5. Maddox

FIVE

MADDOX

Waking up on a couch reminds me of my early days as an official member of the mafia, when I was going out every other night and drinking with my new buddies. It was the best way for me to avoid thinking about all the shit going on in my life. My new friends had been eager to welcome me as a brother, down to letting me crash on their couches when I was too far gone to go home to my shitty apartment, which had a grand total of a single mattress and an old CRT-TV.

The events of the night before slam into me, breaking into what should be good memories and reminding me of just how much everything had gone wrong. My scene, my ruined subspace… hell, even getting fucked right back into subspace and having to rely on Nayeem— Knives —to get home.

Except he hadn't taken me home. He'd taken me to his place.

I don't understand why.

Maybe I'd been a little too fucked up to just give him my address, but he could've dumped me at a hotel. Hell, he could've dumped me on the side of the road somewhere.

I sit up and look around, hoping he's not awake yet, but those hopes are instantly dashed.

He's sitting at the round dining table, glowering at the mug in front of him. I notice a coffee maker on the kitchen counter, but I don't smell coffee brewing. I hadn't heard the machine beep, either, so I'm not sure when he'd made it.

"Morning," I say cautiously. Things hadn't exactly ended well the night before, but they're blurry. I'm hoping that means they're blurry for him, too, and that he doesn't remember just how many times he'd insulted me. Maybe he'll even be in a better mood. Or feeling generous. Or…

Ha.

I can't even imagine him treating me with respect.

"Morning," Knives answers, in a tone that isn't particularly friendly.

I stand up and stretch, eyeing the coffee maker again. I could use a cup, but I don't want to ask for any. He's already borderline hostile, and I don't want to make it worse.

"I can cook you breakfast," I offer cautiously. "To thank you for…" For what? Fucking up my life even more? Making me feel like shit? Destroying the only safe haven I'd had?

"No thanks," Knives grumbles. He takes a sip of his coffee and makes a face like it tastes bad.

"Can I have some coffee before I go?" I hedge. I don't know why I'm bothering to try talking to him.

Maybe there's a part of me that still cares about him.

Hell, there's definitely a part of me that still cares about him.

I know I fucked him over, but I'd been a terrified seventeen-year-old. It's been eight years since then, and he's still holding a grudge. If anything, the mellowing out and potential forgiveness I'd hoped for had turned into seething hatred.

It's my own fucking fault for never visiting.

"Fine," Knives says, breaking into my spiraling thoughts. He's still staring at his coffee. "Mugs are in the cabinet next to the sink."

"Thanks," I say. I head over to the cabinet, appreciating the kitchen. It's nicer than mine, with more appliances. I've kept everything simple. I tell myself it's because I don't want to spend money on things I don't need, but really, I just can't be bothered to keep more clean than I have to.

Knives has nice plates and cutlery, I discover, whereas my cabinets hold paper plates and my drawers hold plasticware instead.

Not that I even go through those very much.

Usually, I'd doctor up my coffee with sugar and milk, but I feel awkward perusing his kitchen even more than I already have. Black coffee it is, and I soon discover that it's cold. I take a sip, trying not to grimace.

"You have a nice place," I say lamely, leaning against the counter.

"Yeah. Managed to find my footing despite all the shit life threw at me," Knives says. He takes another gulp of his coffee, and I can't imagine he actually enjoys the flavor of what has to be day-old coffee.

No wonder I hadn't heard the machine going off.

I don't know what to say to that, so I take another tiny sip of the coffee before giving up. I don't want to be rude and just ditch it, but there's no way I can drink it as-is either. I'm more sure than ever that I'm unwelcome here, and I quietly take the mug over to the sink so I can ditch the coffee and clean it out. "I'm glad," I tell him. I mean it, too.

"Doesn't make up for the almost eight years in jail," Knives says, glaring at me. "You really think we can just small-talk it all away?"

I flinch, washing out the mug and putting it in the dishwasher. "No," I mumble. "But I don't… Nayeem, I want to try to… to…"

Move past it , I don't dare say.

