It was snowing outside and the bed was still warm. Demos woke slowly and, for the first time in a long time, was glad he wasn\u2019t in his own room. It wasn\u2019t a dingy motel or a stranger\u2019s apartment. He hadn\u2019t opened his eyes to an unfamiliar back, to some man whose name he\u2019d forgotten. It was a face he knew better than his own, a smell he used to miss\u2014that damn bookstore smell that he complained about but quietly longed for. The scent was wrapped around him\u2014in the duvet and on the pillow, heightened by the warmth of the other body against his own.<\/p>\n
Ferris hadn\u2019t woken yet, still lying motionless on his side. He was a heavy sleeper, the opposite of Demos. The kind that wouldn\u2019t budge in a thunderstorm, that would be easy to murder in his sleep. That wouldn\u2019t notice if Demos kissed the spot between Ferris\u2019 eyes that he always rubbed when he had a headache. Demos left that kiss, pushed some hair from that forehead, and began the internal debate of \u2018Should I\u2019<\/i> or \u2018Should I not\u2019<\/i> get out of bed.<\/p>\n
On one hand, the room was chilly and Demos\u2019 current position under the covers was very warm. He could probably lie there all day, drowsily absorbing his partner\u2019s heat and taking in the texture of his skin and hair with light traces of his fingers. On the other hand, he had wanted to cook breakfast. He had made breakfast for Ferris before, but this would be different. This would be one of those \u201cthe next morning\u201d breakfasts, a silly thing he\u2019d daydreamed about for years. For some reason.<\/p>\n
Demos took one last look at his still very asleep<\/i> partner, then slipped out of bed to wash up. Ferris didn\u2019t stir. Of course.<\/p>\n
The moment the bedroom door opened, Demos was greeted by Stanley. The poor dog had been shut out of the room all night and the emotional distress was written all over his lopsided face. He chased Demos\u2019 ankles, turning in circles until his bad behavior was rewarded with a few pats.<\/p>\n
Seamus wasn\u2019t home that morning. It was one of those brunch shifts, the ones where he mixed more Bellinis and Bloody Marys than there were stars in the sky. He and Ferris still hadn\u2019t gotten around to telling Seamus about their relationship. Demos knew exactly how that conversation would go and was hoping to spare his partner for as long as possible.<\/p>\n
It was strange, really; Seamus was at work at Ristorante Giorgetti while Demos had slept in and was thinking about alcohol. Demos decided not to think too hard about it as he made his way to the kitchen.<\/p>\n
He was grateful for the set of Miyabi knives he\u2019d sent over back when Ferris had first moved in. As promised, Ferris hadn\u2019t seemed to touch them. Though it was probably less of the promise and more the fact that Ferris didn\u2019t need<\/i> hand-honed Japanese steel to make sandwiches or whatever it was he considered \u201ccooking.\u201d<\/p>\n
Soon the small kitchen was filled with the sound of a churning coffee grinder and the click click click<\/i> of the gas stove lighting up. There were just enough eggs left in the fridge for a frittata. Anything more complex would require a trip to the grocery store, one that Demos wasn\u2019t willing to make in this weather. His hand paused over a slice of bread before he glanced down at the pug by his feet.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you think, Stan?\u201d Demos asked. \u201cWould heart-sharped toast be too gay?\u201d The dog whined and Demos sighed in return. \u201cYeah, okay. Maybe next time.\u201d<\/p>\n
He could save that for an anniversary or something later down the road when it would be too late for Ferris to leave him. The Moka pot began to gurgle and the scent of strong, hot coffee drifted through the apartment. Just when Demos\u2019 domestic fantasy began to hit its peak, his phone rang. He read the name across the screen and let out a slow breath. Uncle Victor.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey, Uncle Vic.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere the hell are you? Did you see the news?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. I\u2019m at Ferris\u2019 place.\u201d It was a good thing they\u2019d been friends for years and that was a perfectly normal answer.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, grab a paper or something. It\u2019s on the front page,\u201d Victor said. \u201cThen get over here. Now<\/i>.\u201d<\/p>\n
Demos could hear the clink of plates and the low chatter of the brunch crowd in the background. \u201cYeah, sure.\u201d<\/p>\n
Victor hung up the moment Demos said \u201csure.\u201d Demos swallowed. News. There was news. Though his uncle had given no indication if it was good or bad, his tone was clear. It was important. Time to go find a paper.<\/p>\n
