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Chapter one
Haunted
Brian
Naples, Florida—a coastal paradise. Pristine white-sand beaches caressed by gentle waves. What more could you ask for? In my mind's eye, I try to envision the graceful dance of palm trees swaying in the salty breeze, but the haunting memories leave no room for peace. This haven was meant to be an escape, but now I see that I can’t outrun my past…
So, instead of the crystal sea, I stare into the amber liquid swirling in my glass, the ice cubes clinking as my fingers tighten around the crystal. The pounding in my head is relentless—a dull ache has settled behind my eyes and radiates out with every beat of my heart. Another day, another dollar. I sigh and take a long drink, relishing the burn of the alcohol sliding down my throat. The familiar burn was comforting, a reminder of simpler times—
A sharp knock rattles my office door, jolting me from my reverie. “Come in,” I bark, setting down my glass and straightening in my chair.
Melinda, my assistant, pokes her head through the doorway. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Russo, but we have a situation that requires your immediate attention.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, summoning the last dregs of patience from my frayed reserves. “What is it this time?”
Melinda shuffles into the room, her eyes darting around nervously. “The Chinese deal has hit a snag. Apparently, there was an issue with the permits, and now they’re threatening to pull out unless we can guarantee—”
“I’ll handle it.” I wave a hand, cutting her off. The pounding in my skull intensifies as memories of sand, blood, and death rise unbidden in my mind. I grit my teeth against the onslaught, forcing the visions back through sheer force of will. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. This will no longer be your problem, Melinda.”
Melinda sighs with relief. “You always seem so calm in these situations, Mr. Russo. How do you do it?”
“Got lucky, I guess,” I reply with a tight-lipped smile as she leaves the room, shutting the door behind her.
The moment the door clicks shut, memories flood my mind like a dam breaking, almost as if in revenge for the lie I just blurted out. What Melinda didn’t know was that I was never calm. I hardly ever sleep. My mind is a constant jigsaw of memories, and as much as I try to piece them together, I can never seem to form a clear picture. I see images of my time in the Marines. I hear gunfire echoing in my ears and remember explosions tearing through the air as my comrades fall around me. The weight of the past presses down, threatening to suffocate me under its crushing force.
“Dang it,” I mutter, my hands shaking slightly. I reach for the glass and take a long drink, the smoky flavor of the single malt and the chill of the ice numbing my thoughts momentarily. But the relief is short-lived. The faces of the friends I lost in battle haunt me, their accusing looks reminding me that I was the one who made it out alive. As I hear their screams, I can’t escape the feeling that I don’t deserve this life—this money, this power, this responsibility.
“Get a grip, Brian,” I whisper to myself, clenching my fists. “You can’t change the past.” And it’s true—I can’t change the past. No matter how hard I try to bury them, the ghosts of my former life continue to haunt me. The bottle of single malt on my desk is both a reminder of what I’ve become and a temporary reprieve from the thoughts that threaten to consume me.
As I take another sip, I wonder if there will ever be a time when I can fully escape the darkness of my past and find some semblance of peace in the present. The thought of finding that peace brings to the surface that same, familiar guilt. Finding peace might mean I somehow have to forget Laura, my ex-wife. She was the one who’d helped me find my way after the Marines, who had stood by my side through thick and thin. I remember our wedding day—her smile as radiant as the sun, her eyes full of love and hope for our future together. That day, she promised to be with me till death do us part.
I slump back into the plush leather of my chair and rub at my tired eyes. How has it come to this? I’m barely holding it together, struggling each day to maintain the illusion of control and composure. Beneath the expensive suits and commanding demeanor, I’m coming apart at the seams.
After everything I’ve survived, I never imagined it would be a life of luxury and privilege that finally broke me. But the ghosts of my past had followed me home from the war, and now they are demanding their due.
I reach again for the glass on my desk; the drink offering the only solace I have left. The ice has melted, but the whiskey remains—harsh and unforgiving. Just like the life I left behind. I close my eyes, the whiskey burning a trail of fire down my throat. In the darkness behind my lids, I see Laura smiling at me on our wedding day, radiant in white lace and roses.
“I give you my hand, my heart, and my love, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, as long as we both shall live.”
Her voice echoes through my memory, soft and sure. She had kept her promise until the very end, but I hadn’t been able to save her, no matter how hard I tried. I collected all the money and power I could, but it wasn’t enough.
I open my eyes with a gasp, the vision shattering around me. The room is dim. Shadows gather in the corners as rain streams down the windows. An uneasy disorientation grips me, as past and present blur together.
For a moment, I can’t breathe, as a swell of grief and guilt threatens to crush my chest. I grab the bottle and upend it into my glass. I take another gulp, the whiskey burning away the edges of my control.
“Brian,” she whispered in my ear on that beautiful day, “I will always be here for you.”
Life has a cruel way of breaking promises. Her last moments flash before my eyes—her frail body in the hospital bed; her once-sparkling eyes now filled with pain from the chemotherapy but still holding onto a glimmer of hope.
“Promise me,” she said, her voice barely audible, “that you’ll never give up on life. Find happiness again, Brian. Take care of Diane.”
My chest tightens at the memory, and I can feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. I resent the fact that nothing can bring her back. My luxurious surroundings feel empty; the darkness of my past is like a heavy shackle around my heart, dragging me down with each passing day.
“Dang it, Laura,” I mutter under my breath, “Why did you have to leave me?”
The air around me seems to grow colder, and I suddenly feel very alone in the vast emptiness of my office. The shadows cast by the dim lighting seem to dance around me, mocking me for my inability to let go of the past. The sound of the rain pelting against the window echoes through the room like a chorus of haunting memories. I take some deep breaths to try and quiet the storm inside me, but it’s too late—the floodgates are open, and I’m drowning in the torrent of emotions that threaten to consume me.
“Focus on the good times, Brian,” I whisper to myself, desperate for a lifeline. And so, I do.
