The Price Of Us (MM)

LOUIS

Since Mama left Father and me when I was ten years old, all I've ever known is suffering and pain. Father had always been cruel to me, even before my sorry excuse for a mother left-but her absence carved a chasm so deep in his already blackened heart that the only way he knew how to fill it was with fists.

Each. And. Every. Day.

And this morning was no exception.

"Come here, Louis," my father said. I shuffled toward him.

I hardly even reached him before he threw a ceramic mug at my head, barely missing me by mere inches.

"Have I told you how much I loathe your existence," he said, heading toward me. "You even look like her."

"I-" Big mistake. I shouldn't have opened my mouth. He punched me so hard, I fell on the floor in a daze.

"You sorry excuse of a man," he roared, driving his heavy boots into my stomach again and again. The pain burned through me, but I didn't dare cry out. Just like I hadn't for the past seventeen years.

"Twenty-seven years and you still can't even stand up to me," he spat, delivering a final kick to my shin. "Such a disgrace. Just like your mother."

Then he turned and stomped up the stairs, likely to drown himself in whiskey or whatever poison numbed the void inside him.

I stayed on the cold, cracked kitchen floor, blinking back tears of frustration. I was pathetic. Helpless. A man who couldn't even defend himself in his home. I'd tried over the years-God knows I'd tried- but every attempt ended the same way: bruised, broken, bleeding. And with how much he hated me... I knew it would take only a misstep for him to finally kill me.

So, why was I still here?

Because of my mother. Because my naïve ten-year-old self made a promise to her. She stood in the doorway, eyes dry but distant, and told me she couldn't stay anymore. I begged her not to go. She knelt, held my face in trembling hands, and made me promise to take care of him.

"Don't leave your father," she'd said. "He's all you have."

I was ten.

I didn't know promises like that could turn to shackles.

I pulled myself off the floor, quietly cleaned the kitchen, and trudged upstairs to get ready for work. My shoulder length blond curls were tangled and wild, so I tied them back in a messy bun. I couldn't care less. After mornings like this, I didn't have it in me to deal with vanity.

Besides, I'd be in a hairnet all day.

In the tiny bathroom-thankfully mine alone- I stared at the not-so-stranger in the mirror. Gaunt and pale, my lean torso was littered with bruises in various stages of healing, some fresh, others lingering from weeks ago. Cigarette burns scarred my skin in raised patches of pink and white, clustered around my chest and inner arms like a cruel tattoo.

Let's not even talk about the ones on my thighs.

I hated my reflection.

Most of all, I hated my face. Because it looked like hers. The woman who left me behind. The woman who didn't think I was worth staying for.

Cornflower blue eyes-hers-stared back at me, rimmed red from unshed tears.

I swallowed them. Like always.

My life was horrifyingly pathetic. I was horrifyingly pathetic.

With a heavy sigh, I turned away from my now foggy reflection and hopped in the shower.

After a hot shower-a luxury I could barely afford but desperately needed-I got dressed and headed to work, following the same broken sidewalk. The same cracked buildings. The same grey skies pressing down on my world.

When I walked into the hospital, the few staff members on duty offered tired nods. Most people in this neighborhood barely finished high school, let alone trained for medical work. We were short-staffed, overworked, and underpaid. But we made do.

I'd wanted to be a doctor once.

Now, I just clean up after them.

"Louis, my boy," Jamie, the elderly African-American security guard, greeted me with his usual wide toothed smile. His voice was warm, fatherly-the kind I'd always longed for.

"Hi, Jamie," I replied, forcing a smile through the ache.

"You holding up, okay?"

I nodded.

We both knew I was lying.

He'd tried to talk to me before. Begged me to leave that house. But I never listened. Not really. Still... if he tried again, maybe this time I would. I was close-so close-to breaking.

The rest of the day passed in a numb haze and I welcomed the monotony. Nothing unusual happened, and I was grateful. I didn't have the strength to deal with chaos-not today.

But I had a plan.

A way out.

Over the years, I'd saved every spare dollar I could and hidden it beneath a loose floorboard in my room. Father never stepped foot in there-he called it "pansy territory" and acted like being near my things would infect him with weakness.

The board wasn't obvious. I'd even modified the surrounding floor so it wouldn't creak or echo. It was safe.

Or so I thought.

