Illicit

Twenty-Eight, Levi

Throbbing waves of pain pulls me out of the black, no trace of warm hands and lips following me out of the abyss, cold wall presses against my back. My spines slumped awkwardly against whatever I have been propped up against, not having a lot of bodily support.

Marcus was the last thing I saw, the blood trickling from the side of Aria's face as he held her slumped over his arm, the SUV we were supposed to escape in empty from our friends and hostages. With everything happening with Hudson, Aria put her phone down and didn't keep an eye on the security footage like we were supposed to be.

The whole point of her coming with me into the office was because she wouldn't have been an aid to getting the other's out when her attention was supposed to be focused on making sure they got to the car safely and that Nolan wasn't creeping around. Clearly, they had a different rota of protection on, Nolan nowhere to be seen and Marcus taking their place.

Placing blame on her won't change the position we are in but fuck, such a simple mistake has led to our downfall, and we were so confident in every step we made. Still, they anticipated us coming for them on some level which shouldn't be surprising since Elias spilt all the beans.

The thing about the conversation we had with Hudson that bothers me is that there was no fight in him, the gun was a bland play that he never intended on following through with. Even with Aria disarming him, he could have landed at least two shots into one of us if he really wanted to try.

Convincing us that he was just a little slow in that moment would have worked better if I hadn't grown up with the man and had more information than anyone fucking wants about how well Dad used to be with a gun. He worked with weapons and evidently the Mafia for years longer than we had assumed, no one gets through a lifestyle as dangerous as that without picking up all the ways to survive.

It's a natural reaction that everyone develops in situations that threaten him, if his conscience was anything to by then him being scared of the life, he wanted feels unrealistic. He lived amongst the worst of the worst, watched some of them impart their skill onto people who do and do not deserve it.

Hudson didn't give off the impression that he wanted out of this life or the business, if he did then he would have been straight forward, just like he is in every other facete of his life. Instead, he told stories and left ominous messages for everyone to decode, maybe when my knife was at his throat did, I see a hint of fucking struggle.

It didn't disappoint me at the time, the fact is he is dead, gone and marinating in his own blood but now, the ease with which the murder happened only illuminates the struggle we have now been pulled into.

My head pounds with a headache, my temple and chest throbbing with pain as I finally peel my eyes open as the person slumped against my shoulder begins to shuffle. The room is dark, stuffy and smells of the ocean, but the dim lighting doesn't sear my eyes as my surroundings come into focus.

The fuzziness of my concussion clears the haze from my eyes, the breeze seeping in through the cracks in the wooden walls. The small room is built from old wooden planks, the large windows are covered in newspaper, tapped to the glass and faded from sun exposure. The yellow lights hanging from the roof swing slightly with each renewed sweep of wind, the cold breeze prickles my bare arms.

The jumper I had on earlier absent on my tanned skin, as are the weapons I had stashed in various pieces of clothing, my genius idea of having one in the bottom of my shoe was thwarted by the fact I am currently barefoot. The pinching against my chest increases as I look down, the number one, with my name typed beneath it has been stappled through the thin fabric of my shirt and into my skin. Blood stains and crinkles the piece of paper; we haven't just been kidnapped to me disposed of.