The apartment door cracked open enough for Demos to peer out into the hall. There was nothing at the foot of the door. That was right\u2014he\u2019d forgotten that Ferris had canceled his subscription. A line about monthly fees and it being \u201cbetter for the environment.\u201d Or something. Demos glanced down the hallway to see a freshly delivered Sunday edition of the Southport Daily one door down. Might as well. He already had a dumptruck full of felonies under his belt and stealing a newspaper was a misdemeanor, at best.<\/p>\n
Demos waited until he was back in the kitchen before rustling it open to view the front page.<\/p>\n
MAYOR APPOINTS SPD\u2019S 38TH<\/sup><\/span> CHIEF OF POLICE<\/p>\n Demos\u2019 hands crinkled the edges of the paper and his pulse skipped as he scanned the article for a name. There it was, the second line in: Seong-min Lee.<\/i><\/p>\n A weight collapsed from his shoulders; his body felt like it might float away. Finally<\/i>. He read the sentence twice, then three times, just to make sure. This was it\u2014this would change everything. Or rather, it would make sure nothing<\/i> changed. Once again, the Southport chief of police was in their pocket. Only this time, it wasn\u2019t with blackmail. This time, he was\u2014well.<\/p>\n He was a \u201cfriend of the family.\u201d<\/p>\n Demos drew a hand to his forehead. \u201cOh, thank fucking<\/i> God.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFor what?\u201d came a groggy voice from the bedroom door. Ferris. He was still disheveled from bed, only half-dressed and half-awake.<\/p>\n \u201cThey did it.\u201d Demos presented the newspaper with both hands. \u201cIt\u2019s Lee.\u201d<\/p>\n Ferris made a semi-conscious attempt at a smile. \u201cNo, you<\/i> did it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, I was stuck in bed for a month after I fell down a bunch of stairs. I didn\u2019t do anything.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt was your<\/i> idea, idiot,\u201d Ferris said. He\u2019d made his way into the kitchen, nudging the newspaper aside to give Demos a kiss on the forehead. The three inch difference in their heights made it embarrassingly easy. Demos fought the heat in his face.<\/p>\n Ferris paused. \u201cWait. Did you steal that paper from\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo. <\/i>You run out of shirts or something?\u201d Demos said before he could finish. It was a fair question as Ferris was wearing a pair of jeans and not much else. It wasn\u2019t a complaint, but it could at least save him a lecture on \u201crespecting his neighbors.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI smelled coffee,\u201d Ferris said with lifted hands. \u201cBut fine, I\u2019ll go finish up.\u201d<\/p>\n Demos stopped him by the arm. \u201cNo, no. This is okay\u2014you can have breakfast like this. But we\u2019ll need to eat fast.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy? It\u2019s the weekend.\u201d<\/p>\n Demos had already turned back to the counter, slicing the frittata into wedges and pairing it on a plate with roasted vine tomatoes and regular-shaped toast. \u201cUncle Vic wants me at the restaurant. You know how he gets when I\u2019m late.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cRight, right.\u201d<\/p>\n Demos glanced up. It was a nice view: Ferris in a pair of hastily buttoned pants, pouring coffee, hair stuck up in the back and eyes barely cracked open. Demos\u2019 eyes lingered for a moment and all he could think of was how long he\u2019d wanted this. To have spent the night, the whole<\/i> night, together. Then the morning after. It was real now.<\/p>\n He didn\u2019t have to daydream anymore.<\/p>\n #<\/p>\n By the time they arrived at the restaurant, the brunch crowd had been mostly unseated by customers who\u2019d arrived for lunch. One thing after another. Since receiving their star, it seemed there was never an empty seat in the restaurant. Seamus was at the bar, mixing one last mimosa with a brilliant smile on his face.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, Fer,\u201d Seamus said. \u201cWatch this.\u201d In one hand was a champagne flute, its stem gripped lightly between his fingers. The other held a bottle of Prosecco. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the glass, catching it in his palm before filling it halfway. Nothing broken. Nothing spilled.<\/p>\n Sergio was leaning on the bar, mesmerized. \u201cYou weren\u2019t kidding when you said he was good,\u201d he said to Ferris. \u201cLook at him.\u201d<\/p>\n Ferris was staring as well, brow knit as if he were looking at an abstract painting. \u201cI had no idea he could do that.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGhost,\u201d Victor called from the kitchen doors. He gestured backward with his thumb. \u201cOffice.\u201d<\/p>\n Demos slipped from the bar, leaving Ferris and Sergio fixed in bewilderment at Seamus\u2019 performance.<\/p>\n When Demos entered the office, Victor was already seated behind the desk. Demos\u2019 eyes fell on the wide, sturdy desktop and could feel a frantic blush rising in his face. That night\u2014it had been only a week ago. He cleared his throat and tore his eyes from the desk, shifting his focus to his uncle.