Page 2 of Nick

I always swore to myself I would never tell another person I loved them after what I went through in my childhood. Love was a weapon for Patrick and his crew. Love was a weakness to be used against people. I watched, helpless, as Patrick beat, drugged, or raped female family members of people who owed him money, or who he wanted something from. If there wasn't a female available, he'd use a son, or brother, or anyone else the person held close. He spared men from sexual abuse, but he exploited young boys. It didn't happen often, only once that I was aware of, but I'm sure there were more. Most of my severe beatings came from when I found out about kids being sexually abused. Despite being a kid myself, I did everything in my power to stop them from being raped. All three times, I ended up in seriously bad shape. The first time I made it to the hospital, but I couldn't tell you how I got there. I had a broken arm, internal bleeding, and lacerations all over my body. I spent 3 weeks in bed recovering. The other two times I caught him with little kids, the asshole had a doctor come to the condo to tend to me, and I was bedridden for weeks each time.

I never intended to allow any woman close enough for me to develop genuine feelings for them, but Shortie managed. I know she never set out to be my person. She just wanted to be my friend, like the guys, and maybe that's why it happened. Whatever the reason, she got to me, and she's mine now.

As I’m finishing my burger, the bell over the door chimes and I see two men enter, heading right for me. One is short and stocky with a shaved head, a black leather vest, and dirty jeans. The other is over 6ft, lanky and dressed well, with a pressed grey dress shirt, black dress pants, and leather shoes. He’s the threat, carrying himself with confidence and watching his surroundings at all times.

They stop at my booth, and the short one slides into the seat opposite me and reaches for my fries, so I quickly grab his thumb and break it. No room for understanding or second chances in this world. He howls, but the taller one quietly tells him to shut up. Stocky does, holding his hand to his chest.

“I’m Artur. You’re Nicholas Bouras. Come with us. Patrick is expecting you,” tall guy says.

I look up to meet his eyes and point to Stocky across from me. “Who's that?”

“Danny.”

Nodding, I drop some cash on the table, then stand up and grab my bag. “Let’s go.” No need to cause issues already since I agreed to come here. I can hear Danny whimpering as he follows behind us, but I ignore him. I follow Artur outside to an SUV and hop into the passenger seat.

“Hey, you can’t sit there. Get in the back,” Danny whines.

What a waste of space this idiot is. I close the passenger door in his face, so he turns to Artur. “Get in the back and shut up,” Artur barks before getting into the driver’s seat.

Artur and Danny are both silent during the drive, but there's classical music playing low from the stereo. The interior of the SUV is as pristine as Artur appears. He's got an expensive gold watch on his wrist, and his hair is perfectly arranged. He even drives perfect, hands at 10 and 2. I wonder if he's Patrick's boss. If he is, I'll be at a disadvantage. Artur's not some lowlife idiot I can force to do what I want.

It’s a 15 minute drive through a rough part of town before Artur parks in front of a bar near a highway. Very original Patrick. I get out and follow him around back and through a beat up door. A bland hallway lined with wood and steel doors is inside. Interesting. You'd only need steel doors to keep something in or out. I wonder what Patrick's hiding. Artur opens the first door on the left, which has stairs to the basement. Great. I follow Artur down with Danny behind me. Not ideal, but I need to see what I’m dealing with.

The basement opens into a hall with more steel doors on the left and right. This setup's definitely Artur. Patrick wouldn't waste money on all this steel. It's too expensive, and he'd keep that money for himself. Artur opens the left door and walks inside. The smell of blood hits me as I enter, and I’m grabbed by two guys who were waiting for me. I pretend to struggle a little to make it believable. They chain me to a metal chair bolted to the floor with a drain below, wrapping it around my arms, legs, and torso. Once they’re done, they leave the room. Concrete walls, a fluorescent light overhead, and nothing else surround me.

“Welcome, Nicholas. Mr. Fitzgerald sends his regards,” Artur says.

I raise an eyebrow, saying nothing.

