Page 50 of Mafia Captor

“Body weight exercises,” Beckett says, gripping the handle of a kettlebell. “Good for building up cardio endurance.”

“I’m sure I’ll pick up some tips while I take in the sun.” As if on cue, one of his staff members steps off the path, tray in hand.

He leans down with a smooth smile, offering me a glass. “Ice water with mint and lemon, madam?”

“Yes, please.” I take a sip of the icy, tangy water. Refreshing. “Thank you.”

Boston calls out, “Move, Mauricio. You’re blocking her view. I’m the only one she needs to be smiling at.”

“Thank you,” I say again, dismissing Mauricio with a smile before he can get into any trouble. He’s wary of Boston at best.

I sip my drink, the sun warming my skin as I watch the men—okay, I’m only watching one man—swing their heavy metal balls back and forth in the air. They make a show of it, flexing for me, making me laugh. Soon though, their laughter turns to one another, and I’m forgotten, the bromance winning out. I’d almost feel like a third wheel if my heart wasn’t about to burst with happiness.

For years, I’ve wanted this for my brother. An easy comradery with a male companion, a family member, one he could go out and do guy things with. I’ve tried to be everything for Beckett, a mother, a father, a sister, and a brother, but as anyone in my position would have, I’ve fallen short.

Watching Boston pick up the pieces I dropped, it’s a gift he’s given me. One I don’t take lightly. He just better know better than to involve Beckett in any of his mafia business.

My little brother has always been a good boy and that’s the way it’ll stay.

Watching Beckett in this new place in his life makes my mind trip back in time, to when things weren’t so good. My father left when we were little. He sent a check every month, thank God, but other than that and his blue eyes, I had no connection to him. My mother was bipolar, but before anyone really seemed to know what it was. She refuses medication and now lives in an assisted living place.

I used to visit her every month, taking Beckett whenever I could convince him to come. A year later, the staff asked us to stop coming. Apparently, Mom said she felt better without seeing us. That stung. But if I’m being totally honest? It was also a relief.

When we were young, there’d be days on end when she’d be in bed, moaning and crying, followed by days of painting the house blue, a haphazard job that I tried to clean up as best I could when she moved on to her next project. I shielded Beckett as much as I could. I learned how to be a mother watching those afterschool sit-coms about loving families who get themselves into quirky messes, then get themselves back out again, fixing their problems with their love for one another.

I loved Beckett, deeply and fully, from the moment the nurse put him in my arms and let me hold him for the first time. Love, that wasn’t something I needed a television show to teach me.

When I was eight, I read a book about a little girl who lived in an orphanage. I was terrified the same thing would happen to us, that we would be separated. So, I kept our strange little lives a secret and we managed. Beckett was good. He made my job as easy as it could be for someone so young. I could see the concern in his eyes. He took that worry and turned it into determination to make me smile, to get a laugh out of me.

Honestly, I think our dynamic has shaped his personality, made my brother feel like he has to be the funny guy in the room. I kept us going. He kept me steady. If he hadn’t kept things light? The weight of our world would have crushed us.

That’s why it makes me so happy to see Boston make him laugh.

I’m the one who walked him to school, holding his hand all the way to his classroom. When I got my license, I drove him. Every day. Parked on the street watching him till he disappeared behind the front door. Even if it meant I was late to class. A little help from my memory and YouTube and we got through homework. He’s smart, a hard worker, and he got great grades. He was supposed to go to college. I was the one who put stamps on each of his applications.

He didn’t get in. Not to a single one.

I blame myself.

I had moved out by then. I had to. Mom was pretty stable during that time, even holding down a part-time job at the Dollar Store. I got a scholarship to college out of state that I couldn’t afford to pass up. But reaching my college dreams made him miss out on his. I could have helped him get registered at a community college, something. Instead, he opted to move to New York with me, move to a small town in the Catskills, and work as an auto mechanic.

He always loved working on cars.

He’s gotten bigger since he got here to Boston’s estate, his shoulders broad and round from the weights he’s been lifting. The babyish look has melted away from his cheeks, leaving only angles and planes behind. He doesn’t look like a kid anymore.

Still, he’ll always be my baby brother and—wait. Is that… wait…

What the heck is that I just saw on Beckett’s flawless skin.

I peer for a closer look as Beckett twists his torso, kettlebell in hand.

There it is again, a flash of black ink swirling just above his right hipbone. My mind was not deceiving me. My brother, my baby brother, my Beckett, has a tattoo, on his body.

I’m going to kill Boston.

I’m going to kill Beckett.

I’m going to kill them both.

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