Page 57

VICTOR

“ Y ou look like shit, Victor.”

Lawrence filled the doorway of my downtown apartment, a silhouette against the dim light from the hallway.

He shut the door behind him and took in the wreckage—empty liquor bottles littering the coffee table, overflowing ashtrays, takeout containers stacked like a goddamn monument to bad decisions.

The curtains were drawn tight, shutting out the world and casting the room into perpetual twilight.

I slumped deeper into the sofa, nursing a glass of something amber and mean. I’d lost track of what I was drinking. Bourbon, I think. Maybe whiskey. My eyes burned like sandpaper, my head a dead weight on a brittle neck.

“Nice to see you too, Larry,” I muttered, gulping more liquor. It stung going down, but I barely noticed. I liked the burn.

He walked over, picked up an empty bottle, and turned it in his hand like he expected it to explain something.

“This isn’t like you. Drinking yourself stupid? Letting the place rot?”

I shrugged and stared into what little was left in my glass, hoping it might offer some form of absolution.

Lawrence took a seat across from me, unbuttoning his suit jacket with the slow, deliberate movements of someone who knew he had work to do. “Victor,” he said, softer now but in command. “You won’t get her back like this.”

I tried to focus on him, my vision swimming in the alcohol haze. “What the hell do you know?” I snapped, but there was no fire behind it. Just a child throwing punches in the dark.

“I know enough.” He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. “I’ve seen men go through worse and come out the other side. But they didn’t do it by drowning themselves in booze.”

I let his words hang in the air—too tired to argue, too broken to care. He was right, of course. Lawrence was always right. That’s why I kept him around.

“She won’t have me,” I said finally, my voice cracking like dry wood. “She’s…gone.” I closed my eyes and sank back into the sofa cushions. The fabric scratched against my neck like an old dog’s paw. “I never thought it would hurt this much,” I admitted.

Lawrence leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs with the composure of a man who had all the time in the world. “Love is a funny thing, isn’t it?”

His words swirled in my head like whiskey in a glass.

“It can build you up higher than a skyscraper or crush you like a tin can. But it’s never an excuse to stop living.”

He stood, wandered into the kitchen, and sifted through the wreckage until he found a clean glass. He poured himself a drink from one of the less-empty bottles, letting its aroma rise.

“You need to make a decision,” he said, returning to the sofa but not yet sitting. “Are you going to fight for her, or will you let her go?”

I sat up slowly, my body protesting with a chorus of aches and stiff joints. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is.” He took a measured sip, then carefully set the glass down on the coffee table—too gently for this wreck of a room.

“But wallowing in this purgatory won’t make it any easier.

” He raised an eyebrow. “When was the last time you shaved?” He sniffed the air and scrunched his face. “Or showered?”

I rubbed my cheek, the coarse bristle of a week’s worth of neglect scratching against my palm. My skin was gritty, and the stink wafting off me was starting to cut through even the numbing fog of alcohol.

Lawrence sat back down, his movements slow and deliberate as he studied me from behind his glasses. “What will it take to get her back, Victor? If that’s truly what you want.”

“I can’t put her in danger again.” My voice was hollow, carved out like dead wood. “Or Frankie. I can’t let my darkness touch them. I can’t live with that.”

“That’s a tall order, given your chosen line of work.”

I finished the last of my drink, letting the empty glass dangle between my fingers. “Maybe it’s time to cash out. Cut loose. Start fresh somewhere else.” I set the glass down on the coffee table with a definitive click. “Aboveboard and clean.”

Lawrence’s expression softened—just a fraction. He understood the complexities and weight of a life like mine. “That’s music to my ears, Victor. I won’t pretend it’s not. But you’re talking about leaving everything behind. Are you prepared for that?”

“For her? For them? And for my daughter, if I’m ever allowed to see her again?” I met his gaze. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

Lawrence swirled his drink, the liquid catching in the lamplight and casting slow, lazy reflections on the walls. “If that’s truly your decision, then I’ll help you with the legal and business details. We can make it a clean break.”

A strange sensation prickled at my chest—hope? Fear? Maybe both. “Thank you, Larry.” My voice came out softer than I’d heard in years. “I mean it. You’ve come to my rescue more times than I can count.”

He waved a hand dismissively, but a small smile crept onto his lips. “You pulled me out of the trenches back in France, Victor. It’s the least I can do.”

The war came rushing back—the mud, the shelling, the faces of men we’d served with. Some living. Most dead. And there we were—two survivors who had forged a brotherhood out of that inferno.

And every other inferno since.