Kill the Messenger - 5. Chapter Five

Joey's boots hit the cracked Warren sidewalk like they were full of guilt. His hoodie was wrinkled and damp, the pocket heavy with secrets—mostly cash and a burner phone he hadn’t looked at since D had given it to him. The walk from the bus station hadn’t taken long, but it felt like hours. Every passing car made his stomach turn. Every step closer to home, he expected to hear sirens or see someone from Vinnie’s crew waiting on the porch.

But the house was quiet. No cops. No mob guys. Just the rattle of the screen door in the wind and the smell of cigarette smoke drifting from inside.

He stepped in.

Linda was in her usual spot at the kitchen table, hunched over a paper bill with a faded highlighter cap stuck between her teeth. The tiny TV in the corner was turned to the news, low volume. She looked up fast—face pinched, stressed—but her eyes softened the second she saw him.

“Jesus, Joey,” she said, pulling the cap from her mouth. “Where the hell’ve you been?”

“I—I’m f-fine,” he said, dragging the door shut behind him. “Th-the car… It b-broke d-down in Cleveland. It w-was a rough n-night.”

She blinked at him. “And your phone?”

“It d-died. I—it’s in the c-car still. I f-forgot it.”

She looked at him a second longer, like she might call bullshit, but sighed and dropped her gaze. “I figured you were with Ronnie. Didn’t want to call the cops over nothing.”

He nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. “Y-yeah. It w-was a Ronnie th-thing.”

She pushed the paper across the table. “Well, if you’re back, maybe you can help me figure this out. Gas bill’s due by next Friday or we’re freezing. I told you we were behind.”

He stared at the number—$384.92. His gut twisted. The whole house was always cold, and the thought of it getting worse was unbearable. For a moment, he didn’t think. He just reached into his pocket and pulled out four hundred-dollar bills, laying them flat on the table.

Her eyes went wide. “Joey. What the hell? Where did this come from?”

He looked at her and shrugged. “Y-you kn-know. R-Ronnie.”

She stared another beat, then finally looked away, chewing the inside of her cheek. “Well, damn. Alright.” She scooped up the bills and stood. “I’m walking down to Wally’s to pay this before I drop dead from stress. You hungry?”

He shook his head. “T-tired.”

She was halfway to the door when she added, “Sara’s dropping off the kids tonight. I’ll be back before then.”

Joey nodded.

Linda grabbed her purse, muttering, “Damn seizures. Can’t even drive five blocks.”

He watched her go. The door banged softly behind her. Once she was gone, Joey headed to his room, shut the door tight, and dropped the rest of the cash in the bottom drawer of his dresser. He hesitated, then added the burner phone D had given him and slammed it shut.

Once everything was hidden, he turned and collapsed face-first onto his bed without even taking off his boots.

The knock came just after six.

Joey blinked awake on his bed, stiff-necked and dry-mouthed. He groaned, rubbed his eyes, then rolled off the mattress and dragged himself up the stairs.

He opened the front door just in time for Sara to blow in like a storm cloud.

“Finally,” she snapped, juggling a giant off-brand diaper bag and a stack of beat-up backpacks. “Tay-Tay fell asleep in the car.”

Trailing behind her were Isabel, clutching a half-dead tablet and avoiding everyone’s eyes, and Brian, wide-eyed and chewing on a pink straw wrapper like it was gum. He was always fidgeting with something. Last, Tay-Tay shuffled up and leaned heavily against Sara’s hip, her curls mashed down on one side and a sparkly unicorn pull-up peeking out from beneath her pajama shorts.

“Where’s Mom?” Sara asked, already pushing inside without waiting for an answer.

“Right here,” Linda said gently from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her face was tired. The good kind of tired. “I walked up to Wally’s, paid the gas bill.”

“Great,” Sara said, barely looking at her.

“T-they eat yet?” Joey asked, eyeing the kids. He still held the door like his brain hadn’t caught up to the chaos yet.

“They had… something.” Sara dumped the diaper bag onto the couch. “Isabel, you know where your toothbrush is. Brian, no candy. Tay-Tay’s got a spare pull-up in the bag for tonight. I’m going.”

“W-wait,” Joey said, stepping forward. “No food money? N-no extra diapers?”

Sara turned, raising a penciled-in brow. “What do I look like? A money tree?”

Joey stared at her, jaw clenched. “You s-seem to find cash when it’s f-for shots and sh-shitty tequila.”

Her eyes snapped. “Excuse me?”

“Y-you heard me.” His voice was low but steady. “You’re out every w-weekend, posting p-pictures, but y-you c-can’t leave two d-dollars for cereal?”

“God, you are such a little asshole sometimes,” she snapped, eyes cutting toward Linda, who had gone completely quiet by the stove. “Why don’t you worry about your own problems, Joey? You’re not these kids’ dad.”

