Page 99 of Bronx

“What does she have to do with this?

“She called me, demanding that I do her a favor and find her brother. Imagine my surprise when she told me who her brother was?”

His body language changes.

“She wasn’t supposed to use that favor to look for me.”

“It’s baffling that she thought I owed you a favor at all.”

“She was supposed to use that if she found herself in real trouble. It was my one last chance to do something for her since I never did much for her growing up.”

“That shit is super sweet, but what possessed you to think that I would honor any kind of arrangement like that?”

“Because I saved your life, college boy, and you made a promise to me that day. A promise that, from what I can tell you, didn’t exactly keep. You don’t look like a damn banker.”

Lev staggers to the floor, grimacing in pain. I didn’t notice at first, but he’s been injured. I watch with rapt fascination as blood quickly spreads through the fibers of his jeans, soaking one specific area.

“You’re shot?”

“There’s been a target on my back for months. It’s not safe for me out here. That’s why I went underground.”

He unbuckles his worn leather belt and deftly uses it as a tourniquet.

“I’ve never been shot in the leg before,” he says. “It hurts like hell.”

“You are Lev Moore, right?

“Who else would I be?” he scoffs.

“You’ve strung together more words with me in the last few seconds with a bullet in your leg than you did six years ago in that cabin. I’m just shocked.”

“I’m not that same screwed up kid. Like you said, it’s been a long time. A lot of things have changed.” He pulls the belt tighter and then ties it in place. “Where’s Karma? She at her place? Is she okay?”

“No, she’s not okay.”

“What the fuck do you mean by that? If you’ve hurt her–”

“If I’ve hurt her, you’ll what? Cut my throat and leave me for dead? You’ve already done that once.”

“You’ve got this all twisted.”

“How’s that?”

“If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be standing here today, alive, and all grown the fuck up.”

“You sliced my throat!”

“You’re remembering things wrong. I cut you free from the zip ties. Anton caught me and was coming after you. He was always the best with knife work and, given the chance, he would have slit your throat from ear to ear and you would have been dead before you realized what happened.”

“Stop bullshitting me. I saw the blood on your knife.”

“You saw Anton’s blood. If you remember, he and I got into a scuffle. I was trying to stop him from killing you, and it worked. He was the one who sliced your throat, but because I was holding him back, he wasn’t able to cut you deep enough. The blood you saw on my knife was because I stabbed him in his fat gut and then told you to run.”

I run the fuzzy scenario in my head over and over like an old movie. Each time I do, the details change slightly.

“You stabbed your own father?” I ask in disbelief, still not sure I buy this story.

“He was my biological father, yes, but in reality, Anton was my handler. He plucked me out of foster care and raised me as his in-house little Consortium solider. That’s all I ever was to him. There wasn’t any love there.”