Chapter 5 - The Night of the Reckoning
The Cicero bungalow was dark when Drake’s Escalade tore through the snowbank, its tires screeching against the frozen curb.
Drake didn't wait for Vince to park. He threw the door open, his pistol in his hand as he ran up the unshoveled sidewalk.
The front door of the house was standing open, the lock shattered by a heavy kick. Inside, the small living room was a scene of violent chaos. A cheap floor lamp lay broken on the rug, its shade crushed. The old photos of Hector’s welding days had been swept from the mantelpiece, their glass frames shattered across the floorboards.
In the center of the room, Maria Santos was tied to a wooden chair, her face bruised, a thin line of dark red blood trickling from her temple. Hector Mendoza lay on the sofa, clutching his chest, his breath coming in shallow, agonizing gasps as his wife, Elena, wept over him.
And standing in the corner, holding a heavy, black gasoline canister, was Jasmine Cross.
She wore a black leather jacket, her face pale, her eyes wild with a manic, desperate light that had nothing to do with sanity. She had already poured the fuel across the curtains, the rug, and the old wooden floorboards. The smell of raw petroleum was thick enough to make Drake’s eyes water.
"Jasmine!" Drake shouted, his pistol pointing directly at her chest. "Drop it!"
Jasmine laughed, a high-pitched, broken sound that echoed off the low ceiling. She held up a silver Zippo lighter in her left hand, her thumb resting on the wheel.
"You're late, Drake," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of hatred and grief. "You’ve always been late when it mattered. You were late when my brother went into the river, and you're late now."
"This has nothing to do with them, Jasmine," Drake said, his voice dropping to a low, pleading tone as he took a cautious step forward. "This is between you and me. Let them go. I’ll stay. You can burn this house down with me inside, but let the girl and the old people walk."
"No!" Jasmine screamed, her fingers tightening around the lighter. "You don't get to be the hero, Drake! You’re a monster! You’ve spent forty years destroying lives, and now you want to play the savior because of some... some dirty maid who cleaned your penthouse? Why her, Drake? Why does she get your mercy when my brother got a concrete block?"
Maria Santos lifted her head, her dark eyes looking through her bruised eyelids at Drake. She didn't look at his gun. She didn't look at the gasoline. She looked at his face, her voice quiet but steady as she spoke through her split lip.
"Mr. Salvati," Maria said, her Spanish accent thick and soft in the tense room. "Do not do this. Do not become the monster she wants you to be. You have the locket. You have your mother’s light. Do not let her blow it out."
Drake looked at Maria, and the words on the silver lid flashed through his mind: Never lose your light.
He looked back at Jasmine. He saw the pain behind her wild eyes—the same pain he had carried for thirty years, the pain of a child who had lost everything and believed that the only way to stop the bleeding was to make everyone else bleed too.
Slowly, deliberately, Drake lowered his gun.
He clicked the safety on and dropped the pistol onto the floor. It slid across the wet floorboards, coming to rest near Jasmine’s boots.
"You're right, Jasmine," Drake said softly, his hands open at his sides. "I am a monster. I’ve done things that can never be washed clean. I’ve hurt people, I’ve broken families, and I’ve built a tower out of other people's misery so I wouldn't have to feel the cold. If you want to kill me, do it. I won't stop you."
He took another step toward her, his chest directly in front of her lighter.
"But look at her, Jasmine," Drake said, pointing to Maria. "She didn't spend my money on diamonds or power. She spent eighty-seven dollars to buy back my mother's soul. She’s the only clean thing in this city. If you burn her, you’re not killing a monster. You’re becoming me."
Jasmine stared at him, her thumb trembling on the wheel of the lighter. She looked at the gun at her feet, then at the gasoline on the floor, and then at Drake’s face. For the first time, she saw no anger in his eyes. She saw no calculation. She saw only a deep, profound sadness that mirrored her own.
"Drake..." she whispered, her voice cracking as a single tear cut through her pale makeup.
"It’s over, Jasmine," Drake said, stepping closer, his hand reaching out slowly to cover hers. "Let it go."
With a sudden, choking sob, Jasmine’s fingers opened. The Zippo lighter dropped to the floor, but Drake caught it before it could spark against the wood.
Jasmine fell against his chest, her hands clawing at his cashmere coat as she wept, her body shaking with the release of thirty years of hatred that had finally run out of fuel.
Drake held her for a long moment, his eyes looking over her shoulder at Maria.
May you like
Maria smiled, a soft, bloody expression of pure, unadulterated relief.
"Vince!" Drake called out, his voice strong and clear. "Get the medics in here! Now!"
