“Sunnyside is a retirement home for mobsters,” I told my daughter.
Trish and I sat parked outside Sunnyside—a 1920s hotel turned assisted-living facility—and stared at the entrance. Pots of daisies flanked the sliding-glass door. Laser sounds spewed from my grandson’s iPad while he played video games in the back seat.
She sighed. “We’ve been through this, Dad.” She reached into her purse, pulled out Sunnyside’s too cheerful welcome packet, and pointed to a picture of frolicking seniors. “Do they look like mobsters to you?”
An image of Marlon Brando—with his slicked-back hair, deep-set eyes, and puffed-out face—popped in my head. “Not all mobsters look like the Godfather.”
“It’s a great place. Socializing with people your age will be good for you.”
I rolled my eyes. She sounded like an AARP ad.
“You want me socializing with people like this?” I unfolded the article from the Tampa Bay Times: “Ex-Mobster Chuck the Chin Moves into Tampa Retirement Home.”
“What are mobsters?” Jimmy asked belatedly.
“Criminals, Jimmy,” I said, my eyes still on Trish.
He gasped. “Mommy—you can’t leave Grandpa with a bunch of bad guys.”
“My thoughts exactly.” The tsk-tsk tone in my voice clear. Even my five-year-old grandson understood a problem my adult daughter couldn’t seem to grasp.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I wouldn’t have invited you to live with us and encouraged you to sell your house if I’d known the Army was going to station me overseas.”
With only a few years left on her enlistment, Trish had planned on finishing her service commitment and transitioning to a civilian job in Tampa. But she’d recently received orders for Korea—an unaccompanied tour, meaning she couldn’t take any dependents. Her plan was to send me to Sunnyside and Jimmy to his godmother’s house until she returned. Jimmy’s father wasn’t in the picture.
My eyes went back to the building and its too cheerful facade. “Does it have to be this place?” I mumbled.
“This is the only place near Jimmy’s godmother that doesn’t have a waiting list. He can visit you here at Sunnyside. It will be hard enough with me away. I don’t want Jimmy separated from you, too.”
I considered telling Trish, again, that I could manage on my own at her house. But I knew my recent mishap with the stove had sealed the retirement home deal.
She grabbed the last of my registration paperwork, exited the van, and opened Jimmy’s door. “Come-on. Let’s get a cart so we can unload Grandpa’s stuff.”
Jimmy looked at me wide-eyed.
“Keep your wits about you, boy,” I whispered.
Jimmy tossed his iPad aside, lifted the lid to the console next to his seat, and rummaged through his mobile toy stash. He pulled out a Nerf gun, loaded a foam round, pulled back the spring, and brought the gun to the ready position.
I shot him a steely-eyed look.
“Cut it out, Dad,” Trish yelled before she pulled Jimmy from the van and slammed the door. “This place has great reviews. And you’ll only be here a year.”
I’ll be dead in a year.
I returned the newspaper article to the backpack near my feet and rolled down my window. Palm trees rustled. A warm breeze licked my face. And it was now just me—alone at the curb—watching my family walk into the lion’s den. I thought about my life before them. The secrets they didn’t know.
There was a reason I knew mobsters.
I used to be one.
* * * *
Sunnyside’s doors whooshed open. I gripped my walker. The wheels clicked against the grated entrance.
Click.
Click.
Boom.
I imagined the Chin jumping out from behind a ficus and capping me—a bullet through the mouth. That was what they did to snitches like me.
For a fleeting moment, I considered telling Trish about my past—that I wasn’t Michael Marshall—the family grocer, but Mickey “Two Guns” Carducci—wiseguy turned rat. And then I imagined her reaction—the hurt, the disappointment.
The disgust.
And I couldn’t do it.
I’d rather take my chances with the Chin.
I forced myself forward, deeper into the lobby.
Another ficus.
No Chuck.
Sunnyside’s doors snapped closed—the sound like a death knell. My eyes darted through the lobby in search of a man with horn-rimmed glasses and a chin like Jay Leno’s.
