13. CAL

It happened so fast.

The smell hit me.

Then the sounds.

Then he said something.

A single gunshot to his body.

I barely even recalled where or what happened afterwards.

I was already in the driver seat. The keys were right there.

Flooding the gas, I almost crashed into both cars parked in front and behind.

That wasn't how it was meant to go. I hadn't planned it happening today. In fact, I wished it hadn't.

Tears streaming down my cheeks and snot dripping from my nose, I headed to the apartment. My hands were like bricks against the steering wheel, I didn't want to pull them away. But when I parked and saw the door of the apartment, my nerves seemed to ease.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I said, slamming my hands down on the wheel, accidentally pressing the horn. I wiped the wetness from my face and grabbed my bag from the backseat before heading inside.

It was him. It was one of them.

Every single fiber in my being told me I was right. I'd acted on instinct. My body moved without me telling it to. It was almost like I'd been threatened and what Frankie had taught me was that when I felt like I was being cornered, the only way out was to fight for your life, bite, scratch, kick, punch, whatever feral animalistic urge I could muster, I had to use it.

Thankfully, there was a gun, so I didn't have to claw my way into killing him.

Pacing my breathing, I sucked in deep through my nose and slowly exhaled through my mouth. I tried not to panic. I knew what I needed to do now. I had to leave. I had to pack my things and get out. Slowly, the realization settled in me. I could've told Frankie and we could have looked into it. But I knew it was him. I didn't need to look into it. I did what he taught me. I acted on instinct, maybe I should've prepared a little first, but it had happened now.

In the apartment, I raced around trying to find a bigger bag to pack my things into.

I emptied out every single one of my drawers from the dresser. Not everything could fit. I tried cramming T-shirts and underwear into it.

The click of the door sounded, reminding me of the click of the gun, setting off another bullet of panic through me.

"Babe," Frankie called out.

On the bedroom floor, my hands shaking as I continued to sob and pack the bag.

"Babe," he said, softer, dipping to my side. He wrapped his arms around my back and held me. "What happened?"

"I—I—I—"

He tightened his grasp around my body, holding me still. "It's ok. It's ok."

"The man—the man. His voice was the same. I reached for your gun." I leaned my back into his chest, holding it there. "I reached for it. I didn't think. I just—"

Frankie cooed in my ear. "You acted on impulse," he said. "It's ok."

"No. It was him. He—he's one of them. He was laughing. I knew that laugh. And his cellphone, he—he was playing that sound, the coin sound. It was like—like the website," I tried to explain, unable to control my breathing as I continued to spiral and panic.

After a moment of him holding me, I seemed to calm myself. "He's injured, but he's not dead," he said.

"He basically admitted it to me," I let out in a whisper, trying not to over exert myself. "He said he recognized me, and then he said he knew me. His laugh. You know—you know it's like one of those noises you can never forget."

He kissed the back of my neck, snuggling the back of his chin into my shoulder. "It's ok," he said. "But we can't just let him take a single bullet and call it even. You were in that basement for over a month, abused, raped, and a single gunshot isn't what you've been working hard for."

"There were more," I said.

"I'll make sure to get the information from him." He continued to comfort me. "Stop packing. We're not going anywhere until we get answers."

"But—but won't your family want to hurt me because of what I did?"

"You are my family," he said. "I'll call them and straighten this all out."

I stayed on the spot in the bedroom, just waiting for something to happen. I didn't know how to feel. I'd never hurt anyone before. I'd shot a gun, but never at someone. It was strange seeing how easy it had been to aim and pull a trigger. Bullets went through humans almost like they were soft butter.

Overhearing Frankie argue on the phone pulled my focus.

"I'm not bringing him," he shouted. "He did nothing wrong."

I pushed my back up against a wall, both hands crossed over my chest, trying to replicate the feeling of a hug pressure across me.

"He's dead," he said. "He deserved it. In fact, he's lucky he went so quick."

The living room door closed, muffling him slightly. I knew I'd killed him. I sank, sitting at the bottom of the wall.

"I don't care what you say," his voice, growing louder. "A life for a life makes no sense in this. Cal isn't some stranger on the street. And if you try and come here for him, I'll be forced to make a choice you won't want the answer to."

I crawled out of the bedroom and along the hallway to the closed door of the living room. I needed to listen to what was happening. This might've been the end for me. My chest hurt with how my skin seemed to tighten and restrict air into my body.

Frankie opened the door to me once he finished on the call.

"They're going to kill me," I said, looking up at him.

On his knees, Frankie cupped a hand at my face. "Nobody is going to touch you. I promise you that. If anyone lays a finger on you, I'll break each finger, and then I'll break their hand." His thumb rubbed at my chin and the little stubble from not shaving. "You know how many bones there are in a human hand?" he asked me.

