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Chapter One
Beckett
As I grip the cold metal in my hand, I know it’s the weapon I’ve been searching for.The answer to our troubles. The way out of this decade-long tug-of-power hell my sister and I found ourselves tied up in.
I've been searching for this gun for months, ever since I decided to take matters into my own hands and end this treacherous battle.
I knew two things the day I decided to pull the trigger on my plan—bad pun intended. I'd have to be careful, and I'd need the right tool for the job.
I belong to the most powerful mafia in New York. The Bachman Brotherhood. I have access to every weapon under the sun. But the gun for this job can’t come from the Bachmans’ treasure trove of weapons.
I’m the family mechanic. I love cars. I haven’t really had a need for a gun up until now.
It’s got to be one that can’t be traced back to me. And now, here it is. Fits in my palm perfectly, as if it was made specifically for me. The smooth surface of the barrel, the textured grip of the handle, it’s perfect.
No serial number.
No connection to the Bachmans.
No one needs to know.
My heart beats faster as I run my fingers along the length of the gun. I know from this moment on, nothing will ever be the same. How can it... after you've taken your first life? Especially one not sanctioned as a part of the job.
This is personal.
My palm grows damp as I hold the piece. If it wasn’t for my sister, I’d find another way out of this mess. But I’d never, ever leave her unprotected. The only way to ensure her safety is the same way as my own.
One bullet from this gun.
Well… hopefully one.
I’m well-practiced at the range. Hit my target every time. When you’re aiming at the man who has taken advantage of you for the past ten years?
Killed your father?
Left you and your sister alone to be raised by a mother with so many mental health issues she couldn’t care for herself, much less her children?
Who knows?
I’ll find out in exactly two days’ time.
There’s a clerk behind the counter, an older man with face tattoos, his head shaved bald, a display of ink covering his smooth scalp. He gives me a long look, his gaze traveling from my swept-back brown hair, tinged gold from hours in the sun playing sports, over my clean-shaven face, my muscled physique, my T-shirt and jeans, before settling on my sneakers.
I know I’m giving him all-American, boy-next-door vibes. Tall and athletic with a baseball player’s build, my good looks have plagued me all my life, making me have to prove myself time and time again.
I don’t mind.
I love a good fight.
“You sure you want this thing?” he says.
I might be apple pie on the outside but I’m Class A badass deep down. I’m clean-cut till you fuck with me. Then I’m all cut.
And it’s not gonna be clean.
I throw a wad of cash on the counter. “I promise you it’s mine. You’ve just been holding it for me.”
A look of respect flashes through his eyes as he gives me a nod. He packs the gun up for me and I leave the store with the paper bag at my side bumping into my thigh as I go.
