Chapter 2: Poison Ivy.
1068 Words
I've never googled someone with shaking hands before. But as I type "Dominic Rodriguez Moonstown" into the search bar, my fingers tremble against the keyboard. The results make my stomach clench.
"Moonstown's Shadow King: The Truth Behind the Rodriguez Empire"
"Five Dead in Blood Alley m******e: Rodriguez Connection Suspected"
"Business Mogul Found Dead After Refusing Rodriguez 'Protection'"
Each headline hits like another nail in my certainty. What the hell am I doing? I close my laptop, pacing my living room where fragments of our broken wedding photo still litter the carpet. The glass crunches under my feet, and I welcome the sound. Better than the echoing emptiness Martins left behind.
My phone buzzes. Another message from Victoria: "Please, can we talk? I need to explain."
I chuck the phone onto the couch without responding. There's nothing to explain. Nothing that could justify fourteen months of lies, of watching me suffer while she carried on with my husband. My hands curl into fists, nails biting into my palms.
"You're insane," I mutter to myself, reopening the laptop. "Absolutely insane." But I click on the first article anyway.
Three hours later, I know more about Dominic Rodriguez than I ever wanted to know. The legitimate businesses that serve as fronts. The mysterious disappearances of his competitors. The iron grip he holds on Moonstown's underworld. And through it all, one detail keeps surfacing: no one crosses Dominic Rodriguez and walks away unscathed.
No one except his half-brother, Martins, who fled Moonstown five years ago and never looked back.
My phone rings – Mom this time. Probably heard about the separation from one of her bridge club friends. This town's gossip mill never sleeps. I let it go to voicemail and head upstairs to pack.
The bedroom still smells like Martins' cologne. I yank open the windows, letting the cool evening air chase away the last traces of him. Then I grab my suitcase from the closet – the same one we used on our honeymoon to Paris. Another memory to burn.
"Think this through," I tell my reflection as I stuff clothes into the suitcase. "You're really going to walk into a crime lord's territory for revenge? There are better ways to handle this. Lawyers. Therapists. Moving to f*****g Bali."
But none of those options will make Martins hurt the way I'm hurting.
My hand brushes something silky at the back of the closet – my wedding dress, preserved in plastic. I rip it out and hurl it across the room. It lands in a heap by the door, as worthless as my marriage vows.
The doorbell rings. Through the bedroom window, I spot Victoria's red Prius in my driveway.
"Go away!" I shout down the stairs.
"Shirley, please!" Her voice cracks. "Just let me explain. You deserve to know everything."
I storm down the stairs and wrench open the door. Victoria stands there, one hand on her still-flat stomach, tears streaming down her face. The sight of her makes me physically ill.
"Know everything?" I laugh, harsh and bitter. "I know enough. Fourteen months, Victoria. Fourteen f*****g months while I cried on your shoulder about not being able to conceive. Was it funny? Did you and Martins laugh about it in bed?"
"No!" She steps forward, but I block the doorway. "God, no. We never... it wasn't like that. I hated myself every day. I tried to end it so many times, but—"
"But what? His d**k just kept falling into you by accident?"
She flinches. "I deserve that. I deserve all of it. But please, you have to believe me – I never meant for any of this to happen. Especially not..." She gestures to her stomach.
"Get off my porch." My voice comes out deadly quiet. "Get in your car, drive away, and pray I never see you again. Because right now, the only thing stopping me from ripping that baby out of you is knowing it would hurt Martins more to watch his child grow up calling another man 'daddy'."
Her face goes white. "You wouldn't..."
"Try me." I slam the door in her face and lock it, sliding down to sit against it as her footsteps retreat. Through the window, I watch her car pull away, just like Martins' did hours ago.
My laptop still sits open on the coffee table, Dominic Rodriguez's name glowing on the screen. According to the articles, he holds court at a club called The Crimson Room in Blood Alley. The place where people go when they're desperate enough to make deals with the devil.
I'm not just desperate. I'm nuclear.
Two hours later, I'm on the highway with a packed suitcase and directions to Moonstown pulled up on my phone. The 'Welcome to Oakbrook Heights' sign disappears in my rearview mirror, along with any chance of turning back.
The sun sets as I drive, painting the sky in shades of blood and bruises. Perfect weather for what I'm about to do. My GPS cheerfully announces that I'm three hours from Moonstown, from the point of no return.
A text lights up my phone: Martins. "I'm staying at Victoria's. We can talk when you're calmer. I still love you, Shir. We can work this out."
I laugh so hard I almost swerve off the road. Work this out? Oh, we'll work something out alright. Just not the way he's expecting.
The highway stretches ahead like a black ribbon, leading me straight into the heart of everything Martins ran from. He always said his half-brother was a monster, the kind of man who could destroy lives with a single word.
Good. Because that's exactly what I need right now – a monster.
Moonstown appears on the horizon like a dark stain against the sky, its buildings jutting up like broken teeth. Even from here, I can feel it – the weight of all those shadows, all those secrets. The kind of place where revenge grows like poison ivy, choking out everything else.
My hands should be shaking as I take the exit into the city. Instead, they're steady on the wheel. The rage that's been burning in my chest since this afternoon has crystallized into something harder, colder. More dangerous.
Welcome to Moonstown, the sign reads in flickering neon. Below it, someone has spray-painted: Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
I smile. Hope isn't what I'm looking for anyway.
- Writer