"No."

"Twenty-seven bones."

For some reason that made me happy. "I only did it in panic."

"Let me tell you something," he said, a firmer grip on my chin, controlling my head. "You don't pick up a gun unless you're ready to kill someone. I taught you this already."

He had. He'd taught me a lot, but in that single moment, all those teachings and lessons seemed to vanish and anger itself took over me.

"My father said that the way you shot him meant the bullet wasn't going to come out, and basically, he bled out completely on the sidewalk. Well, they pulled him inside the restaurant. No cops, no ambulance, nothing was called. We deal with everything internally. Our doctor didn't get to him in time, so we lost him as a lead," he explained to me. "If he lived, we could've made a case for why you did what you did, but dead men don't speak." A smile touched his lips, almost like he was proud of me. "The first time I ever killed a man was similar. I didn't mean to kill him, it was at the chop shop, I just wanted to teach this fucker a lesson, demanding this and that from me, trying to ask for more money when we'd already agreed on a price. A tire iron through the chest. I didn't know my own strength. I didn't mean to do it. Maybe I should've broken an arm, a leg, or even a collarbone, those bastards hurt."

"But I did mean to kill him," I said. "I wanted him dead."

"I suppose our situations are different." He kissed me on the forehead, wiping at the sticky tear residue on my cheek. "You've got blood on your hands." He took them and gave both my hands a kiss.

"What?" I panicked, looking for the literal blood. Relieved he was speaking metaphorically. "I—I think we need to leave for a while. Your family really hates me now."

"I think they hate what I've done to you," he whispered. "Or what they think I've turned you into. But they don't know the reason why you are the way that you are."

It made sense why his mom was constantly trying to push me away from him. "I'm gonna have to do it again. There were at least three or four guys who hurt me."

"Then you'll do it again, until everyone who ever hurt you has been served their punishment," he said. "And I'm worried that they're still within the ranks of the family." He looked away, preoccupied with thought.

"More reason for us to leave," I said. "I heard what you said on the phone to your dad. I don't want you to have to choose between him or me. I don't think you should ever have to make that decision. That's your family."

"You're my family," he said, pressing his forehead against mine and kissing me. He stared into my eyes, placing a hand behind the back of my head to keep us connected. "I choose you, every single time. You accept me, completely. You've never asked me to change."

I wrapped my arms around him. "Then we need to leave."

He seemed adamant that we stay and figure this out. He was always wanting to see things through rather than run and hide for a little while. I'd thrown that option out a lot over the two years we'd been tethered together, and now that tether was stronger than ever. I'd connected with him in a way I knew would happen in theory, but the practice of actually killing someone was strange.

Heavy bangs thrashed at the front door.

"Fuck," I let out.

Frankie got to his feet, he rolled his shoulders and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. "I told him not to do this."

"Open up, we just want the boy," their rough voices barked.

It was like a hive mind; you attack one and all of them get their stingers out.

As Frankie went to the front door, I clung to the wall, picking myself up. I had to protect myself. I went into the kitchen and grabbed the longest, sharpest knife from the cutting block. I'd practiced with knives, and now that I had blood on my hands, I wasn't afraid to get even more of it.

"C'mon, Frankie," they shouted.

"I'm gonna open the door," Frankie said. "But if you pull a gun out, I'll break your fucking faces in, then shoot you with that gun."

"We're not going to."

"Yeah. You're the boss's son, we don't want any issue with you. Just give us the boy."

He looked at me as I stood in the hallway, brandishing the knife in the air. "Let them in," I said, sucking back a deep breath. "I've learned from the best. And I'm not going without a fight."

A proud smile formed on his face; it was like a beam of sunlight with a rainbow spotlighting on me. "I'll open the door," Frankie said. "No guns."

"No guns."

Frankie opened the door, standing back.

The two men entered, they were big guys, slicked back hair, and their hands came with knuckle dusters. They turned and saw me.

"C'mon little boy," one of them said.

From behind, Frankie kicked the other guy's leg out from beneath him and stomped on it. A loud unholy snap caught us all off-guard. He screamed, pulling focus.

I charged straight ahead, knife out. And as the other guy was turned, I jammed the knife into his abdomen. All the way to the hilt of the blade. He dropped to the ground beside his colleague, both screaming out in agony.

Frankie closed the door. "Get tape for their mouths and rope for their hands."

"Now do we need to leave?" I asked, looking at the actual blood on my hands.

He chuckled, stomping on the man's other leg. "Yeah," he snickered. "I think now we have to leave."