Page 2 of Romeo

“Do you have the missing funds?” one of the foreboding men asks.

Martin peers at Thomas, who has a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face. My older brother may be a drunk and a petty criminal, but it’s obvious he’s never looked true evil in the eyes until now.

“I can get it by next–”

“No,” the man clips out, cutting Thomas off. He turns back to Martin, eyeing him up and down. “I thought we were on the same side, Mr. Branson, but perhaps I misjudged you.”

Martin’s gaze dips, and I follow his line of sight to the gleaming metal gun in the man’s right hand resting at his side. For now.

“We are on the same side,” Martin insists. “It’s just… it was…” The portly man with thinning hair scrambles for something to say to save his life. “It was Thomas! Thomas stole the money and thought you wouldn’t notice.”

Thomas glares at Martin, betrayal painted over his features, before he turns his attention to the man with the gun. “I can explain–”

A gunshot cracks through the inky black sky, followed by a sickening thud.

My mouth drops open, and the air drains from my lungs as I watch thick, dark red blood pool around my brother’s body. He’s looking away from me, but I know the source of the bleeding—a bullet between the eyes.

Staring in shock, I can’t comprehend what’s happened. A life has just ended, cut short by nothing more than the twitch of a trigger finger.

I finally drag air into my burning lungs, but the tears won’t come. Blinking rapidly, I force my attention on anything but my brother’s body. Even though we lived together, we were never particularly close. Thomas was eighteen years older than me and moved out before I turned two.

Still, he took me in when I showed up on his doorstep two years ago. Our relationship has been rocky ever since, and his drinking was getting out of control, but it wasn’t all bad. I’ve been focusing on my online crochet business, trying to scrimp and save as much as possible to get a place of my own.

But now nothing seems real, and my brother is just… gone.

The click of a gun cocking has me whipping my head in that direction.

“Now, gentlemen,” Martin starts, holding his hands up in surrender. “Let’s not get any ideas here. Thomas’ death is inconsequential, but if you shoot the head of the fucking UFCW union, you’ll draw a lot of attention.”

“Attention we can handle,” one of the previously silent men says, his voice gritty and terrifying. “Traitors, on the other hand…”

He lunges toward Martin, grabbing him by his shirt collar and pulling him up, up, up until his toes are barely touching the ground. Martin whimpers as the man shoves a gun to his temple, the metal digging into his skin.

“I-I-I’m not a t-traitor,” Martin stutters. “I swear it. Thomas got himself tangled up in the money laundering we were doing and thought he could skim off the top.”

“Bullshit. You’re working with the Di Salvos, aren’t you?”

“What? No. Not since your initial offer.”

Di Salvo… I’ve heard that name before, but I can’t remember where or in what context. Probably something Thomas went on a drunk rant about at some point.

“What do you think, boys?” the man calls over his shoulder. “Do we believe Mr. Branson?”

Without waiting for an answer, he squeezes the trigger, sending a bullet tearing through Martin’s skull. He drops to the ground next to my brother in a crumpled, unnatural state. I try shutting my eyes, but I can’t look away from Martin’s dead stare. His brown, lifeless eyes bore into me as terror wraps itself around my body in a suffocating blanket.

I’m vaguely aware of three sets of footsteps fading into the background, followed by the subtle start of an engine as a car pulls out of the gravel parking lot, but I can’t bring myself to move. To blink. To breathe.

I’m suspended in this moment as it stretches on for eternity. My vision grows fuzzy around the edges, and a few black spots dance in front of my eyes. Only then do I realize I’ve been holding my breath for too long, and I’m on the brink of passing out.

Pulling ragged breaths into my lungs, I try not to choke on the rotting garbage smell mixed with the metallic scent of blood.

I need to get out of here.

That thought seems to reset my brain, and my fight-or-flight response finally kicks in. I carefully uncurl myself from my hiding spot and crawl a few feet down the alley before standing on wobbly legs.

One foot in front of the other,I tell myself.

It feels like I’m wading through mud, and I try picking up my pace, only to trip and fall on my hands and knees. Biting my lips to contain my whimper of pain, I continue crawling until I can stand again.

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