“No,” Joey muttered. “They d-deserve one though.”

Sara glared at him, color flooding her cheeks. “Mom, say something!”

Linda just shook her head slowly. “He’s not wrong, honey.”

That shut Sara up.

She huffed and grabbed her keys, muttering, “I’ll be back tomorrow night. Maybe. Or Sunday. Depends.”

No one answered her. The door slammed behind her like a period on the end of a sentence.

Joey stood there for a second, trying to unclench his fists. Tay-Tay had flopped onto the floor with her blankie, and Brian was already pawing through the fridge. Isabel had taken her tablet and gone wordlessly to the couch like a ghost.

Linda walked past him with a gentle pat on the back. “I’ll start spaghetti,” she murmured. “We’ve still got half a box.”

Joey just stood there, taking it all in. The cheap tile. The flickering light. His sister’s chaos, the kids’ quiet needs, the faint smell of cheap dish soap.

It was hell.

It was home.

After the kids ate, the living room settled into chaos—but the soft, domestic kind. Ronnie Sr. was lying down in the back and Linda had managed to settle herself in his usual recliner with a folded newspaper in her lap, though she wasn’t reading it. She just sat quietly, eyes flicking between the kids, taking in the scene like she always did. Calm. Watching.

Tay-Tay, barefoot in her unicorn pajamas, was crawling across the floor pretending to be a cat. She meowed at Scooby who yipped in surprise and darted behind the couch. Kush, the old hound, barely lifted his head from his bed, and Capone wagged his tail frantically before jumping onto the couch and into Joey’s lap.

“Oof—hi, man,” Joey said, petting behind Capone’s ears. He was rewarded with an excited lick to the jaw and a wiggling butt. “Y-yeah, missed you too.”

Across the room, Brian was face-deep in a box of Cheez-Its, orange crumbs clinging to his mouth like a crime scene. He was cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, watching some insane kids’ YouTube video at full volume and muttering to himself, something about frogs and time travel. Joey didn’t even ask.

Isabel sat in the corner, curled up with her tablet. She was quiet, as always, but Joey noticed the same thing he’d seen before. She kept tapping on the storybook app, then backtracking, tapping, and backtracking. Her eyes flicked between the page and the audio option like she was trying not to use it… and failing.

He watched her for a moment, heart squeezing in a way he wasn’t prepared for. He knew that look. Knew the shame in it. She couldn’t read it. Just like him.

He shifted in his seat, pulling Capone into his arms and scratching behind his ears again to distract himself from the lump rising in his throat.

D had sat beside him just that morning, at a Denny’s booth, calmly and gently helping him sound out a single word—“Blueberry.” It had taken too long. He’d felt stupid. But D had been patient. Solid. Unshakable. His voice had been smooth, rich, low like velvet. And he hadn’t laughed.

Joey hadn’t known what to do with that.

Even now, sprawled on the couch with a tiny dog in his arms and the sound of a microwave beeping in the background, he could still hear D’s voice. Feel the weight of his stare. The intensity of it. Like he mattered.

He swallowed hard and shifted again.

The bus ride, the cash, the kiss of D’s breath near his cheek as he whispered, “Get on that bus and don’t look back”—all of it felt surreal now. It had only been this morning. Just that morning. And now he was back in Warren, back in the crowded, messy house, surrounded by people who didn’t have the time or bandwidth to see how much he was struggling.

But D had.

D had seen him.

God, and he was so fucking hot. Those eyes, that sharp jaw, the muscle beneath his coat—Joey had felt it all when D threw him on that motel bed. He hadn’t been trying to seduce him. He’d been furious. But Joey hadn’t been able to ignore the way his heart pounded, or the heat pooling low in his gut.

It still scared him.

He’d never wanted anyone before—not like this. And especially not a man. It didn’t make sense. But D… D had made him feel safe. Strong. Like maybe he wasn’t a total burden. Like maybe someone like him could be worth saving.

Joey looked back over at Isabel, still struggling with her tablet. He wanted to say something, wanted to help her the way D had helped him. But he didn’t know how to start.

His eyes drifted out the window.

His car was still in Cleveland. That was a real problem because he loved that stupid piece of crap. And maybe… maybe if he got up there, maybe D would be around. Maybe he’d get lucky and bump into him. Not that he was going just for that—but still.

He rubbed his thumb over Capone’s soft fur and let out a breath.

Everything felt calm. Normal.

But something wasn’t right. He could still feel it, buzzing beneath the surface like a live wire. D had been so certain Joey was in danger. And maybe he wasn’t anymore. Maybe it was really over. But…

Joey didn’t feel safe.

Not really.

And the worst part?