Would I recognize the Chin after all these years?
Would the hit man recognize me?
But the lobby was just an empty space that matched the pictures in Sunnyside’s over-glossed brochure: high ceilings, tiled floors that widened to a common room and a dining area.
“Dad,” Trish called.
I forced my eyes on my daughter.
“This is Sunnyside’s executive director, Britney Rossi.” Trish gestured to woman next to the reception desk.
Britney looked like a bottle-blond stereotype: roots too dark, tan too orange, hoop earrings so large they could moonlight as playground equipment. Light bounced off her celebrity-sized wedding ring and nearly blinded me.
“Welcome to Sunnyside, Mr. Marshall. We are thrilled to have you with us,” Britney sing-songed.
“You the boss here?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
My last line of defense against Chuck the Chin was Britney the Blonde.
I was screwed.
“If you’ll follow me, Mr. Marshall, I’d be happy to show you to your room,” Britney offered.
Like there was another option.
We continued through the lobby—Britney in the lead, Trish and Jimmy with the cart—while I tried to hatch a survival plan.
The Sunnyside brochure boasted two hundred residents. The Chin may know what I look like, but he doesn’t know my new name. I could keep a low profile. Take meals in my room. Avoid activities. I’d lived in the shadows for over half my life. It would be no different now.
Britney stopped at a digital sign mounted on the wall. It looked like my grandson’s iPad only on steroids. She explained Sunnyside’s weekly activities while colorful pictures slipped across the screen—water aerobics this, game night that. And their themed menu—Meatloaf Mondays, Italian Tuesdays…
And on.
And on.
And on.
“Isn’t this great, Dad?” Trish beamed.
“Yeah, great.” I felt like I’d aged a year listening to Britney drone on. My eyes skipped past Trish and ping-ponged between the common area and the dining room.
An old woman clutching a take-out container shuffled past us, and the smell of baked ziti wafted into the air. It took me back to a time when I was huddled behind tipped tables—pasta flying, people shouting, bullets whistling overhead.
The life I thought I’d left behind.
“Look, Grandpa.” Jimmy tugged at my sleeve and pointed toward the digital sign, which now displayed a nearly life-size picture of me and words that screamed, “Welcome to our newest resident, Michael Marshall!”
“How nice!” Trish gushed.
Nice if I want to get clipped.
“We like our residents to feel part of Sunnyside’s community the moment they walk through our doors.” Britney beamed.
I shook my head. “How long has my picture been up there?”
Britney frowned.
“How long?” I demanded.
Britney reached for her necklace and snaked the diamond-encrusted BBR across her chain like some nervous twitch.
“Not long.”
Slide.
“An hour.”
Slide.
“Maybe two.”
Slide. Slide.
“Which is it, an hour or two?” My voice loud now. I didn’t care.
Britney’s lips pinched so tight I thought the collagen would burst.
“Dad!” Trish shot me a look that could melt ice.
“I don’t think Grandpa likes his picture,” Jimmy whispered to his mother.
“Never mind.” I waved my hand. “Just take the damn thing down.”
* * * *
“What the hell, Dad?” Trish seethed when we were inside my room—a 300-square-foot box—bed, nightstand, dresser, bookshelf, table with chair, closet, and a bathroom that smelled like disinfectant and bleach. Between the geometric carpet, retro-style furniture, and avocado-green walls, I felt like I was in some 1970s time warp.
“I don’t like my school pictures either, Grandpa.” Jimmy whispered, still convinced I was upset about how I looked in my photograph. “Mom makes me wear a shirt with a collar.” He spit out the word collar like an obscenity.
“This is a good place, Dad.” Trish unloaded a wardrobe box from the cart, opened the lid, and hefted my clothes into the closet. “Your room has access to a courtyard. And there’s even a game room across the hall.”
When I didn’t respond, she turned, arms folded, and stared. “Promise you’ll give it a chance. Worrying about you, when I’m so far away, will kill me.”