“You are here with your father because of Mr. Fitzgerald’s approval. We know you betrayed your family several years ago, so we’ve been monitoring you. Keep your enemies close, and all. Patrick assures us that the threat to your new family’s safety will keep you in line. As an added incentive, we have our own methods. We’ll be keeping a close eye on you,” he says before stepping out of the room and nodding to the goons. The two guys from earlier come back in. “No permanent damage,” he says before I hear him walk away and the door shuts.

I wake to smelling salts and an older man leaning over me. Fuck, everything hurts. “I’m John. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He wipes my face, applying butterfly strips above my right eye and smears something waxy over my split lip, then checks over my arms, legs, and torso.

They must be done with the introductions. It wasn’t a long session. I’m not used to being beaten anymore, but they stopped once I was blacking out. Is this supposed to instill loyalty? Make me scared? If they really knew anything about me or Patrick, they'd know this is nothing. I was in this state more than I wasn’t once the bastard pulled me into his business as a kid. Whatever they need to believe. I’ll play along, pretend to be struggling or whatever.

“There’s bruising on your ribs, and one might be cracked. Split eyebrow, 2 black eyes, split lip, busted blood vessel in your left eye. Contusions on your face, torso, thighs, arms, and a concussion. Did I miss anything?”

“Sprained wrist,” I add.

He nods and makes a note of that. “Let’s get you upstairs to Patrick,” he says, walking over to open the door and motioning for someone to come in. One of the guys who beat me up comes over, unchains me, and hauls me upright. My eyes take a minute to focus, and then we’re moving. I grunt when he yanks on my arm, but make it up the stairs. If I already knew the players, I'd punch this asshole in the throat for trying to drag me around. Unfortunately, I'll need to let myself get treated like shit until I know what I'm dealing with.

John knocks on the last door on the right in the hallway, opens it, and walks in. I get yanked in behind and shoved onto a couch on the right wall. Fucking dick. Moving to get more comfortable, I look through my swollen eyes. Patrick is sitting behind an old wooden desk on his phone, not facing us. John stands in the middle of the room quietly waiting, while the other stands guard by the door.

The room is shabby, but not unexpected, with the look of the bar from the outside. Worn grey carpet covers the floor with wood-paneled walls. There's a dented filing cabinet in the back right corner and a short set of shelves matching the desk in the back left corner. There're no chairs in front of the desk, just the hard green sofa I'm sitting on, which faces a flat-screen tv on the opposite wall.

Patrick looks older up close, with lines on his face, but he’s also clean. He's wearing a polo shirt, jeans, and brown boots on his feet. They're not expensive brands, but they're nicer than what he used to wear. His hair is darker and there're no greys in sight, so he’s dyed it. He's too vain to let himself have grey hairs, but the color looks awful and artificial. He used to scare the shit out of me growing up, but I feel nothing but disgust now. I’m bigger and stronger than he is.

Finally, he hangs up and swings his chair around. He studies me without talking, then turns to John. “Injuries?”

John lists my injuries, and then Patrick kicks both of them out. He stands and comes around his desk once the door is closed, leaning on the edge. “You look a little rough, son,” he smirks.

“What do you want?” I ask, getting straight to the point.

He shakes his head at me and puts his finger to his lips. “You belong here with me now that you’re an adult. We have a lot of work to do and a great business going up here in Tennessee. I’ll get you up to speed quickly, son; don’t worry. Come, I’ll show you around.”

That’s unexpected. I gingerly get up and wait for the room to stop spinning before following him out. We walk through the door at the end of the hallway and into a bar. It’s your typical setup with a U-shaped wooden bar top, a wall of liquor and mirrors, and red stools, with wooden tables around the edge of the room. The place is older, a cross between the old west and the 80s. The dark wood floor is dented, scuffed, and scratched, and matches the look of the tables and chairs. The walls have wood paneling on the bottom half, and a weird red color on top with neon signs and old posters. Patrick grabs a beer from behind the bar and takes a drink. A few girls are cleaning, but no one else is around.

“This is the bar. Opens at 5pm. Closes at 2am.”