His Dark Angel

Chapter 5

The shrill sound of my phone alarm jolted me from... well, not sleep, but the quiet state I'd drifted into on the lumpy sofa. The pre-dawn light filtering through the grimy window was gray and unwelcoming. I stood, stretching the kinks out of my back, the muscles protesting. A quick peek into the bedroom confirmed the kid, Antonio, was still out cold, burrowed under the thin blanket like a small mole.

Good.

He needed the rest after yesterday. God knows I wasn't getting much.

I left the door slightly ajar and padded back to the main room, the worn floorboards cool beneath my bare feet. The remnants of last night's... interrogation... felt like a residue in the air. Returning Antonio to his brother, the infamous Aiden Bonavero, felt complicated.

Necessary, but complicated. Walking him back into that world required knowing the terrain. I picked up my phone, the smooth, cool weight familiar in my hand, and dialed a number I knew better than my own name.

The phone rang twice before a gruff, familiar voice answered, thick with sleep. "H'lo?"

Oops. Saturday morning. Forgot normal people had weekends. "Morning, John. It’s Nyx," I kept my voice low, glancing towards the bedroom door.

Silence on the other end, then the distinct rustle of bedcovers, followed by footsteps. He was getting up, moving somewhere private. Smart man. "Nyx," his voice was clearer now, instantly awake, tinged with the usual undercurrent of worry he always had when I called unexpectedly. "Everything alright? It's been a while."

"Everything's fine. How are Sarah and Maria?" Thinking of his daughter, her uncomplicated smiles, made me happy.

"They're good. Maria keeps asking about you, enjoys the gifts," he chuckled warmly, a sound distinctly at odds with the usual reasons for my calls.

"But I doubt you called at dawn on a Saturday to chat. What's up?" Straight to business. Just how I liked it.

"I need information, John," I said, cutting to the chase. "Local gangs. Specifically, Aiden Bonavero's crew and anyone likely to be rivals – name Roberto Tortellini rings a bell?"

A loaded pause stretched over the line. "Gangs? Nyx, what have you gotten yourself into now?" His voice sharpened, the professional concern kicking in.

"Stumbled into a k********g situation," I kept it brief. Details weren't necessary; results were. "Involved a kid. Long story short, I have the kid, he belongs to Bonavero, and Roberto seems to be the one who took him. Need to return the kid, want to know the current temperature between those factions before I walk in." Need to know if walking him home meant walking him into a war zone.

Another pause, longer this time. I could almost hear the gears turning in his lawyerly brain, assessing risks, calculating odds.

"Alright," he finally sighed, the sound weary but resigned. He knew better than to try and talk me out of anything. "Bonavero and Roberto... It's messy. Has been for a while. Give me a few hours. I'll get you what I can on their current operations, known associates, recent conflicts. Anything specific you need?"

"Just the lay of the land. Who's shooting at whom, known safe houses or fronts, recent aggressions. Enough to avoid walking into an ambush when I drop the boy off."

"Okay. I'll text you what I find by noon. Encrypted, burner phone?"

"You know it. Thanks, John."

"Just... be careful, Nyx," he said, the familiar caution heavy in his tone before he hung up.

I ended the call, tossing the phone onto the sofa cushion. Careful. Right. Staring at the peeling paint on the opposite wall, I let the quiet settle. While waiting for John's intel, I needed to prepare. Routine took over. I checked the kid again – still dead to the world – before quietly sliding the heavy, scarred wooden box out from under my bed.

Opening it on the couch, the familiar, metallic scent of g*n oil and worn leather filled the small apartment. Comforting, in its own twisted way. Time to gear up. Knives, stars, definitely, the sharp, eager thought surfaced. Guns too. Never enough guns, the cooler, more pragmatic one added its assessment. I pulled out a worn black duffel bag and began selecting my tools, laying them out on the cushions. Sorting what would stay hidden in the bag versus what would become part of my silhouette. Each piece checked, weighed, considered.

The soft shuffle of bare feet on the floor made me look up. Antonio stood there, blinking sleepily, engulfed in the hoodie I'd left for him. He looked so damn young.

"Mornin'," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Morning, Bubs," I replied, my fingers automatically checking the clip on a compact handgun. The contrast wasn't lost on me – the lethal metal in my hands, the vulnerable child watching me. "Shower up while I finish this. Then we'll figure out the day."

He nodded, seemingly unfazed by the arsenal spread across the sofa, and headed for the bathroom. While he showered, I finished packing the duffel, grabbed clean clothes for him (some old sweats and another hoodie) and a change for myself. Once he was out, I took a quick, scalding shower myself, letting the water wash away the lingering tension but not the ingrained readiness.

Dressed in my uniform – black ripped jeans, black tank top, scuffed combat boots, and my trusted leather jacket – I began the ritual of arming myself. Knives slid into hidden sheaths in my boots, two handguns settled into waistband holsters at the small of my back, throwing knives lined the jacket's inner pockets. My favourite long hunting knife, too conspicuous for carrying openly, went into the duffel. Ready for whatever the day decided to throw at me.

I looked up again. Antonio was watching me, his eyes wide, taking in the transformation, the casual way I integrated weapons onto my person. He wasn't scared, just... observant. Intensely so. Right. Distraction.

"Hungry, Tony?" I asked. As if on cue, his stomach let out a loud, demanding rumble. He ducked his head, a faint blush creeping up his neck. Cute. "Thought so. Come on," I slung the duffel over my shoulder and grabbed my keys. "Let's go get some food."