It will kill you…
Jimmy pulled my cane off the cart, jumped on my bed, and wielded it like a sword.
“Give me that.” Trish yanked it away. She shook her head and went back to the boxes. Soon, books filled empty shelves and Yankee memorabilia filled empty walls. It was odd to see such familiar things in such an unfamiliar place.
Trish reached for my backpack, but I pulled it to me. “I’ve got this.”
“You sure, Dad? It looks heavy.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Stubborn,” she grumbled as she picked up an empty box, added it to the trash already on the cart, and pushed it into the hallway.
“Grandpa,” Jimmy whispered as if his mother was still in the room.
“What’s up, champ?”
He thrust his Nerf gun at me. “Keep it. You may need it for the bad guys.”
I smiled. “There are two things in life you must always remember, Jimmy.” I paused. “Are you listening? Because this is important.”
Jimmy nodded solemnly.
“Family is everything.”
“Family is everything,” Jimmy repeated like he was trying to commit the words to memory. “And the other thing, Grandpa?”
“Never give up your gun.”
Jimmy shoved his Nerf gun in his pocket like it was a hot potato.
“Thanks for having my back.” I winked.
“Always, Grandpa.”
Trish came back through the door. “Just met your neighbor, Bob. Seems like a nice fellow. You should go introduce yourself.”
I shook my head, but she didn’t notice.
Her eyes surveyed the room. She picked up a picture of the three of us—sun-kissed and happy. “I’ll be home in six months for midtour leave,” she reminded me. “Maybe we can go to the Keys again.”
I nodded.
She returned the picture and then rearranged things on my nightstand: Kleenex box to the left, picture to the right, books in the center.
Stack. Study. Restack.
Finally, she glanced back at me. “Well, I guess this is it,” she said, her eyes misted over. She hugged me long and hard.
My eyes burned, and I held my daughter tighter. “Watch your back over there,” I whispered. “Damn foreigners and all.”
She stifled a laugh. “Dad, I am the foreigner.”
“You know what I mean.”
“It’s Korea. Not the Middle East.”
“No place is safe these days.”
Jimmy threw his arms around my waist. “To the moon and back, Grandpa,” Jimmy said, a reference to our favorite bedtime story.
“To the moon and back, champ.”
When we finally separated, Trish took Jimmy’s hand, and they slipped into the hall. I stared at the door and thought about my life before I turned state’s evidence for the feds.
From my backpack I pulled out a worn copy of Cosa Nostra. I fanned through the mug shots of notorious Mafia members: all men—different sizes, different shapes, each with the same defiant look in their eyes—until I reached the Carduccis.
Over the years, I’d crossed out the faces of the dead: some murdered, some from cancer, some from other natural causes. With the Carducci family on the decline, I thought I’d made it—that I could live my twilight years threat-free. Until I ended up in a retirement home with Chuck “The Chin” Baldino—the Carducci family hit man.
God’s sense of humor was as twisted as my spine.
I tossed the book on my nightstand, and my eyes fell on the picture of my family—my life after the Mafia. We had our ups and downs. But it was a good life, an honest life.
And I’d be damned if I’d let the Chin take it from me.
I reached into the backpack, pulled out my snub-nosed revolver, and slipped it into my waistband.
Sunnyside’s member directory was in my welcome packet. I located the Chin’s room and his phone number. I picked up my landline, some plastic special—no caller ID. Between the cheap phone and the 1970s room décor it was no wonder this place didn’t have a waitlist. I dialed the Chin. He answered on the first ring.
I hung up, ditched my walker for my cane, and headed to the hall.
It was time to go on the offensive.
It was time to end the Chin before he ended me.
* * * *
The Chin’s room was a corner suite on the second floor of the East Wing. The elevator doors stuttered open, and I stepped out. My cane pressed against the teal carpet, leaving wide rings against the flat pile.
Step.
Shuffle.
Step.