I got back home late that night, sore but relieved. As I climbed the stairs to our decrepit two-story house, I noticed the lights were still on.

He was home.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the door, stepped inside and froze.

Father was sitting on the yellowed couch. He was holding a thick wad of cash in his hands. My cash. The money I'd bled for.

My heart plummeted to the ground.

How? How did he find it?

I thought I'd been so careful. So damn careful.

"I took a stroll through your pansy room," he sneered. "And look what I found."

He got up.

I stepped back.

No. Not this time.

I was tired of being beaten. Of being quiet and living like a ghost in my own body.

My hands trembled as I reached into my crossbody bag and pulled out the small pocket knife I always carried.

"Give me the money, Father," I said, voice shaking, knife trembling in my grip. "Now."

There was a pause.

Then he laughed. A loud and cruel one that rattled through my bones, weakening my already fragile confidence.

"So, you think, just because you have a... weapon," he sneered, glancing at the blade, "you're suddenly a man now?"

"Yes," I said. "And if you don't hand over the money, I'm going to use it."

He lunged at me.

I panicked and tried to slash, but he grabbed my wrist mid-swing.

"Leave it," I said, making a pathetic attempt to push him away but he had an iron grip on it. He twisted my arm and the pain made me cry out.

Then came his fist to my gut.

"How many times have I told you to shut your mouth boy?" he whispered in my ear.

The force of the blow destabilized me so much, I doubled over unable to breathe properly.

But he wasn't done.

Somehow, he got hold of the knife.

"I can't believe you thought you could use this," he said, as he stood above me. "But I'd make you wish you never carried it."

Then the slashing began.

"Please," I begged. "Father, please."

But he didn't stop and as the blade danced across my skin, each cut elicited a cry of agony from my lips. Blood dripped to the floor, gruesome in its brutal red tint.

My vision began to blur and I collapsed to the floor, my breath shallow, eyes fluttering as more strength left my aching body.

As he kept hitting me, I felt my consciousness slipping away.

The last thing I saw was the ceiling, smeared with water marks, mold, and memories I wish I didn't remember.

And amidst all this, the only thought in my head as spots began to dance behind my droopy eyelids was-

I can't do this anymore.

I'm sorry Mama.

I can't keep your promise.

And then-

Darkness.

ELIAS

"Sir, you have to understand, the stocks are plummeting. If we don't take this route," he said pointing to the charts displayed on the projector screen. "We'll be facing serious issues. We need to do something about it, and fast."

I tuned out the voice of the financial manager.

I didn't even want him in this board meeting, but somehow the rat managed to weasel his way in. I wasn't in the mood for any of this. In reality, all of this-the real estate holdings, the casinos-was just a façade. A convenient mask for my true kingdom. The mafia empire my family had built over the last sixty years.

"Nothing will be plummeting while we're here," my second-in-command, Cathan spoke on my behalf. "Everything is under review and feedback would be given soonest."

I appreciated his efforts, but there were more pressing matters to attend to my mafia kingdom. And though this company was the perfect front for our darker dealings, I was growing increasingly sick of pretending to care about its surface-level issues.

Rising from my chair, I turned to Cathan, and gave him a single look, one he immediately understood.

He addressed the board without missing a beat. "Mr. Montgomery will ensure these matters are resolved. For now, he has urgent business elsewhere."

"So, the fact that stocks are crashing isn't urgent enough?" a voice challenged from across the table.

Both Cathan and I turned, our gazes-his cool greens and my deep browns-locking on the senile old man with cataract clouded eyes.

Our silence said more than words ever could. The man shrank back in his seat like the rodent he was.

The years have definitely made me soft. My younger self would be disappointed at my show of restraint. I'd have put him six feet under for that move. He was too old anyway and would likely appreciate the grave.

I left the boardroom, tuning out whatever diplomatic assurance Cathan offered them behind me. I just needed space and silence. Everywhere was too noisy to my overstimulated mind.

Forty years and I was already tired. Tired of the weight of all the responsibilities I'd been carrying since my father died, leaving our entire empire to me at eighteen. I had Elaine backing me over the years with everything, including the dark parts. And as much as my little sister constantly reminded me of the nieces and nephews she wanted to spoil, I couldn't care less.

Love only gets you burned. And after what happened last time, I've made it a point to never go near that fire again.