He didn’t want to be safe unless D was the one keeping him that way.

***

D hadn’t meant to come back here. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

But that’d look worse.

So he walked the familiar back alley like a man with nothing to hide, hands in the pockets of his coat, a cigarette burning low between his lips. The Velvet Room’s thumping bass rattled the bricks beside him, the same way it had last night—only now the city felt colder, meaner. More haunted.

The back door groaned open at his knock. The bouncer, a guy D didn’t recognize, gave him a nod and let him through with a grunt. He walked the corridor slow, his boots heavy, his face a blank slate. Like always.

Like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

The door to the back lounge was cracked open. Smoke curled into the hall—cigars, thick and sharp. He pushed it open with one hand and stepped inside.

Vinnie was at the poker table, sleeves rolled, gold watch catching the dim light. Carmine stood behind him, arms folded, face as sour as ever.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Carmine muttered.

“Didn’t realize I was missed,” D said, easing the door shut behind him. He crossed the room without invitation and dropped into the nearest chair, letting his coat fall open. His hands stayed visible, casual on his knees. Relaxed, but ready.

Vinnie didn’t look up right away. He flicked a card onto the table, sighed, then finally met D’s eyes. “How was your night?” he asked.

D shrugged. “Long.”

A pause. Then Vinnie reached for his drink, swirling it once. “And the messenger?”

“Handled.”

Silence.

Carmine leaned forward, grinning like a jackal. “That so? Fast work, even for you.”

D didn’t blink. “He wasn’t a runner. He was a kid. One wrong place, wrong time. Easy.”

“Easy,” Carmine repeated. “Huh. That why you look like shit?”

Vinnie exhaled. “Carmine.”

“No, no—let him answer. You look shook, D. You get soft on the job? You bury the body? You sure he’s not gonna claw his way out?”

D’s jaw twitched. “I said it’s handled.”

Carmine smirked. “Well damn. Guess I’m just sentimental. Something about that kid last night…pretty face. Real sweet. Didn’t figure he was your type, but maybe I was wrong.”

D was out of the chair before he knew he’d moved. He slammed Carmine against the wall, forearm to throat. The poker chips scattered like hailstones. Vinnie rose, but slowly—watching.

“You want to say that again?” D asked, voice low, steady, dangerous.

Carmine bared his teeth. “Touchy.”

Vinnie’s voice cut clean through the tension. “D.”

He held still another second. Then two. Then stepped back, breathing hard, smoothing his hand over his hair like it could knock sense into him.

Carmine straightened his collar, smug as hell. “That all the proof I needed.”

“Enough,” Vinnie snapped. “Carmine, out.”

“What—?”

“Out.”

Carmine growled but obeyed, muttering something under his breath as he slipped out the door. It shut like a warning shot.

Vinnie faced D alone now, studying him carefully. “You want to tell me what the hell that was?”

D hesitated. He shook his head once. “I’m just tired.”

“You’re more than tired.” Vinnie poured himself another drink. Didn’t offer one to D. “You’re off. You’re slipping. That’s not like you.”

D met his eyes. “You told me to clean up a mess. I cleaned it up.”

“Did you?”

The room went still.

D kept his expression blank.

Vinnie smiled, but there was nothing warm about it. “Go home. Cool off. We’ll talk later.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

D nodded once. “Sure.”

He turned and left without another word, jaw clenched, heart pounding. He knew what that look meant. The questions weren’t going away. The longer he stayed in Cleveland, the closer they’d get.

He lit another cigarette on the sidewalk and blew the smoke skyward.

Joey, he thought.

He hadn’t called the burner phone. He still had the number in his contacts, though.

And right now?

He wanted nothing more than to hear that sweet, stammering voice tell him everything was okay.

Because it wasn’t.

And D had a bad feeling it was about to get worse.

He didn’t know what else to do, so he went home like Vinnie had suggested. When he got there, he let the apartment door click shut behind him, the lock sliding into place with a dull thud. The silence that met him was thick and familiar. No sounds but the hum of the fridge, the soft creak of old floorboards, and the steady tick of the crooked wall clock.

Home.

If you could call it that.

He shrugged off his coat, let it fall across the back of the kitchen chair, then yanked his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. His dark ebony skin glistened faintly under the apartment’s weak overhead light, muscles tense as coiled wire. He crossed the room in long strides, heading straight for the corner where the old punching bag hung from a ceiling beam like a tired sentinel.

No warm-up. No gloves.

He hit it hard. Then again.

He didn’t think—just moved. Arms pumping, fists slamming into canvas and leather. He lost track of time, just listening to the smack of skin, the rasp of his breath, the rhythm of pain. It helped.

But it didn’t quiet his mind.

Joey. Joey. Joey.