The pistol behind my waistband rubbed against my skin, and I wondered if my hunched-over frame profiled the bulk under my shirt. I straightened my shoulders, repositioned the gun, and continued down the hall.
Step.
Shuffle.
Step.
Almost there.
I thought about my body—what it was like before old age betrayed me. My nickname, Two Guns, had nothing to do with weapons and everything to do with my former physique. I used to be a force of nature: ripped chest, swollen biceps—a body like Lou Ferrigno’s.
Now I could barely grip my cane.
Step.
Shuffle.
Step.
A few more feet.
My stomach tightened.
I looked to my left, to my right. The hall was still empty. I tucked my cane under my arm, pulled my pistol, reached for the Chin’s door, and froze.
Voices.
From the Chin’s room.
Shit.
I shuffled to the stairwell and folded myself onto the landing.
“It’s the broad next door. Ain’t it?” the Chin demanded. His voice scratched through the wall next to the stairwell.
“Stop.” Britney. Her words were softer, difficult to distinguish. I pressed my ear against the wall. “It doesn’t matter who made the complaint. You just need to keep your TV down.”
“Guy can’t watch football ’round here without getting hassled.”
“Not all morning with the volume that high.”
All morning.
I straightened. If the Chin had been in his room all morning, he hadn’t seen Britney’s ridiculous display in the lobby. I pressed my ear against the wall again.
“You need to get dressed. Some food and fresh air will be good for you,” Britney said.
Not dressed.
No way he’d seen my picture in the lobby.
The Chin didn’t know I was here.
I didn’t have to finish him.
Relief filled me.
Death was a messy business, and I never really had the stomach for it. I opened the stairwell door, eased into the hall, and headed back for the elevator.
I was in front of the Chin’s door when the fire alarm went off.
Bweep. Bweep.
Lights flashed, sirens whirred, and my heart jack-hammered in my chest. I turned for the stairwell, again.
“Mr. Marshall,” Britney yelled.
Crap.
I plunged my cane against the carpet and willed my legs to move faster.
Bweep. Bweep.
“Mr. Marshall.” Britney’s hand was on my shoulder.
I sucked in a breath and reluctantly turned.
Bweep. The fire alarm hiccupped and died.
“We are testing the alarm in this wing,” she explained. “No need to exert yourself on the stairs.” She frowned. “What brings you up here?”
I didn’t respond—my eyes fixed on the man behind her. Weathered skin. Peppered hair. Horn-rimmed glasses replaced oversized aviators. But otherwise…the Chin looked the same.
His eyes narrowed. “Have we met?”
My hand went to my waistband, near the pistol under my shirt.
“From the neighborhood, maybe?” The Chin’s Jersey Italian accent was suddenly thick—the same accent I’d worked hard to lose.
Britney flashed a cruise director grin. “This is Mr. Marshall, our newest resident.”
The Chin’s eyes widened. “Sorry.” He tapped his temple. “My head ain’t working right these days.”
“Why don’t you join us for a late lunch, Mr. Marshall?”
“Carmela’s eggplant parmigiana is heaven on a plate.” The Chin kissed his fingertips.
Carmela’s. I frowned. That was from the old neighborhood.
The Chin blinked, his eyes on me again. “Do I know you? From the neighborhood maybe?”
* * * *
The Chin might suffer from dementia, but I didn’t want to be around when he had a moment of clarity. I skipped lunch and avoided him for the next month. Dodging him was easier than I expected. I reluctantly took my daughter’s advice and introduced myself to Bob in 12B. Through casual conversation, I learned the Chin was an avid sports fan: football, hockey, bowling—it didn’t matter. He spent hours in his room, television loud, shouting obscenities. I reviewed the television schedule, kept track of the big games, the ones I assumed the Chin wouldn’t miss. Those were the times I left my room and ventured out.
Until things changed.
It was Sunday afternoon, NFL football games in full swing—the perfect time to go to the dining room for brunch. Except when I returned to my room, the Chin wasn’t upstairs. He was in the game room across the hall.
