Debbie blinked at her, confused.
“Your bag,” Sylvia repeated. “Your hospital bag? Clothes for you and the baby?”
Debbie shook her head. “I forgot.”
She hadn’t really forgotten; she just hadn’t done it. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to do anything baby related. Everything the Sylvia had purchased for the baby was piled inside the closet, still wrapped in its store packaging.
Sylvia smiled at her—a kind and gentle smile that looked out of place on the always-scowling Italian. She squeezed Debbie’s hands. “Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of it.”
Debbie watched through blurry eyes as Sylvia hurried around the bedroom, grabbing handfuls of things from inside the dresser and shoving them into Debbie’s canvas backpack. Throwing open the closet, Sylvia began yanking items off hangers. W
Finished, she turned to Debbie. “We gotta get you to the car now, okay? Can you walk?”
Debbie’s tears spilled over. “Sylvie,” she whispered frantically, “I’m scared. Please, I don’t want to do this. Please…”
If Sylvia answered her, Debbie didn’t hear it. Another cramp pulsed through her, ten times more painful than the last. Eyes squeezed shut, Debbie twisted the bed sheet in her grip.
“Breathe, Debbie, breathe!” Sylvia shouted. “Like this! Remember how I showed you?”
No, Debbie did not remember. And even if she could remember, she couldn’t fathom how anyone could expect her to breathe through this god-awful pain.
“Oh God,” she panted, rolling onto her back. Clutching her belly, she blinked up at Sylvia’s looming face. “It feels like I’m falling apart!”
“Oh Debbie, that’s normal.” Sylvia smiled anxiously. “They tear us open coming out and then their sweet faces put us back together.”
Not wanting to hear about babies and their sweet faces, Debbie turned her head. “No,” she moaned, pushing herself further across the bed, away from Sylvia.
“Oh God, oh God, it hurts so bad.” She clutched her belly. “I can’t do this, Sylvie. I can’t do this—not without Preacher.”
“Of course you can! Women have been givin’ birth since the dawn of time. It’s like pushing out a watermelon! And I’ll be right there with you. And then Preacher will—oh shit, Debbie you’re bleeding!”
Debbie felt Sylvia’s hands on her legs, pushing them apart. She heard a gasp, and then, “Tiny! Tiny! We need to get her to the car, now!”
• • •
Pulling on his leather riding gloves, Preacher strode inside the warehouse, Rocky beside him. Dark and damp with humidity, the crumbling structure stunk of mildew and rot.
They turned the corner into a larger, somewhat lighter area, the shattered windows letting in what little light the overcast afternoon offered. The smells were different in this room, metallic in nature, along with the pungent aroma of gun smoke.
A half dozen or so bodies littered the large space—Rossi foot soldiers. Blood seeped from various wounds, pooling around the dead and dying men, further discoloring the stained cement.
Somebody groaned— a wet, gurgling chest rattle that pinged distractedly through Preacher’s thoughts before lodging firmly in his consciousness.
He would always remember that sound. It was the sound of death—live and in stereo.
Preacher passed Frank, who was standing among a handful of Road Warriors. Then Joe, who stood alone, a gun in his hand and body at his feet. He passed more Road Warriors and more of his men. He didn’t look at a single face, either living or dead. His sole focus was on Hightower, and the man kneeling at his feet.
Rocky veered off, leaving Preacher to continue on alone. The blade at his side was heavy—a freshly sharpened piece of stainless steel that had once belonged to The Judge. It banged against his hip in time to his steps. In time to his heartbeat. In time to the quickly forming lump pulsing inside his throat.
Reaching Hightower, Preacher peered down his nose at the man on his knees. With a head full of white hair, a face full of wrinkles, and wearing a pressed black suit with a red pocket square, Salvatore Rossi looked less like the head of the Rossi crime family and more like an impeccably dressed grandfather.
Salvatore’s ancient eyes flicked up, meeting his, his expression blank, his demeanor strangely calm. “Damon,” he greeted him, his Italian accent rolling and thick.
Preacher blinked at him, not comprehending Salvatore’s cool composure. It was hardly the attitude Preacher would have expected from a man who had to know he was about to die.
Especially when his own heart was flapping wildly inside his chest.
It was also another thing Preacher would never forget. Much later in his life, when his body count was plentiful and he’d long forgotten what it felt like to solve his problems with mere words, he would still remember the look on Salvatore Rossi’s face.
“Are all my boys dead?” Still so absurdly, unnervingly calm, Salvatore raised one bushy white eyebrow.
Preacher dropped down on one knee and stared into the old man’s eyes. “Your sons, your grandsons. All of ‘em.”
Weeks ago Preacher had finally managed to appropriate the Rossis’ Columbian connection right out from under their noses. With the Road Warriors now under Preacher’s control, and ready to form Silver Demon clubs all over the country, the Columbian’s potential to increase their revenue by 200% was too lucrative an offer to refuse.
Then today, after months of strategic planning, putting every player in place, the Silver Demons and the Road Warriors had taken out the Rossi underboss, each Rossi caporegime, and any foot soldiers that had been with them at the time of their ambush. With only scattered foot soldiers remaining, the Rossis wouldn’t be recovering from this anytime soon—if ever.
Ending the life of the Rossi family Mafioso, Salvatore Rossi, was Preacher’s job. A blow he’d long been dreaming of delivering personally.
The corner of Salvatore’s mouth quirked. “I knew you’d do great things, Damon. You always were a hungry boy. I could see it in your eyes.”
Preacher’s nostrils flared. His chest caved and his heart quaked. “You killed them.”
Salvatore’s expression didn’t change. “No. I did not. But that doesn’t matter anymore, eh?”
Preacher jumped to his feet and snarled, “No, it fuckin’ doesn’t.”
Pulling his blade from its sheath, Preacher moved to stand behind Salvatore. Gripping a handful of the old man’s hair, he wrenched his head back and pressed the edge of the blade to his throat. A thin red line welled amid his wrinkled, sagging skin.
Salvatore didn’t make a sound, didn’t move a muscle. Neither did Preacher.
Preacher had gotten into countless fights during the course of his life. He’d broken men’s bones and beaten men into unconsciousness. He’d done some sketchy things in prison to ensure his own safety—things he wasn’t proud of.
But he’d never killed a man before.
The finality of this moment barreled into Preacher like a freight train. There would be no going back, no do-overs, no time to press pause and just drift along while he sorted through his bullshit.
He made the mistake of glancing up. All across the room, all eyes were on him, waiting for him to finish it. He knew he couldn’t look weak, not in front of his own men, and especially not in front of the Road Warriors. Not if he expected to take control of them, to lead them.
So he did the only thing he could think of to do. He flipped his fucking switch and let it all back in—everything he’d long shut out.
He let his mother’s face fill his memory.
And he thought of his father.
He saw the smear of blood on the trailer door.
And then he recalled the day he was forced to watch as their matching coffins were lowered into the ground.
And just when he wanted to scream… he slid the blade across Salvatore Rossi’s throat instead.
The mob boss slumped to his side, wide-eyed and clawing at his throat. Both horrified and fascinated, Preacher watched as thick, dark blood spurted and gushed from the gaping wound in his neck.
“It’s done, then? You’re gonna patch us in?” Rocky’s booted feet drew precariously close to the blood creeping across the floor.