Vengeance in his bed

Episode3

The bar was private, dark, and quiet.

I scanned the room for Marco.

“Hey! Over here, Pirate.”

He waved from a corner booth. Dressed in green overalls, sleeves rolled up, knuckles scarred, just like last week and the week before that. He had a scar,

“Stop calling me that,” I frowned, sliding into the seat across from him.

The stupid nickname had stuck to his mouth since high school.

“When will you get used to it?” He grinned, “ When you’re old and toothless?” He signaled the waitress without looking away from me.

I winced, suddenly transported back to that fateful day. Landon and Marco were engaged in a heated football match with their friends on the field. I'd decided to join the spectators, sitting on the bench to cheer them on. I got lost in the excitement that I failed to notice the ball flying towards me. Before I could react, it struck my left eye with an alarming force.

Panic set in as my vision blurred. The school nurse whisked me away to the clinic, my heart racing with fear. I vividly recalled the terror of thinking I'd lost my eye forever.

My left eye was plastered for over a week, drawing snickers and teasing from Marco. He coined the nickname ‘Pirate,' which stuck like a scar. Even now, the memory of that embarrassing incident makes me cringe.

“I’ll have whiskey,” I told the waitress.

“You shouldn’t drink yet,” Marco said. His eyes dropped to my ribs.

I pressed a hand there, felt the dull ache under my shirt, and shrugged. “It’s almost healed. I’m good.” I lied.

The injury I sustained from our last training session still hurts, but pain should be swallowed up. Marco had made that clear from day one.

When I told him I was going after the Blackwoods, he said, “Then you train.”

Every day for a month. Five a.m. in a basement gym that smelled of sweat and rust.

Sometimes I said out loud, “Are we preparing for World War III?”

“If you’re going up against the Blackwoods,” he’d reply, wiping blood off his knuckles, “World War III should be the least of your worries.” He was right.

Now I don’t flinch at knives. I could throw a solid punch. I could put three shots in a target’s chest without blinking. Not like I’ve tried it, but I could.

I learned fast, or Marco was a hell of a teacher. Probably both.

We switched to the mission.

“You still have a chance to back out, Amy.”

His voice was low and serious. He stared at me like he could see into my skull.

“I don’t want to lose another friend.”

He said it every time. Tested me, searched for doubt or fear.

“I’ll get the Blackwoods,” he went on. “This is my fight too. Landon was my best friend. He’d want you safe. He’d want…”

I cut him off, my patience reaching its limit. "Stop, Marco. Don't patronize me. I'm not sixteen anymore. I know what I want. Do you think I'm weak?"

He didn’t answer right away.

I saw it then. He hadn’t expected me to get the job. He’d planned to use it as an excuse to pull me out.

His voice took on a warning tone, "Amy, this is life and death. Strong men have fallen, and people die every day in cold blood."

The weight of his words settled heavy, and I understood why his men feared him.

Marco leaned forward, his eyes burning with intensity. "You're not just putting yourself at risk, Amy. You're putting others at risk too. Can you live with that?"

"Marco!" I slammed my fist on the table, my voice cracking with emotion. "Don't treat me like a child! I’m all grown up as you can see. I want justice for my brother’s death and I will get it. I don’t give a s**t about how many have fallen. This mission will work because I will make sure of it.”

Trembling, I met his gaze, refusing to back down. "What's the worst that could happen? I die? I'm ready for that! So don’t try to talk me out, we can keep going back and forth, but my mind is made up."

My voice broke, but I continued desperately. "Please, let me do this. There's nothing left for me, nothing to live for."

Marco's expression softened, and he looked away, sighing.

"I don't want you to end up like them," he said quietly. "You're the only one left in your family."

I raised a brow, "My parents died in a car accident, that is different."

He hesitated. "Of course. I mean, they passed away suddenly."

I sighed, "I died the moment I saw Landon's body. I'm just a walking corpse now. I can't sleep, can't function... I feel dead” I paused, taking a deep breath. "Marco, stop acting responsible for me. This is my decision."

A minute of tense silence passed before Marco spoke.

“Six months." He nodded like he had convinced himself. “If you don’t succeed or make good progress in six months, I’ll pull you out.”

“Okay.” I agreed.

He slid a small duffel across the table.

“Burner phone,” he said. “For us. Change it every two weeks.”

He unzipped it a bit. “Pocket knife, cash, and the keys to an apartment in Lincoln Park. Two streets from Blackwood Holdings, it’s clean with cameras outside only.”

Lincoln Park, north side. That’s okay.

“The Rave is counting on you,” he told me with a small smile.

It was evening by the time I returned home.

Home. It didn’t feel like it in Landon’s absence.

It's just hell because it does nothing but suffocate me when I’m inside it.

I glanced around the sitting room, filled with memories of Landon. The couch where we’d share a blanket and watch horror movies. The taped remote control we’d fought over and broken countless times. The throw pillows we’d stone at each other over silly arguments. The rug we’d wrestle, it always ended with me begging for life and raining insults on him when he finally let me go.

I leaned on the wall and let my tears flow freely. I wouldn’t return until I was done. I vowed.

Turning to my bedroom, I packed fast. The dresses, floral and cutesy for a young sweet baker—the girl I used to be. The kind I used to wear when I thought my biggest problem was burnt bread.

They didn’t fit my style anymore, they looked boring and stupid to me now. I would have to shop for better clothes.

My hand stopped on the dresser where my necklace was laid. The one Landon got me on my last birthday. It was a small diamond necklace.

I remembered screaming at him to take it back. “It’s too expensive! Someone will cut my throat for it!” I was too scared to wear it.

I asked where he got the money from, and he spent hours convincing me it was clean, saying he had been saving up for it. I believed him because I wanted to.

I put it on.

Grabbed my packed box and left the house before I got drowned in painful memories.

I left for a new city, a new life which I might or might not return from.