Page 1 of Break For Me
Chapter One
ROCCO
His fist catchesthe hinge of my jaw.
My head snaps back. My teeth grind together, the vibration rattling my skull.
Good.
I lean into the next one, wanting the sting. It lands on my cheekbone, the skin parting wetly against the hard ridge of bone. The crowd is a wall of noise, a warehouse in Red Hook thick with the stench of cheap cigarettes and the sour sweat of gamblers. They paid to see a man get unmade. I’m here to collect.
The kid across from me is fast. Twenty-five, max. He has the kind of lean, cut physique you build with a personal trainer and a clean diet. He bounces on his toes like a dancer. He thinks this is a game. He thinks there are points to be scored.
He goes for my ribs. The impact is heavy. A dull thud that echoes in my lungs. Something in my torso gives—a sharp, splintering crack deep in my gut.
Pain is the only thing that works. Cleaner than whiskey. More honest than the lies I tell myself.
He grins, seeing the blood. He thinks he’s winning. He’s young. He hasn't learned that some things don't go down just because you hit them.
I catch his next jab. My right palm smacks against his fist, stopping his momentum cold. His eyes go wide. I close my fingers around his hand. I feel the small bones in his metacarpals crunch.
I don't wait for him to scream. I bring my forehead down.
The bridge of his nose gives way with a wet pop. He staggers, hands flying up to his face, blood spraying the concrete. I step into his space. I throw a right hook from my hip, putting all two hundred and forty pounds of my weight behind the hit.
His head snaps sideways. His legs quit. He drops.
I stand over him, chest heaving. I spit a mouthful of copper-tasting saliva onto the floor. The ref grabs my wrist and yanks my arm into the air. The crowd roars, a hungry, ugly sound.
I feel nothing.
The locker roomis a concrete tomb. Exposed pipes sweat overhead. A drain in the center of the floor smells of iron and rot. A single yellow light flickers.
I turn the tap. The water runs brown and cold. I splash my face. I watch the pink water swirl down the drain. I press a thumb into the split on my cheek. The sting is sharp. It’s the only part of the night that feels real.
The mirror above the sink is cracked, a spiderweb of lines dividing my face into jagged pieces.
I see a weapon.
I’m thirty-four but I look ancient. My head is a roadmap of scars. My beard is coming in grey at the edges. My neck is a column of thick muscle, my shoulders a broad slab of meat. My body is covered in prison ink. The Madonna on my chest is fading. The Falcone eagle on my right forearm is still dark, etched with a guitar string and ballpoint ink in Dannemora.
No clean skin left. No part of me hasn’t been used for someone else's war.
I press a rough towel against my face. In the glass, a monster stares back.
My phone vibrates on the bench. Alessandro. Not “Sandro.” That name died with our father. The man calling is the Don. My brother, but the boss.
I swipe the screen. "Yeah."
"Where are you?" His voice is a flat line. A flat voice. No volume. No need for it.
"Out."
He pauses. I can hear him breathing, slow and rhythmic. He doesn't ask if I’m okay. He doesn't tell me to be careful. Those days are gone.
"I need you at the house. Forty minutes."
"I just finished a?—"
