Page 26 of Vito

Hollow sadness settles within me, taking residence deep in my bones. I push away from the door, trying to shake it off.

As I re-engage all the security features—Aiken either was a paranoid son of a bitch or a smart motherfucker—I make a mental note that I need to follow his detailed instructions so the security notifications are sent to my phone. That way, I'll know instantly if there are any breaches.

Walking further inside, I scan the apartment. Off the main living space, there's a bathroom at the start of the hallway that leads to two bedrooms and a laundry room.

The fridge has food I'll need to toss, but the beer is good. After cracking one, I sit on a bar stool at the island.

"Cheers, brother." My voice cracks, revealing the emotions I'm trying my damnedest not to feel.

I drink my brother's beer that he'll never drink, sitting with my regret, guilt, and shame. But wallowing in that won't get me far. So instead, I take stock of my brother's apartment and his life.

The decor is tasteful for a bachelor in his mid-thirties. It's comfortable, but the place doesn't feel lived in. Gilly's and his office were really his home; this apartment was just where he came to sleep.

Gilly's. Aiken's legacy.

He loved that place. I know this not only from his email and what Gus and the others said, but also from the love I heard five years ago when he tried to convince me to come back and run the bar with him.

I heard the passion in his voice back then. It was a big reason I felt he was pushing and asking too much of me.

Five years ago, I was still so fucking broken.

He asked me to come back to this city, so he could be in my life. But it was too permanent, and I was too good at running and avoiding.

More shame, regret, and guilt fill me as I remember our last conversation.

I had panicked, both at the passion in his voice and that he was trying to convince me to return. That had filled my head with all the memories I worked so hard to keep blocked out. In my frantic effort to regain some semblance of control, I had pushed Aiken away.

"You didn't live what I lived! You didn't lose what I lost!"I screamed at him.

"I know, Ed. I know. I promise to keep our parents away; you'll never have to see or speak to them. Please. I just want you in my life. Please."

I think that's when I started to perfect my resting bitch face to hide and smother my emotions.

I shoved everything so deep down. Refusing to even acknowledge the trauma that I lived through at the hands of our parents, and flatly told Aiken to never to call me again.

The annual text message to confirm I was still alive was all I'd give him.

Aiken had done nothing wrong. He had lost, too—first Fenton, then me—but I couldn't acknowledge that. Nor could I acknowledge the pain and anguish in his voice when he tried to convince me to change my mind before I hung up and refused to take his calls again.

I hang my head, my eyes burning and my chest caving.

So stubborn. Soweak.

I made us lose so much more than we needed to.

And now, the opportunity to make things right between us and fix what I had broken is gone forever.

The only thing that remains is the bar he loved so much. I have a chance to make things right by finding out who murdered him.

The ringing of my cell phone shatters my thoughts.

Only two people have my number, but I'd bet my left tit that I know which one of them is calling now.

I pull my phone out of my back pocket and answer, "Hey."

"I'm glad to hear you still breathe," Ohith, my adopted father, says in an accent that somehow sounds like a mix of French, English, and German. You lose the distinctions of the sounds if you try to listen too hard to analyze it, and I have no idea how he manages such a blended sound.

Like the man himself—who prides himself on being a ghost—if you focus too much on him, he vanishes like a wisp in the air.

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