That messy blond hair. Those wide, stammering green eyes. The stupid strawberry keychain still in his pocket. That voice—nervous, hopeful, half-broken. The way he’d looked back at D before the bus doors hissed shut.

He should have dragged him back into the car.

D struck the bag harder, almost enough to split his knuckles.

He hadn’t meant to feel this way. Not about a kid like that. But Joey had gotten under his skin in less than 24 hours, crawled into a place that had been empty for years. There was something about him… not just the sweetness, not just the innocence. It was his loyalty. His defiance. That weird mix of scared and stubborn.

And now he was gone. Alone. D had sent him out there with two grand and a flip phone and just hoped that would be enough.

He slowed, chest heaving, arms heavy, sweat dripping off his brow.

It wasn’t enough.

With a curse, he stepped away from the bag and crossed to the counter, grabbing his phone and tapping into contacts. He found the number for Joey’s burner and hit call.

It rang once. Twice. Then straight to voicemail.

D’s jaw clenched. His thumb hovered over the keypad like he might call again. Might keep calling until sunrise. But he didn’t. Not yet. He tossed the phone onto the table and stared at it like it had insulted him.

"Pick up, Joey," he muttered. "Just pick up."

No answer. No nothing.

Just that gnawing feeling again. Like something was coming undone. Like he’d made the wrong call, let something precious slip away.

He dragged a hand over his hair, then pushed off the table and headed for the bathroom, sweat cooling on his skin. A shower. Maybe that would settle him.

But it wouldn’t. Not really.

He already knew he was going to try that number again first thing in the morning.

And if Joey didn’t answer?

He’d find him.

Even if he had to tear Ohio apart to do it.

***

Saturday morning, Joey’s door banged open without warning, slamming into the wall hard enough to rattle the mirror.

“Jesus!” Joey flinched upright in bed, squinting into the morning light. His heart pounded. “Wh-what the hell?”

Ronnie stood in the doorway, arms crossed, all piss and vinegar in a Cleveland Browns hoodie and cheap cologne. “You forget how to use a fuckin’ phone?”

Joey rubbed his face. “I—I was gonna c-call.”

“Yeah?” Ronnie stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. “Vinnie got the drop, but no word from you. You said you’d text me. I waited all damn night.”

Joey scrambled to sit up straighter. “I—my phone’s dead. I—I left it in the c-car. It broke down in Cleveland Thursday night. I just got home yesterday.”

Ronnie squinted at him, like he was doing Joey the courtesy of pretending to believe him. “Car broke down, huh? That why you look like a stray cat who slept in a goddamn ditch?”

Joey shrugged, his voice tight. “It—it was a r-rough night.”

“Well, whatever. You look like shit, but you did the job.” Ronnie fished into his pocket, pulled out a wad of small bills, and slapped a few down on Joey’s blanket. “Two hundred. That’s your cut.”

Joey stared at the money. “T-thanks.”

Ronnie sat on the edge of the bed like it was his. “You planning on going up there today? To get your car?”

“I was g-gonna ask J-Josh,” Joey said. “Later.”

“Good. ‘Cause I got another job.” Ronnie pulled a small, tightly wrapped envelope from his pocket. “Not Velvet Room this time, don’t worry your little head. Just a drop-off, couple miles east of downtown.”

Joey’s stomach knotted. Another delivery. Another lie. Another chance to die. He nodded slowly, fingers clenched around the edge of the blanket. “Yeah. I—I can do that.”

Ronnie smacked his knee and stood. “Kill two birds, right? Do the drop, pick up your car, maybe grab a burger. Make a day of it.”

Joey didn’t answer. He just watched as Ronnie shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket and headed for the door.

“Don’t screw this one up,” Ronnie added, almost as an afterthought. “You’re doin’ good. Don’t make me rethink puttin’ trust in you.”

And with that, he was gone.

Joey waited until the front door banged shut upstairs, the envelope heavy in his hand. Then, with a sigh, he got up and crossed the room to his dresser. He knelt down, slid open the bottom drawer, and lifted the folded flannel shirt he'd tucked everything under. The rest of the cash was still there, the burner phone right beside it, facedown and untouched.

He added the new bills to the stash, smoothing them out a little. Then his fingers hovered over the phone. It hadn’t made a sound all night.

Joey’s chest squeezed, breath catching for a second. D hadn’t said he’d call, but he had hoped…

He didn’t touch the phone. He just stared at it.

He didn’t know if he was waiting for a message or hoping not to get one.

Something was coming. He could feel it in his bones—deep and cold and certain. Like thunder you didn’t hear yet, but knew was rolling in.

He lowered the shirt back over the phone and money, closed the drawer, and sat back against the bed frame.

The room felt small.

And D—wherever he was—felt a million miles away.