A soft knock-Cathan's signature rhythm-came at the door. I allowed him in and he stepped into the room with a serious expression.

"You know we need to act, Don," he said, resting his hand on the back of the seat across from me.

"And you damn well know who's behind this," I replied sharply. "What do you want me to do? Walk into that boardroom and tell them that our family's oldest rival has gotten too close-close enough to tank the company and use their bloodlust to try and end me? Is that what you want, Cathan?" I knew I was losing my cool, but I was tired of holding unto this business.

He met my gaze, voice even. "You know that's not what I'm saying, Don," he said, finally taking a seat. "But we have to act quickly. If our stocks keep falling, our front does too and the sharks are already circling. All they need is a drop of blood and they'll go in for the kill, destroying everything we've worked hard for."

He paused, his tone turning grave. "We can't afford that. You know this very well."

I couldn't argue with him there. He wasn't wrong.

"I know, Cathan," I replied. "Besides the casinos scattered throughout Chicago-especially Allure-this real estate firm is our most efficient tool for laundering and expansion."

"Exactly, Don." He nodded in agreement. "We can't let him destroy it all."

"Well, you are the expert," I gestured to him. "We both know you're better at this than me."

"Well," he smirked faintly and pulled out his sleek black laptop from seemingly nowhere, some strands of his black hair falling loose from the bun he'd put it in.

"I've already devised a plan. A damn good one actually, now that I think about it."

I couldn't help but smile faintly. I'd brought out his strategic, nerdy side. Whenever he got like this, he always brought up good ideas.

As my closest friend and consigliere, he was the only person I truly trusted. With my secret as well as my life.

He launched into details of his plan. I listened to him, nodding along, until his phone rang, the sound cutting through the air.

He answered it quickly, and I saw the change in his expression.

"I'll deliver the message," he said coldly into the receiver, then ended the call.

He slid his phone back into his pocket, his face tight.

"And?" I asked, raising a single brow at his disgruntled expression.

"It's that pesky journalist. He's asking for an audience with you," he said with a sneer.

John Davis.

Lead reporter at the Daily News, and an incessant pain in my ass.

"So, he's still tailing me till now," I said, more of a statement than a question. "Sniffing around for anything that could unravel this operation."

Cathan nodded. "And it seems he might be going for Elaine next."

Fuck.

"Let him try," I said in annoyance.

"That man is a royal pain in the ass. I need him gone," I gritted. "He should consider himself lucky he's still alive. The only reason he's breathing is because of the company that protects him. And I've done everything possible to stay clear of the media."

I really hate the media.

"I assume you know the drill," I continued, standing from my chair. I needed to see my sister and her husband and warn them about this relentless bastard.

Cathan gave a single nod, already knowing what I meant.

"Let him wait. Give him nothing. And if he pushes too far... tell security to deal with him the usual way."

I was certain the message was clear. If he showed up again, I might have to do a little more than telling the guards to deal with him.

Now, time to see the woman I once shared a womb with before the past caught up to us all.

LOUIS

My eyes opened slowly, and I saw my father, sitting before the TV, an almost empty beer bottle in one hand.

"You're still asleep, boy?" he asked, still sitting there. Despite the splitting pain in my head, I sat up on the kitchen floor.

"I really don't care," he said, taking a sip from the bottle. "Wash up and come make breakfast." With that he ignored me once again.

I closed my eyes for just a moment of reprieve and when I opened them, a nauseating headache greeted me. The weak morning light streamed through the curtains at the other end of the room, causing me to shield my face-though the sharp aches coursing through my body made even that small motion feel unbearable.

A pained whimper slipped past my lips.

I didn't even want to see what I looked like. A few feet away, the knife I'd brandished at my father lay on the floor, speckled with dried blood. A clear sign that he'd enjoyed himself last night. The familiar sting along my ribs confirmed the fresh cuts he'd left, some already scabbed over.

New scars for the collection. Yay, I thought bitterly.

I exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. A single tear slid down my cheek. Then another. And another. Until they flowed freely, silently.

I was tired. So damn tired. And the worst part? No one would believe me. Who would believe that a twenty-seven-year-old man couldn't defend himself against his own father? To the world, I was weak. Pathetic. Helpless.

I stared at the knife. It was so close. One clean swipe across the wrist, and it would be over. Finally.