“You listening to me?” the Chin demanded. There was a grit in his tone, not like the senile man I’d met in the hall. A set of pliers and a box with dice, dominos, plastic chips—what remained from “Saturday Game Night”—sat on the table between the Chin and Bob from 12B. Bob’s hands were duct-taped to his chair.
“Guys around here owe me and think they can walk away?” The Chin spun a jewel-encrusted ring like a top. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, and a series of crosses that looked like prison tattoos climbed up both his forearms. “Bet is a bet. And you bet I collect. Ain’t that right, Stan?” He spoke to a man I didn’t recognize, hovering in the corner of the room.
Stan clutched his bandaged finger, his eyes fixed on what I suspected was his former ring.
Bob whimpered.
“Think that’s bad, Bob?” The Chin’s eyes locked on me. “Ask Two Guns here what happens to snitches.”
Two Guns.
My stomach tightened. Shit.
Stan, wide-eyed, didn’t wait for my answer. He bolted past me out the door.
The Chin continued to stare that defiant look in his eyes. He was back.
And he was coming for me.
My fingers inched toward my gun.
“Now, what to do with you?” The Chin looked back at Bob.
“They were plastic chips.” Bob explained, desperately trying to reason with a man suffering from dementia. “No monetary wager.”
“Seeing as you don’t have cash… ” The Chin continued, unfazed. His eyes went to the wedding band stuck on the man’s finger. “There are other ways to collect.” He reached for the pliers.
Britney breezed past me, leaving a cloud of perfume—sweet and powdery—in her wake. “Brunch is served in ten minutes, gentlemen.” Her voice was pleasant, as if finding a resident duct-taped to a chair was just your typical day at Sunnyside.
“Meatloaf Monday?” The Chin dropped the pliers and looked at me. “You coming,
Marshall?”
* * * *
There were rules about whacking a man with half his mind. But if things continued like this, I’d have to break them. I stayed long enough to watch Britney unwrap Bob from the chair with her apologies and promise she would move Chuck to another wing in the building with better supervision, where they specialized in cases like his. It sounded good in theory, but I didn’t believe this would save Bob or Stan or me. Once the Chin had his sights trained on someone, nothing could stop him.
I skipped the meatloaf and went outside to the courtyard. The air was fresh and clean. It cleared my head. But I still didn’t know what I was going to do.
When I returned to my room, Britney’s key was in my door. She turned the lock, smoothed her shirt, and faced me.
Surprise flashed across her face and transformed into one of her cruise director grins. “You startled me, Mr. Marshall.”
I leaned against my cane and stared at the keys in her hand.
“I came to check on you. Knocked on the door. When you didn’t answer… ” She shrugged. “The safety and well-being of our residents is always my primary concern.”
Made sense, considering what just happened in the game room with the Chin.
I eased back on my heels.
Maybe I’d underestimated Britney.
Maybe she could be a line of defense against the Chin.
I shuffled past her and opened my door.
“I need to ask you something, Mr. Marshall.”
Maybe I should tell her that Mr. Baldino—or whatever the hell the Chin went by these days—needed to go. That no one was safe if he stayed here. Maybe this was what I should have done all along.
“It’s just that you don’t participate in activities,” Britney continued. “You spend so much time in your room. Are you depressed?”
What the hell?
“I can send one of our in-resident physicians to your room, if you are more comfortable speaking to someone else.”
You have a mobster torturing residents, and you’re concerned I’m depressed?
I couldn’t believe I thought this woman could help me. She was useless.
“I don’t need a shrink,” I mumbled.
Britney’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. “Let me know about that physician, Mr. Marshall.”
* * * *
Trish called later that night.
It started with the usual pleasantries, but her voice had an edge to it, and I knew she had something on her mind.
“Got a call from Ms. Rossi,” Trish said. “She tells me you haven’t left your room since you’ve been there.”
“That’s not true. I go to the dining room.”