After pulling on a clean t-shirt, jeans, and his soft, gray hoodie, Joey climbed the steps and entered the living room just as the kids were finishing their cereal at the table in the other room, spoons clinking against plastic bowls. Capone was sprawled near the back door like a lumpy rug. Scooby, the hyper one, pranced between the table legs, waiting for dropped Cheerios while Kush, sleepy and lazy as ever, curled under the kitchen window, tail flicking in his dreams.

Linda was at the sink, washing the last of the dishes. Ronnie Sr. sat hunched in his recliner, silent as usual, eyes glued to the TV where some grainy war documentary droned on.

Joey stepped around Ronnie Sr. and into the kitchen, grabbing Linda’s phone off the counter. “Hey, uh... I—I gotta make a call.”

She nodded absently, wrist deep in soapy water.

Joey stepped outside for privacy, found Josh’s number in contacts, and held his breath.

Josh answered on the third ring. “Well well. Look who’s alive.”

Joey cringed. “Y-yeah. H-hey.”

“Last I heard from Ronnie, you were headin’ out on a job Thursday. You fall off the map, bro. What the hell?”

“My c-car broke d-down,” Joey lied smoothly, it was the third time he’d told this story, after all. “Phone died and I—I left it in the g-glove box. I just g-got back yesterday.”

Josh snorted. “Man, I told you. Ronnie’s runs are never worth the shit he pays. But lemme guess... now you wanna go get your car?”

“Y-yeah. And Ronnie gave me another p-package. Thought m-maybe we could d-drop it off while w-we’re up there.”

Josh chuckled. “Is that why he just texted me a random-ass Cleveland address?”

Joey grinned. “Y-yep. That’s the one.”

There was a beat of silence before Josh’s voice turned sly. “So what’s in it for me?”

Joey sighed. “I’ll g-give you a hundred.”

“Deal,” Josh said immediately. “I’ll be there in two hours. Tell Mom not to kill me when I roll up.”

Joey hung up and drifted back inside, slipping the phone back where he’d found it. He found a seat in the living room on the couch and silently watched his nieces and nephew.

Brian was on the floor with Scooby, feeding him cereal one piece at a time while muttering a made-up story under his breath. Tay-Tay, wearing a backwards sweatshirt like a superhero cape, was standing on the arm of the coffee table and pretending to fly. Isabel was hunched over her tablet, shoulders tense, mouth moving as she struggled to sound something out. Joey watched her quietly, heart sinking.

As he watched, his thoughts drifted—back to the diner. Back to the smooth, deep rumble of D’s voice, coaching him through syllables. The patience in his eyes. The heat behind them.

God, D had been so close.

His dark eyes, his rough voice, the strength in his arms... Joey bit his lip and looked away. He didn’t know what he wanted, not really. But something in him ached for D. For that safety. That control. That... heat.

And now he was going right back into the fire.

D told him to get out of Ohio. Told him to stay gone.

But Joey needed that car.

And... a small, terrified part of him needed to see D again.

He sank deeper into the couch, pretending to watch Tay-Tay’s superhero leap, but his mind was a blur. Of danger. Of heat. Of lips and hands and dark eyes full of secrets.

Something told him he’d be seeing D again real soon.

And when he did...

He wasn’t sure he’d ever want to leave again.

Two hours slipped by in a haze of cartoons, cereal bowls, and the occasional bark from Capone, who kept trying to steal Brian’s snack wrappers. Scooby and Kush dozed in a lazy pile near the couch while Tay-Tay made Joey be the monster in her weird little game of “Barbie Jungle.” Brian kept loudly crunching on dry cereal straight from the box, his fingers covered in sugar, and Isabel sat in the corner with her tablet, frowning hard at it, muttering under her breath.

Joey glanced over. She was tapping at something like a game, but her lips were moving. “Y-you need help, Izzy?” he asked softly.

She shook her head, but didn’t look up. Joey recognized that frustrated look. She was struggling to read the screen.

His heart twinged. “I-it’s okay. Y-you want me t-to try and read it with you?”

She shook her head again. Still didn’t look at him.

Joey backed off. She was just like he used to be—ashamed. And no one had time to help.

Linda came into the living room then, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Joey,” she said. “Your brother just texted. Says he’s about to pull up.”

That got him moving.

He darted downstairs, heart pounding—not just from the coming drive, but the sudden pang of guilt. D had warned him not to go back. He’d promised. But the car... God, he missed it. He needed it. It was his.

At his dresser, he opened the bottom drawer and pulled out the wad of bills, flipping through to grab a hundred for Josh. Then, hesitating, he counted out another two hundred for his mom. The kids were definitely staying another night, and Brian had basically devoured the entire fridge like some sugar-fueled raccoon. Joey sighed and stuffed the rest of the cash back in its hiding spot, deep beneath some old clothes and socks.

