“Once you have completed the task, we will sever ties,” Cavelli rasped.
I didn’t like how that sounded.
But I had no choice in the matter. I was alive and I had to pay the debt.
As the corrections officer escorted me away, I held my head high.
I didn’t take kindly to bullies, but I also knew better than to bite the hand that fed me.
Three weeks later, I’d ditched the grey prison scrubs and stepped into an expensive pair of designer jeans, a brand-new white t-shirt and a leather jacket all shipped in a neat care package by the greatest woman alive, my mom. I walked out of DesMax blinking into the bright sunlight, a free man for the first time in ten years. I was only eighteen the last time I’d walked anywhere without handcuffs. I’d told my mother not to come, much to her chagrin. I had business to see to first before I let myself get anywhere near my family.
I’d done my time for killing my father, but in a lot of ways, I’d never be free from his mistreatment. It had scarred me deep and took away what was most precious to me. I was now faced with making something of my life, a convicted felon, a broken man—one with a debt to the mafia for even allowing me to live.
As if on cue, Fredricks, Cavelli’s number one, was standing by the exit gate beside a sleek black limo. He wore another perfectly tailored suit, which his ass managed to cheapen just by wearing it.
“Mr. Montgomery, we meet again.”
“It ain’t a coincidence, bro, we’ve been planning this shit for months,” I said. I moved past him to get into the limo “Red carpet service, huh?”
“Just to get you off the premises. You’ll switch to your own vehicle once we’re out of DesMax limits.”
“I don’t have a credit card to rent a car or nothing like that,” I told him.
“Mr. Cavelli has a gift for you. He hopes you find it quite nostalgic.”
“A fucking bike? He's trying to haunt me with Monty’s ghost or something?” I wasn’t sure what my father’s relationship with Cavelli had been like when he was alive. I knew they did deals, I knew they shared neighboring territory. Desolation was like South Vale’s inbred cousin. South Vale had money, legit businesses, and tourism, while Desolation had a state prison, miles of blighted abandoned warehouses, and more than enough criminals to fill it.
Fredricks laughed nervously, a sycophantic giggle that turned my stomach. I imagined taking a knife and plunging it into his stomach and twisting it until it put him out of his pathetic misery. What a life, kissing up to a two-bit criminal outfit to gain some measly sense of self. It disgusted me. I never again wanted to be a man who was beholden to someone else.
Sweat broke on my brow as I imagined all the ways these assholes could double-cross me. It made me nervous and my leg involuntarily started jiggling. I’d already gotten into this mess and needed to finish this last job to dig myself out.
“Oh Mr. Montgomery, settle down. I promise you my employers stick to their word. You complete your task and you’ll never hear from us again.”
Sounded fatalistic.
We drove for twenty minutes through continuously more barren landscape and the car stopped abruptly.
“This is where we say goodbye,” Fredricks said.
I imagined a shallow grave, Fredricks shoveling dirt on top of my new jeans my mother had sent me. Maybe I’d never hug my mom again.
But instead, he tossed me a set of keys on a Harley keychain.
“Someone will be waiting for you at Butcher and Sons. Good luck, young man. It was a pleasure doing business with you.”
“Likewise.” The guy was all grease and slimy as fuck and nothing about dealing with him was pleasurable. In fact, my only pleasure was getting the hell away from him
I stepped out of the limo onto what looked like a remote highway salt mound pickup spot for snow plows and emergency vehicles when the weather demanded. Perfect spot for my impromptu grave, and I waited for a bullet to hit me in the back of the head. But I heard the gravel crunch under the limo’s tires immediately and realized Fredricks wouldn’t be the one to do the final deed.
At the base of one of the sand mounds stood my father’s prized possession, his fucking hog, a shiny red Electra-Glide that still looked like it hadn’t seen a bad day in its life.
What kind of sick game was this mobster playing?
I put on my father’s helmet, hopped on, and cranked her; she purred beneath me like she had during my first ride between my father’s legs when I was just a tyke. Elektra never did anything wrong, I told myself. It was the unscrupulous owner who made her seem evil. With Monty gone, Electra was nothing more than just a great fucking bike. I let her rev and peeled out of the gravel lot and onto the highway.