#mw-no.7

Beck didn’t leave his apartment for two days. He also didn’t hear from Simon.

Instead, he sat on his couch, icing his face, clutching a pillow against his aching chest. Usually after a good beatdown, the pain made it too difficult to entertain thoughts, but this time the panic was cutting cleanly through all other sensations. Where was Simon? Was he ok? Did Pat even know yet? How long would it be until he found out? And after that, would he piece together the truth about him and Simon?

If it were any other family that had gotten ahold of the briefcase, Beck thought bitterly, it would have been alright—survivable, at least. But the Connells? They’ve been the enemies for decades, long before Beck even joined up. Back when he was still a toddler three states away, hiding from his parents as they smashed dishes against walls and screamed, Pat and his wife Mirabel were expecting a child—an heir to the family business.

Simon told him the whole story one night, while they were sitting in Beck’s car, maybe three months after they’d started dating.

“How come Pat never married or had his own kids? He always calls you his heir and stuff, why not have his own?”

“He was married once, but it didn’t end well for Aunt Mirabel.”

“Wait, really? What happened?”

“Aunt Mirabel was a fierce woman and ran as much of the business as Uncle Pat did. From what everyone says, she was nothing like Ma. My mother is great, but she would never be willing to go head-to-head with, say, the head of the Bertinessis or something. Aunt Mirabel would walk right in, and they’d be scared of her. Even after she got pregnant. You don’t have to guess why Uncle Pat loved her so much. Nick used to tell me about the two of them together, what Uncle Pat was like back then. He was… warmer, apparently. Not with anyone else, just with her.

Anyway, she was like, 5 months along or something, right? And Uncle Pat’s got this sting planned on the Connells, at one of their old hideouts, a seafood place down by the dock. And everything was going just as planned, until one of their people escaped the hit, and took matters into his own hands. It was the Connell heir at the time, this kid named Joel. A lot of his relatives died in the hit, so he decided to strike back, right where it hurt. He came to Uncle Pat’s house and started shooting through the windows—this was his old house, not the one you’ve seen. My uncle wasn’t home, because he was waiting at the deli for the report after the hit. By the time he got home, Aunt Mirabel was… well, he took her to the hospital, and they couldn’t do anything for her or the baby.”

“That’s terrible.”

“He couldn’t remarry—that’s why I’m his heir. A blood nephew, next best thing to a son of his own. It’s also why he hates the Connells so much. He’s basically had a vendetta against them ever since then. Anything they’re involved is immediately life and death, no negotiations, no second chances, nothing. Which, I don’t agree, necessarily, but I get it, you know?”

“Yeah, makes sense.”

Beck hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now—well, now, that vendetta put a target on Simon’s head. And, he supposed, on his.

The idea of falling in love with Simon hadn’t seemed that dangerous before it happened, or even while he was falling. It was only after that he realized the implications. Again, Simon had to spell it out for him.

“My uncle can’t know we’re dating.”

“Wait, what? Why not? I though he was ok with gay people—isn’t Mad Dog gay?”

“Oh no, Uncle Pat’s not homophobic or anything, he doesn’t really care about that stuff. Like, my mom dated a few women back in the day. It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“Well… I’m his heir.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“I’m the closest blood relative in the next generation, you know?”

“Yeah?”

“So one day, I’ll need an heir.”

“Makes sense, but—”

“A blood heir. I need to make a kid. Biologically.”

“But Uncle Pat chose you, and you’re his nephew, not his son.”

“True. But I don’t have any siblings, so I can’t choose a niece or nephew. It has to be my kid, or at least, it has to be under Uncle Pat’s rules at least. Once he dies, I’m just gonna do what I want to, but for now, he can’t know. You can’t let him know, Beck. He will kill you if he thinks you’re a threat to the family line. I’m serious, ok?”

Simon wasn’t serious often, but then again, he never fidgeted either, and when he asked Beck to keep their relationship secret, he was curling and uncurling his fingers in his lap. So Beck had nodded.

“I won’t say a word.”

And he hadn’t. Beck had done everything in his power to keep Pat from finding out about them, because he didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want anything to happen to Simon. But now, if Pat killed Simon, and he figured out that the reason Simon screwed up was a secret relationship with Beck? Well, in short, they were both fucked.

Normally, Beck could keep his calm. But he also usually heard from his boyfriend pretty quickly when things were dangerous because Simon knew he’d worry.

Two days, and not a single text or call from Simon—that was not good news.

Beck pulled himself up from the couch, stifling a groan as his ribs shifted. They still hurt like hell, but he’d just take another ibuprofen and ignore them. He shuffled into the kitchen and pulled the fridge open. The little light flicked on inside, illuminating the scant contents. With a sigh, he grabbed the container of sliced ham, a few slices of cheddar, and the jar of mayonnaise. Halfway through prepping his sandwich for dinner, he heard his cellphone buzzing in the next room. He considered going to check it right away, but a grumble in his stomach convinced him it could wait for two minutes while he got this sandwich ready.

Carrying his dinner on a plate, he returned to the living room and settled back onto the couch. He balanced the plate on the arm and picked up his phone.

MR. RIGGS flashed on the screen—the codename he’d used for Simon in his phone. He swallowed hard and unlocked his phone, opening the message. The text was short, but thorough.

He knows.

As Beck’s thumb hovered over the keys, trying to figure any way to answer that, a second message appeared.

He knows about everything.

Sweat broke out along Beck’s hairline. His skin crawled like he could already sense a gun pointed at him. A third message came up, longer.

He’s going to kill me—I’m in my room, door’s locked, but he’s coming up. Beck, you need to leave the city. I love you, I’m sorry.

Beck typed out the words, “I love you too, Simon,” but before he pressed send, one last message flashed onscreen.

I’m scared, Beck.

Somehow, that was worse than the other messages. Simon was never scared, not enough to admit it to anyone. Beck’s eyes watered, and he straightened up on the couch.

He was not going to let Pat kill Simon—not tonight, not ever.

Beck closed his text with Simon and typed in a different number in his phone, one he hadn’t used in years. He typed as fast as he could, trying to say everything in as few words as possible. She never liked long, winding explanations.

Hey, Sadie. It’s Beck. I need your help. My boyfriend is Pat the Butcher’s nephew, he leaked info to the Connell family (my fault), and Pat is going to kill him. Text me back ASAP.

Looking down at the message, he clicked send, then chuckled sadly. It wasn’t how he planned on coming out to his sister, but then again, he’d planned on never speaking to her again.

Her reply popped up maybe two minutes later.

They’re taking him to the docks, pit stop at the deli for a beatdown. Cement shoes. Be there in 20, wait 30 secs after they drop him, go in after. I’ll pick you up on the corner of 8th and Bettler, 10 mins after, black SUV with Oregon plates.

Perks of having a sister who was also a criminal mastermind—he’d never found a limit to what Sadie could find out or fix. Who she called in the organization to get those details, he’d never know, but he was so grateful she did. As he pushed himself up from the couch to grab his keys, his phone buzzed again, and he looked down to see another message from Sadie.

When he unlocked the screen, he grinned softly. It was just a little rainbow flag emoji.

He shook his head, dropping his phone into his pocket. He grabbed his keys, wallet, and a coat, stepped into some sneakers, then rushed out the door.