That’s when the burner phone lit up.

A buzzing light. Missed calls.

Joey frowned. He grabbed it, stared at the screen. 6 missed calls.

His stomach dropped. He knew who it was.

He answered with a breathless, “H-hello?”

“Joey.” D’s voice was sharp, low, and brimming with tension. “You’re in fucking Warren, aren’t you?”

“N-no—I mean, y-yeah,” Joey stammered. “I j-just—”

“I’ve been calling you all morning.” D’s voice deepened, dangerous now. “Why the hell didn’t you answer?”

“I—I w-was upstairs, I didn’t hear it. I j-just saw—”

“I told you not to go back there,” D snapped. “I told you it wasn’t safe. And now you’re right back in the middle of the goddamn blast zone!”

Joey flinched, his grip tightening around the phone. “N-nothing’s h-happened,” he said, trying to sound firm. “I—I’m okay. N-no one’s come.”

“Not yet,” D bit out. “But they will. You’re not safe, Joey. You’ve got to stay put. I’m already on my way.”

Joey’s breath caught. “Y-you’re coming here? T-to W-Warren?”

“Yes,” D said. No hesitation. Just that rough, matter-of-fact certainty that always made Joey’s stomach twist into knots. “I’ll be there soon. Just. Stay. Put.”

Joey backed toward the door, mind racing. Part of him wanted to wait. Wanted to see D again—feel those big arms wrap around him, hear that low voice say I’ve got you, kid.

But then he thought of his car. His car was still up in Cleveland. And the idea of walking away from it—letting it rot or get stolen or towed—was unbearable.

“I—I can’t,” he whispered.

“Joey, listen to me—”

“I can’t,” Joey whispered, stepping toward the door. “I h-have to go to Cleveland. My car’s still there, and—”

“Forget the fucking car! Joey—listen to me, you need to stay where you are! I’m coming. Do not leave that house!”

Joey’s chest tightened. D’s voice was so intense, so commanding, it made his knees weak. And god help him, it made something else stir too.

But still—he couldn’t. “I-I’m sorry,” he whispered, and hung up.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The phone trembled in his hand.

He shoved it into his pocket and ran up the stairs.

Linda was in the kitchen, humming to herself as she packed leftovers into Tupperware. “Joey? Everything okay?”

“Y-yeah. H-here.” He held out the $200. “F-figured y-you could use it.”

She blinked at the cash. “Joey, what the—?”

“No time,” he said, breathless. “I—I’ll explain later.”

The rumble of tires outside caught his attention. He darted to the front door, yanked it open, and saw Josh climbing out of the passenger side of his girlfriend’s beat-up Honda Civic.

“Yo,” Josh called. “You ready?”

Joey nodded, heart still pounding.

“Mind if we hit Wally’s first?” Josh asked as he slid back behind the wheel. “I want smokes and snacks. Maybe a scratch-off.”

Joey nodded absently, getting into the car beside him. The burner phone was still in his pocket. His fingers curled around it.

D’s voice was echoing in his skull: “Just. Stay. Put.”

But it was too late.

The car pulled out of the driveway, and Joey didn’t look back.

He didn’t know what he was doing. But something had been set in motion now—something that couldn’t be undone.

And somewhere out there… D was coming.

***

The call from Ralph came just after 10 a.m. D was still shirtless, groggy, wiping sleep from his eyes as he picked up.

“Vinnie’s suspicious,” Ralph said, voice hushed. “He sent Milo to check your handiwork.”

D stiffened. “What?”

“The delivery boy. The kid. Joey Balas. Vinnie made Carmine dig into it, and they pulled the name. We’ve got the kid’s full info now and Milo’s headed to Warren to check. I—I just gave him the address, man. You didn’t kill that kid, did you?”

D didn’t say anything.

Not thanks for the warning. Not fuck you.

Just silence.

Then: a click as he hung up.

Shirt on. Gun holstered. Car keys snatched off the counter. D’s pulse hammered like a drum as he flew out the door.

In just ten minutes, the interstate blurred past his window in streaks of gray and cool afternoon sun. His hand was clamped so tight on the wheel that his knuckles ached. The familiar route southeast was a chain tightening around his neck.

He tried Joey’s burner again.

No answer.

He waited a couple minutes, heart pounding relentlessly in his chest every second he waited, then, frantically he tried again.

Still nothing.

D’s jaw flexed. He cut around a slow-moving semi, gunning it, the engine growling under him.

The landscape shifted as he sped down the highway. Downtown Cleveland fell away into the grim stretch of rural sprawl—empty gas stations, dry grass fields, boarded-up barns. D’s foot stayed heavy on the gas, weaving through slow traffic like a shark.

