Page 12 of Death's Deal

“Yes. It is.”

“If I could draw your attention to the screen for exhibit nine, please.” He turned on a video of us: myself, Toni, her brother, and her best friend, Heather, at her house. I remember it vividly. We were by the pool and Toni’s brother had begged my ass for over a week to get him meth. I had no interest in that shit, but I knew where to get some. I’d asked Gunner for a supply and had unhappily decided it was a one-time thing I’d help him with.

Finally looking at me with sorrow in her gaze, Toni mouthed, “I’m sorry.” Like what she’d done could be excused, forgotten, or forgiven. She was an integral part of the DA’s case for putting my ass in jail. She knew the truth.

I’d done everything to stay out of the family business, and she swore she’d be my partner in all things. That she would be by my side through everything as I tried to get clear of the MC life.

For the duration of the proceeding, I didn’t react, speak, or worry about what would be the outcome. I knew. I was going to fucking jail for a long damn time.

When the judge finally asked me to rise, I did as I was asked. Uncaring what or who would be in my way now, I listened as the judge read out my sentence.

I knew I was going to be the man I didn’t wish to be.

No longer was Quinny the football player a reality. No.

Death the MC member had been born.

Jail would harden me into a steely eyed member who would put colors above all, and as he read out the years I would be incarcerated without parole, I locked my heart away. That fucker quit beating a soft and gentle tune. My heart became a solid block of ice.

No one was about to thaw that out. My heart was now dead.

I swore.

Never again would I trust so easily.

Chapter 8

Today

Antonia

Sitting on the yellow armchair that rests in the perfect beam of sunlight, thumbing through my social media feeds, I tell my brother exactly what I know to be true, no matter what he thinks. “He’s not going to do it.”

Carlos, my younger and very oblivious brother, states rather flatly, “What choice did we give him, Tono?” Lounging on the supple burnt-orange couch that lines the far wall of our father’s office, he continues, “Remember. You owe him nothing.”

I disagree completely. I owe him everything.

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