"Fucking stop calling me that!" Knives shouts, slamming his mug into the table. Coffee splashes out, and it's probably good that it was already cold.

I'm not sure why I'm surprised at his reaction, but it makes me flinch.

"You don't get to fucking call me that after how you betrayed me! After you fucking left me to get worked over by the cops, after eight fucking years in jail because they tried me as a fucking adult."

I don't know what to say to that, either. "I didn't mean to!" I reply, desperately wanting him to forgive me, to stop treating me like this. "And Christ, Knives , haven't you spent enough time making me pay for it? All the nasty things you've said and done to me, all the times you've treated me like shit and I've just taken it like some little bitch because I feel guilty! Yes, I should've been there, but we were both kids!"

Knives gives me a nasty sneer. "So I should just forgive and forget? Have you forgiven your parents? Have you forgotten about how we grew up?"

My fingers clench into fists, nails digging into my palms. "I don't know! All right? I don't know. But I'll tell you one fucking thing." I stare at him hard. "I'm done with you treating me like this. Don't come near me unless it's for work. Don't contact me unless it's for work. No fucking, no interrupting my scenes, no taking me home like you give a fuck about me. None of it. Do you fucking understand me, Knives?"

Knives snarls and stands up. "Then get the fuck out of my apartment. But even if you forget, I'm going to remember that you're a fucking cowardly traitor. Somebody who's only out for himself."

"I'm not the same person anymore!" I shout, but he's not listening to me.

He's never going to listen to me.

I turn and walk away, storming toward the door and slamming it open.

"I should have given you more than just one black eye," Knives shouts as I leave.

I head out, stabbing at my phone as I call for a rideshare so I can go back to get my car. So I can do… something. Anything.

I made one goddamn mistake years ago. Years . And he's spent the past few months doing everything he can to demean me, to remind me how low I am in his eyes, to ruin every-fucking-thing.

Now I can't even go back to my favorite club for relief. I can't call Carl. I don't have anyone because I've left myself so isolated.

Fuck this. Fuck all of this. I'm so, so fucking over it.

I'm spiraling, and I know it. But I can't help it.

I dial Silvano's direct number, my heart racing as I wait for him to pick up.

"Maddox?" Silvano answers. "It's unlike you to call me this early."

"I'm sorry," I tell him, my voice gruff as I try to stay in control. "Look, I can't—" I cut myself off. I can't go whining to a mafia boss about how I don't want to work with someone. No one would ever respect me again. "I need Lance," I say. "For this job."

Knives won't work with me.

Knives hates me.

Nayeem hates me.

At the very least, I can have someone else there to defuse the situation between the two of us—someone who would be on my side, at that.

There's a long pause on the other end, and my heart continues to hammer in my chest.

"Lance is going to be covering for you while you take care of the other matter." Silvano's tone is less friendly than before.

It's easy to forget sometimes that he's the boss. He's amicable, easy to talk to, and he's usually fair.

But he's also a mafia don for a reason.

"I need someone I can trust at my back," I say as calmly as I can. "Knives and I had a physical altercation last night. I would respectfully like to request that another person be assigned to assist me for this job, sir."

"I see." Silvano makes a hmm-ing sound. "Then perhaps I should reassign your duties to somebody else entirely."

I make a choked sound, shaking my head. "No! Boss, I…"

I can't trust him.

He'll hang me out to dry if he gets the opportunity.

He has ruined my fucking life, and I fucking deserved it .

"I'm sorry for wasting your time. I'll proceed as planned. Thank you, sir."

"That's what I thought." Silvano laughs briefly. "Please remember what I said during the briefing. I do not fucking care about your issues ."

"Yes, sir," I say. "I'll have a report to you by the end of the day on my progress." I hang up, desperately wishing I had a single person in the world I could confide in about this. I could never tell Carl about it.

Lance is the only person I could even think about talking to about it, and even then, I'd have to leave out key parts of the truth. He can't know about Club Alpha, he can't know Knives has been fucking me…

And I can't tell him I was a fucking coward who left Knives at the mercy of the cops when we were seventeen fucking years old.

I call him anyway. It's still early, and with any luck, he's still at home.

