.
“Right,” I breathe.
Well, that’s enough of that.
I step to the railing that surrounds the small balcony and look to the sky, marshaling my thoughts and every sneaky instinct in my body.I didn’t come here for the view, and I sure as hell didn’t do it for my health.
Hell, I’m probably destroying my lungs by exposing them to whatever mold is growing in this building.
But I didn’t have a choice, because my apartment might be in one of the most expensive buildings in New York, but it’s also not safe.Too many people know my address.They came for us already, once, and arrived again directly after the battle, barging into my apartment like they had a fucking right to be there and trying to take me with them.
Worst of all, I’m not even positive who ‘they’ are.
Because we defeated one set of them, in the war on the streets of New York last week–the war where we finished Sylvester Poffo and his enormous crew of Italian mafia.We also took out some of the Massimos, and all of the Carusos.And that should have been all there was to it.The Rossis and Brennans should have been safe, and I should have been able to go back to my normal life.
Unfortunately, that’s not how it’s turned out.Someone is still after me, which means we have enemies I don’t know about.