No more bruises. No more fear. No more pretending.

Just... silence. I'd finally have the one thing I've desperately craved for a long part of my life now.

And honestly, the dark had always been the only consistent companion in my life. It never judged, never hurt-just enveloped. Comforted. At least in the dark, I could pretend I wasn't alone. I could pretend I was loved by something.

"Can you get up boy," he barked, bringing me out of my thoughts. "I'm starving."

His thoughts made something flicker deep in my chest. A small ember of defiance and hope. I couldn't let him win. Not like this. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of watching me crumble into nothing.

No. Not today.

"Yes sir," I muttered.

I forced myself to stand up. Every muscle protested. But I moved anyway, pocketing the knife with a trembling hand. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it made me feel like I had some control.

The pocket knife was a gift from Jamie. A silent request for me to make use of it when need be. At the end of the day, I couldn't even defend myself with the object. But regardless, it can come in handy sometimes.

After the agonizing climb upstairs, I cleaned my wounds. The alcohol barely burned anymore. That numbness should've terrified me, but all it did was confirm how used to pain I'd become.

Trashing the bloody cotton wads in the bin, I headed toward the shower, ignoring my bruised and battered reflection in the mirror.

I showered in silence, wishing the water could wash away more than just blood.

Dressing was a struggle, but I managed to do so.

I quickly made his breakfast and served him. After handing it to him, I headed to the door and as my hand hovered above the handle, his voice stopped me from moving any further.

"And you better not come back without my usual stack of beer-or else."

I didn't look back. I just closed the door quietly behind me.

On my way to the hospital, I passed a streetlight pole with a flyer fluttering against it. Now Hiring: Allure Casino – Janitorial Staff Needed. Room, board, and amenities included.

I paused. The offer seemed too good to be true. But I scanned the QR code on the flyer anyway and applied. Because hope, no matter how small, still flickered inside me.

That night at the hospital was quiet. Boring, even. Just me and the humming fluorescent light. I kept busy-sweeping, wiping down counters, replacing linens. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Until everything was different.

As I was changing the bed in a private room off the east wing, I heard a loud bang. I turned around, but before I could move, the door closed behind me.

Locked.

My brows furrowed in confusion. I tried the handle-no luck. And then there was the noise. Distant screaming. Panic.

Were those sirens? No it was too muffled.

Then the door burst open.

I barely had time to respond before I bumped into someone-a bundle of muscle, heat, and something electric. I stepped back, gasping, looking up at the man I'd just collided into.

Blood seeped from his side, spilling onto his suit and wetting the gauze one of the nurses had slapped on in haste. He towered above me, his broad shoulders moving up and down as he breathed.

He was breathtakingly handsome in a brutish kind of way.

Auburn hair dropped down over his brow, streaked with light gray that caught glints in the flickering lighting. Deep, brown eyes-sharp and defended-looked at me with disarming force. A bristling beard framed his set face, and his sheer physical presence was gravity itself. Heavy. Authoritative.

A behemoth of a man. I doubt he was anything less than 6'4'' if not even more. And yet, something in his eyes spoke of an emptiness I usually saw in mine when I dare look at the mirror.

The rage in his eyes seemed like a cover for something barely hidden. Isolation?

"Sorry," I stuttered, my voice barely above a whisper. "I- I didn't know someone was..."

He said nothing at first. Merely stared at me. At the scars just above my collar. At the shake in my fingers. His look wasn't accusatory. It was... searching.

Instinctively, I raised my collar a little higher and brought down the sleeves of my shirt, before turning away from his gaze.

"I need to sit," he said eventually, his voice low and authoritative but slightly slurred from loss of blood.

I pushed him into the chair next to me, handling him gently despite shaking hands. He sat, wincing.

"Your name?" he asked, after a pause.

"Louis," I replied quietly, looking at the blood on his shirt.

He nodded slightly, as if memorizing it.

Then, silence.

I tried not to look at him. Tried to focus on looking for clean towels or on calling for help. But when I looked up again, the mysterious man was already looking at me.

And that was when our eyes locked. Something shifted. I didn't know what it was, or what it meant, but I felt it-like the earth itself had shifted beneath me.

A man covered in blood and the cleaner, two universes that should never have intersected, had just encountered each other.

And honestly, I doubted my life was ever going to be the same.