He called Milo next.

Straight to voicemail.

“Shit.”

D hung up. Waited five minutes, his fingers drumming along the wheel as he sped around a group of minivans.

Heart pounding in his ears, he tried Joey again.

Still nothing.

D growled as he tossed the phone aside. He hated this. The helplessness. The ticking clock in his head. Every second that passed, every mile closer to Warren he got tightened the noose around his throat.

A couple minutes passed and D tried Milo once more.

And this time, it rang.

“What up,” Milo said, smug and breathless. “You need something?”

D kept his voice even. “Where are you?”

“Couple exits from Warren. Just past Lordstown, I think. Funny, huh? Boss sends me to double-check your work. What’d you do, get sloppy?” Milo chuckled, high on the idea of catching D in a lie. “Carmine thinks something’s off. Maybe he’s right.”

D’s jaw clenched. His left eye twitched, but he forced calm into his tone. “Listen. I didn’t screw anything up. But I do need to talk to you. Not on the phone.”

Milo paused. “Why not?”

“Because this is about Carmine,” D said smoothly, lying out his ass and not feeling the least bit bad about it. “He’s pulling some shit behind Vinnie’s back. I’ve got proof. You want to impress the boss, right?”

Another pause. This time, longer.

D added, “You get to be the guy who brought in a rat. Not me. You.”

“…Shit.” Milo exhaled. “Where?”

“There’s a Dollar General off Bailey Road. Just before you hit Niles. You’ll see a gravel lot around the back, behind the dumpsters. No cameras. Pull in there. I’ll meet you in ten.”

“Fine,” Milo muttered, still suspicious but greedy enough to show up. “But if this is bullshit—”

“It’s not.”

D hung up and drove faster. He didn’t even notice the speed anymore. He was breathing like a fighter before a match, heart hammering, mind clear and cold.

He’d kill Milo fast.

He had to.

Because if Joey was in Warren. Then so was the danger.

He just hoped he wasn’t too fucking late.

Ten minutes later, right on the dot, D pulled into the cracked lot behind the crumbling Dollar General off Bailey. The air buzzed with the high drone of cicadas and the sickly-sweet stench of a nearby dumpster. An old mattress lay curled up beside the fence like roadkill. A place where things went to die.

Milo was already there, parked under a scorched, leafless tree, arms crossed, a cocky smirk plastered on his too-young face. He looked like a kid playing gangster. Black t-shirt stretched tight across his wiry frame. The glint of a chain around his neck. The glint of something far more dangerous tucked under his waistband.

“So,” Milo called, pushing off the car. “You gonna tell me what Carmine’s hiding? Or you just wasting my time with this cloak-and-dagger bullshit?”

D stepped out of his car slowly, letting the door close behind him. The sun caught on the sweat along his collarbone. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at Milo. Really looked.

He saw a kid. Cocky, sure. But still a kid.

“Milo,” D said low. “You don’t gotta do this.”

Milo frowned, his smirk twitching. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“This life. This job. You don’t gotta stay in it. Not for Vinnie. Not for Carmine. Not for any of those pricks.”

Milo laughed once, sharp. “Man, you finally lost it. What’s this, a recruiting speech for the witness protection program?”

“I’m serious,” D said. “You’re still young. You can get out.”

“Oh, like you?” Milo’s eyes narrowed. “You wanna talk moral compass now? After all the bodies you’ve dropped?”

D’s jaw clenched. “Yeah. Exactly because of that.”

Milo shook his head. “Cut the bullshit. This about that messenger kid, isn’t it? Ronnie’s little brother?”

D didn’t answer right away. The silence said enough.

Milo scoffed, pacing a step. “Unreal. Carmine was right. You’re slipping. Thought maybe he was just being paranoid.”

“I let him go,” D said. Voice soft. Honest. “He didn’t deserve it. None of them ever do.”

“You let him go?” Milo stopped cold. “Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

“I gave him money, a burner. Told him to run.”

“You’re a goddamn traitor.”

“Milo—”

“You’re a fuckin’ traitor!” Milo’s voice cracked. His hand went to his waistband.

But D was already moving.

He closed the distance in two strides and grabbed Milo by the wrist, wrenching the gun away and slamming him hard against the hood of the car. Milo cursed, twisting, managing to elbow D in the ribs. They grappled, grunting, fists swinging. D took a knee to the stomach, staggered back—but Milo wasn’t fast enough.

D recovered and lunged, driving Milo into the side of the car again, snarling. “You don’t gotta do this! Don’t let them turn you into another weapon!”

Milo’s eyes were wild. “Fuck you! You’re dead, you hear me?! They’ll know!”

D hesitated. Just for a second.