“You don’t participate in activities, Dad. She’s worried you’re depressed. Are you?”
“What?”
“Depressed.”
“No.”
“I can’t worry about you and focus on my job.”
“I’m not depressed.” But I could tell by her tone she’d already formed an opinion, just like she had with this retirement home.
“I spoke to Linda,” Trish continued, referring to Jimmy’s godmother. “She’ll pick you up tomorrow. You and Jimmy can spend some time together.”
If a visit with Jimmy was a byproduct of Britney’s crap, I’d take it. I’d do anything to spend time with my grandson.
The next day, just like Trish promised, Linda picked me up. We ate burgers at Red Robin. Jimmy filled me in on his new pal, Apollo—his godmother’s German shepherd—and proudly showed me his latest Nerf gun. It had thick red foam rounds that whistled in the air.
He seemed happy.
And in that moment, I was happy too.
We said our goodbyes at the entrance to Sunnyside. Big hugs. A few tears. Promises of another visit soon. And I walked to my room uplifted by Jimmy and thoughts of my family.
When Trish’s mother was murdered at an Italian restaurant, caught in the crossfire between the Carduccis and a rival crime family, I realized I couldn’t put my daughter at risk too. I’d told Jimmy that family was everything. And I believed that. But I didn’t tell him life was complicated and sometimes you were forced to choose between family and family. I chose to protect the person I loved the most.
So I took Trish, still an infant, into the witness protection program.
Now I thought about what she had accomplished and my beautiful grandson. I knew there was no redemption for me, but at least in Trish, I’d be leaving something good behind.
Inside my room, I flipped on the light and tossed my keys on my nightstand. My eyes went to the picture of my family in the Keys. But we no longer looked sun-kissed and happy. Instead, a thick red X crossed out my face. Just like I’d marked the Carducci family dead.
The Chin.
My hand went to my waist. I groped for my gun. My fingers wrapped around the pistol grip.
Crack.
Something heavy connected with my head. I stumbled forward.
And the world went dark.
* * * *
My head throbbed. I blinked. Tried to focus. But the room weaved. The images dark, distorted—like I was back in the House of Mirrors on the Jersey Shore.
My gun.
I tried to reach for it, but my wrists were duct-taped to the arms of a chair.
Shit.
I shifted in my seat and tried again. But realized it didn’t matter. The bulk was no longer there.
My gun was gone.
I blinked again—my vision sharper despite the pounding in my head. My eyes fell on my family’s picture—moved to the table in front of me—the thick red X still crossed out my face. If the Chin simply wanted me dead, he would have whacked me when I first stepped into the room. He planned to torture me.
I should have clipped that bastard when I had the chance.
Footsteps.
I looked up and expected to see the Chin. But it wasn’t the hit man who stood in front of me.
What the hell?
“Hello, Mr. Marshall. Or should I call you Mickey?”
My eyes fell on her necklace—the monogramed charm like some flashing neon light.
And then I got it.
I’d been so fixated on the Chin I’d missed the clues. The way she breezed over the Chin’s episode in the game room. The initials on her necklace: BBR. The day in the stairwell when I heard her tell the Chin to keep his TV down. She hadn’t told him to stop.
She’d called him Pop.
She was Britney Baldino Rossi.
My eyes went wide.
“I was wondering if you’d figure it out.” She smiled. Not her cruise director grin. This one was different. Chilling. A smile that matched her father’s.
“You taking over the family business?” I asked, finally finding my voice.
She shook her head. “Just a girl who loves her father. I wasn’t sure it was you at first. Even after Pop called you Two Guns. I mean, what were the odds?” She waved my gun in her hand like it was a prop. “With that thinning hair and that withered body, you look nothing like you did in the courtroom. But then I saw that book in your room with the crossed-out Carducci faces. I knew this was the man who stole my father from me.”
“What your father did landed him in jail.”
“Like you were so innocent.”
“I did what I had to do to protect my daughter.”