"Boss?" Lance answers, sounding half asleep. "What's up?"

I run my hand through my hair, mentally scrambling to come up with the right words. "I had a rough night. Slept on a couch, don't have my car… you mind if I head over to your place for a bit? I just need to get over this… hangover."

"Of course, man. Duh. I'll let Sally know. We'll get you a good breakfast. You can borrow our bed if need be."

"Great. I'll be there in ten. See you." I hang up and take a breath. Even if I don't tell him anything, it'll be nice to be around somebody who doesn't hate my fucking guts.

I'm not feeling better by the time I get to Lance's place, not really, but I'm calmer, doomspiraling a little less. He answers the door when I knock, and I step inside. It's a mess, as always, but I don't care. It feels homey for it, really. Lived in.

He takes one look at my face and blinks. "The fuck happened to you, boss?"

I touch my face, wincing as I remember the fact that Knives left bruises during our fight. "It's a long story," I say, closing the door behind me.

"Jesus. Sally, grab an ice pack!" Lance shouts into the small kitchen.

"Already on it!" Sally shouts back. She enters the living room with an ice-pack wrapped with a kitchen towel. I feel bad that she's doing all this walking around while she's pregnant, but she doesn't seem to be too bothered.

It's hard to tell if she's much bigger from the last time I saw her. Sally is a small black woman with very short hair. She's wearing a loose dress with a cardigan, and she looks much better put-together than Lance, despite her pregnancy and the early hour.

"Go sit down," I tell her a little gruffly as I take the ice pack. "You don't need to be up and around."

"I'm pregnant, not an invalid," she tells me.

"So what happened?" Lance asks again as I put the ice pack against the worst of the bruising.

I inhale deeply, trying to figure out just how much I want to tell him. "Knives," I finally say. "We had a disagreement."

"What the fuck?" Lance half-shouts. "I hope you gave as good as you got, boss. Either way, next time I see that fucker, I'm going to teach him a fucking lesson about messing with you—with us ."

I can't help but feel a little bit of warmth from his protectiveness. Honestly, I wouldn't care if Lance threw down with Knives if it weren't for the fact that Knives would obliterate him. I shake my head. "I took care of it," I say. "He's gonna be aching today."

Lance shakes his head. "That fucker. Maybe I can ambush him today. I've got a few knives and forks I could use on him."

"Do not go picking fights," Sally says to Lance as she sits down on the single armchair. "Bad enough I have to patch you up after your usual shit." She smiles at me, a lot sweeter. "Maddox, you'll make sure Lance doesn't go picking up more trouble than necessary, right?"

"Of course," I say. "We don't need any more of this." I eye Lance. "Look, it's over and done with now. Hopefully he won't be a little bitch about it and we can just move forward."

I feel guilty because I'd been the "little bitch" who'd gone crying to our boss, but I can't change what I've already done—what I already tried to do.

Lance grumbles but sits down on one end of the big couch. "Fine. But if he tries anything again, you call me, I'll be there as soon as I can. Nobody messes with our crew."

I crack a smile at him, joining him on the couch.

Sally rubs her belly, and I worry that she's going to invite me to touch it. Thankfully she ends up saying, "You want to watch a movie or something? Lance can grab coffee and breakfast. We'll just chill until you two go off to do whatever bullshit you're usually doing."

I snort. "Yeah, sounds fine." I shift so I can pull cash out of my wallet, holding it out to Lance. "I'm buying." He starts to protest, but I fix him with a look. "You're doing the work. The least I can do is pay for it. Sally?"

"Let him pay for it, moron," Sally says.

Lance sighs and takes the cash from me. "Okay. Thanks, boss. We really owe you."

"You don't owe me shit," I tell him, then wave a hand in his direction. "Except breakfast. Go on. I'll keep Sally company."

"Don't fuck him while I'm gone!" Lance says as he heads to the door. "You know I called first dibs."

Sally laughs. "I'm pretty sure he's got better prospects than either of us. Now go. Me and the baby are starving."

I wish I did have better prospects.

But at least I'm not sitting at home alone.