And in that second, Milo went for his knife.

Reflex took over. D grabbed the blade mid-draw and turned it back on Milo, plunging it into his side with a brutal, shaking force.

Milo gasped and slowly, the fight drained out of him. His legs buckled.

D caught him before he hit the ground. “Fuck,” he whispered. He cradled the kid like he was holding a broken bird. Milo’s blood soaked into his shirt, hot and sticky and awful.

“You could’ve walked away,” D muttered. His voice broke. “You could’ve been more than this.”

Milo’s lips moved, maybe trying to speak—but nothing came out.

D sat there for a minute after he stilled. Holding him. Breathing heavy. Letting it sink in.

Then, with a hollow, mechanical sort of focus, he got to work.

He popped the trunk of Milo’s car, cleared out a few empty boxes, laid the kid in gently and closed it. He stood there after, hands trembling, heart thudding like a hammer against his ribs.

This was it. No going back now.

They’d find the body. Vinnie would know. Maybe they’d think it was a deal gone bad. Maybe a junkie. Maybe Carmine would chalk it up to the streets being what they were.

But it didn’t matter.

D had drawn his line.

He got into his car, blood on his hands, sweat in his eyes, and floored it toward Warren.

The tires screamed against the cracked asphalt as he merged back onto the main road. He could still feel Milo’s weight in his arms. Still smell blood. Still see the look in his eyes when he realized what was happening.

D’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. He couldn’t think about that now.

The road narrowed to two lanes, snaking between empty gas stations and forgotten rustbelt neighborhoods. Faded brick houses. Swing sets with no swings. A liquor store with its sign hanging sideways like a broken jaw. The farther he got from the city, the heavier the air became.

He turned on the AC. Then off again. It wasn’t helping.

Joey hadn’t answered yet.

But he would. He had to.

The flip phone was in that boy’s pocket, and D had burned the number into his own phone like it was sacred.

Six calls now. Still no answer. D wanted to scream.

The sun was high now, hanging like a spotlight on his sins. He passed a red pickup going fifteen under the limit and cursed as he gunned it around them, ignoring the angry honk. He was past caring. If a cop pulled him over, he’d deal with it.

Because nothing else mattered.

Not Milo. Not Vinnie. Just Joey.

The boy’s voice echoed in his memory—soft, hesitant, sweet in a way D had no business craving.

He thought about Joey’s green eyes, the way they searched his face like they were asking permission to hope.

D hit a pothole and nearly blew the tire. The car swerved slightly, but he corrected fast and kept going, heart hammering in his chest.

The town limits were close now. He could feel it. Trees thickened. Chain-link fences lined narrow streets. A railroad crossing blurred past in his peripheral. He was maybe ten minutes out—maybe less if he didn’t stop for anything.

He grabbed his phone off the passenger seat and hit the burner’s number again, one hand still gripping the wheel.

The ringing tone filled the cabin. Loud. Endless.

“C’mon, kid… pick up. Please…”

He didn’t even realize he’d whispered it aloud.

D needed to hear Joey’s voice. He needed to make sure the one thing he did right… wasn’t already gone.

Eight minutes from Warren now. D pressed harder on the gas.

The phone continued to ring. And ring.

And finally—Click. A soft, breathless voice answered, “H-hello?”

“Joey,” D snapped, voice low and lethal. “You’re in fucking Warren, aren’t you?”

“N-no—I mean, y-yeah,” Joey stammered. “I j-just—”

“I’ve been calling you all morning,” D snarled. “Why the hell didn’t you answer?”

“I—I w-was upstairs,” Joey said quickly. “I didn’t hear it. I j-just saw—”

“I told you not to go back there,” D barked. “I told you it wasn’t safe. And now you’re right back in the middle of the goddamn blast zone!”

“N-nothing’s happened,” Joey said. “I—I’m okay. N-no one’s come.”

“Not yet,” D growled, thinking of Milo back at the Dollar General, dead in the trunk of his car. “But they will. You’re not safe, Joey. You’ve got to stay put. I’m already on my way.”

Joey hesitated. “Y-you’re coming here? T-to W-Warren?”

“Yes.” D’s voice softened, but only barely. “I’ll be there soon. Just. Stay. Put.”

But Joey was already moving. D could hear the rustle of fabric in the background, the sound of a door opening. “I—I can’t,” he whispered.

“Joey, listen to me—”

“I can’t. I h-have to go to Cleveland. My car’s still there, and—”

“Forget the fucking car!” D shouted. “Joey—listen to me, you need to stay where you are! I’m coming. Do not leave that house!”

“I-I’m sorry,” Joey said, and then the line went dead.

D stared at the phone, stunned. “Goddammit, kid,” he whispered, flooring the gas.

He was almost there. Five minutes now.