<\/p>\n Victor gestured for Demos to sit. \u201cLet me ask you something.\u201d<\/p>\n Demos took a seat in one of the two wingback chairs facing the desk. He didn\u2019t speak, only keeping his eyes on his uncle.<\/p>\n \u201cHow long have you been on my crew?\u201d Victor asked.<\/p>\n Demos only had to think for a moment. \u201cFive years.\u201d Had it really been that long? He\u2019d started near the end of high school. Everything had been so different back then.<\/p>\n \u201cFive years.\u201d Victor leaned back in his chair with a creak of leather. \u201cFive years and you\u2019ve never asked about being made. Some of us are starting to wonder if you even want to be.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut my father wasn\u2019t Italian,\u201d Demos said. It stung to say those words, to admit it. In the old days, one had to be full-blooded to even dream about being made. Things had changed. Now, it only took one parent to qualify. An Italian father\u2014one Demos still didn\u2019t have.<\/p>\n Even now, he wasn\u2019t good enough.<\/p>\n Victor only snorted. \u201cThat man hasn\u2019t been in your life for over a decade.\u201d There was the metallic clink of a lighter as Victor lit a cigarette. Smoke rose slowly in the small, windowless room, drifting under lamplight. \u201cAs far as we\u2019re concerned, you don\u2019t have a father.\u201d<\/p>\n The skin up Demos\u2019 arms prickled. It reached all the way to his chest, leaving a hot stitch in his heart. \u201cWhat are you saying?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis thing\u2014the chief of police.\u201d Victor slipped the lighter back into his suit pocket. \u201cYou did good on this, Ghost.\u201d<\/p>\n Demos said nothing, ignoring the burn that was spreading up his fingers, the hot pulse rushing through his entire body.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re opening the books,\u201d Victor said. \u201cThere\u2019s a spot, if you want to earn it.\u201d<\/p>\n Demos was glad he was sitting. The words hit him like a truck. Words he never thought he\u2019d hear. A spot\u2014a spot for him<\/i> to earn. Even with all his flaws, the ones he could change and the ones he couldn\u2019t. Even with all this, there was a spot for him.<\/p>\n Gina had been right. She\u2019d been right about everything. All the torture Victor had put him through, all the grunt work and verbal abuse\u2014all of it had brought him here. Here, steps from being made, where nobody could cry foul. Nobody could say he didn\u2019t deserve it. His heart felt as if it might swell straight out of his chest.<\/p>\n But he had to earn it. That meant a hit. Taking someone\u2019s life in order to start his own.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve done hits before,\u201d Demos said as calmly as he was able.<\/p>\n Victor tapped his cigarette in the glass ashtray. \u201cAnd how many of those were sent down from me?\u201d<\/p>\n Demos didn\u2019t have to do any mental math to come up with an answer. He averted his eyes, lifting his hand to make a plain circle with his fingers. Zero. At this point, he couldn\u2019t even remember how many men he\u2019d killed. But it had always been his own vendetta, his own objective. There hadn\u2019t been a single life he\u2019d taken with an actual order to do so.<\/p>\n \u201cRight,\u201d Victor said. \u201cSo let\u2019s make this official.\u201d<\/p>\n Demos looked back up. \u201cI\u2019m ready.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou missed Sal\u2019s funeral, but there\u2019s something else you can do for him.\u201d<\/p>\n Demos swallowed. He knew where this was going; he hoped<\/i> he knew. There was no target that could make this moment more perfect. None that would bring him more satisfaction. His hand clenched on the arm of the chair.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re going to leave this restaurant.\u201d Victor\u2019s eyes were locked on him, making sure Demos took in every word. \u201cAnd you\u2019re not coming back until Aldo DeSimone is dead. Is that clear?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes,\u201d Demos said. He could see that stairwell, feel the ghosts of a dozen bruises and broken ribs. He remembered how the edge of each hard stair felt on his body and the sound of Aldo\u2019s voice, inches from his face. The burn that had spread up his limbs now consumed him from the inside out.<\/p>\n Demos stood, making his way to the office door. His hand stopped on the knob and he glanced back at his uncle, gaze as steady as it had ever been. \u201cPerfectly.\u201d<\/p>\n And the door clicked shut behind him.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" It was snowing outside and the bed was still warm. Demos woke slowly and, for the first time in a long time, was glad he wasn\u2019t in his own room. It wasn\u2019t a dingy motel or a stranger\u2019s apartment. He hadn\u2019t opened his eyes to an unfamiliar back, to some man whose name he\u2019d forgotten. 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