The sun beats down mercilessly here. And my tanned skin bordering on deep red, soaks up each ray. My eyes are closed behind black sunglasses. The drink in my hand sweats. A droplet slides down to my pointer.
I take a deep breath. They come easier now. Easier than they ever did in New York. And it's not just the lack of smog and yesterday's garbage on the curb.
It is nine years, almost to the day, that I last breathed in the intoxicating and toxic fumes of the island of Manhattan. The day I pulled my last job.
My lip curls.
It was flawless. I pulled the big one. The one you retire after. Of course, after pulling the largest windfall from the mob in history, you have to retire. Or they'll hit you with their own compensation package.
I went with the fake-your-own-death plan, as opposed to their usual get-whacked-when-you-just-try-to-change-your-identity-and-get-out-of-dodge policy.
The two bikini-clad twenty-somethings burst out in giggles. It was going well.
Island life suited him. The slow pace. The constant crash of waves instead of ambulance sirens and honking horns. The laze of an afternoon where the most important decision would be what drink to have next and not which member of your crew would get laid into while you make your escape.
Almost a decade. And his screams still haunt.
I down the remainder of my rum. The blonde beckons me to join their antics in the pool. I jump in and oblige.
____
The next day, I am woken by banging. A pause. More banging. I roll over to stare at the ceiling, wondering why Magdalena hasn't answered it yet.
One of the girls coos beside me. Dammit, she's visiting family this weekend.
The banging gets louder, if that's possible. "Get this door open," orders a gruff voice.
"Sounds like he means business," I mutter to the brunette. She replies in a breathy giggle. "Unfortunately, I'm a little preoccupied." I work her mouth with my own.
The banging now sounds less like knocking and more like breaking in.
Ah. The realization clicks in my hungover brain. This is it.
Island life has made me sloppy. The intruders are inside by the time my hand feels the reassuring coolness of my 9mm. The girls are whimpering. The door bursts open. I am taking aim.
"Scalisi." He says. A name I haven't been called for nearly a decade. Said by a face I hoped to never see again. In a voice I still hadn't stopped hearing ricochet in my mind.
But he wasn't screaming this time. Johnathan Parker with nine years of lines etched into his face and a much more crooked nose than I remember.
The girls have fled the bed. My gun is lowering. The weight suddenly heavy.
I recognize the other men. Carro's enforcers. Some are wearing stupid grins. Pleased to see the retribution for the theft of the family's income.
My eyes glide over his now outstretched arm with the pistol, and meet Parker's own.
It's quieter than I expect with the silencer.
Then it's dark. And I don't have to hear the screams.