“Fathers and daughters.” She sighed. “I wonder if Trish would do for you what I’m about to do for mine.” She laughed. “And to think all this time you were in your room avoiding Pop when really you should have been avoiding me. If you’d spent any time with him, you’d know he was a born-again Christian—at least when he’s in his right mind.”
The Chin’s prison tattoos.
“He forgave you years ago. Bygones and all that.” She shook her head. “But I haven’t.”
“So now you’re going to shoot me?”
She placed my gun on the table in front of me. “You are going to shoot yourself.”
“Trish isn’t going to believe I committed suicide,” I said, my eyes fixed on the gun.
“I’ve laid the groundwork for a pretty convincing argument. Depressed resident refuses professional care and kills himself.” She paused, face composed, like the day I met her in the lobby. “I tried to get Mr. Marshall to see our in-house physician, officer. I even warned his daughter. The safety and well-being of our residents is my primary concern.”
“And if I refuse?”
She rattled off Jimmy’s godmother’s address. Trish’s home, even her address overseas. All details listed on my registration forms.
My stomach tightened.
“It’s payday, Mickey. If you don’t pay, your family will.”
Britney went to a bag on the floor in my room.
I eyed the gun still on the table in front of me, tugged at my wrists, tried to muster a surge of strength to pop my restraints. But I had nothing.
When Britney faced me again, she had another gun in her waistband, and a knife. She sliced at the bindings on my right hand. The tape started to give.
My hand was free.
I lunged forward, grabbed the gun from the table, pointed it at Britney, and fired.
But the hammer clicked against an empty chamber.
Shit.
“You really think I’m that stupid?” She shoved me back in my chair, and then reached into her pocket and placed a single bullet on the table—far enough away so I had to work to reach it.
“You have one minute,” she said, her gun pointed at me. “I called a friend. He knows where your family lives. If you’re alive tomorrow, they won’t be.”
I stared at my family’s picture—at Trish and Jimmy. And thought about the life I’d worked so hard to keep from them—the life I had to protect them from now.
I picked up the revolver and pressed my thumb on the release. The cylinder dropped open. I laid the gun on its side and slipped the bullet into one of the empty chambers. I picked up the gun again, flicked my wrist, and the cylinder locked into place.
Would Trish forgive me for the choices I’d made?
Would she understand the choice I made now?
I pointed the pistol to my head.
“Family is everything,” Britney said.
Britney was right. Family is everything. But she forgot rule number two.
Never give up your gun.
I turned the pistol toward her and fired.
And then I vomited.
Death was a messy business, and I never had the stomach for it. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stared at Britney’s lifeless body. Clearly she didn’t have the stomach for it either, or she would’ve capped me and made it look like a suicide.
“Mr. Marshall.” Someone pounded on my door.
I freed my other hand and inched over to Britney’s gun.
“Are you okay, Mr. Marshall?” More pounding. “Someone call nine one one and get the keys to this room.”
I gripped Britney’s pistol in my hand. She could have bluffed about her friend. But it didn’t matter. The Carducci family would make the connection between Mike Marshall and the traitor Mickey Carducci once Britney’s death was reported. They’d go after Jimmy and eventually Trish to get to me.
As long as I was alive, my family would never be safe.
I closed my eyes and pictured that time in the Keys. The warm sand between my toes. Jimmy’s laughter. Trish’s easy smile. And I held on to the thought that I was leaving something good behind.
Britney had to die so my family was protected. And now, so did I.
I put the gun to my head and pulled the trigger.
Stacy Woodson is a US Army veteran, and her time in the military is often a source of inspiration for her stories. She made her crime fiction debut in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine›s Department of First Stories and won the 2018 Readers Award. Her story “Armadillo By Morning” was a shortlisted finalist for the Bill Crider Prize for Short Fiction in 2019, and “The Hail Mary Play” was featured on the cover of Mystery Weekly Magazine’s July 2019 issue. Since her debut, she has placed work with ten anthologies and publications. For more information, see stacywoodson.com.
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