Page 77 of Street of Dreams
“Stay the fuck down and out of sight.”
Mac was scared out of his mind, so he listened to Jake, but stretched his neck to see as much as he could. Bright red blood was splattered across the dark gray concrete floor of the warehouse. The truck was riddled with bullet holes. Motorcycles were toppled over. Bikers were dead, and so were at least two of Finestra’s men. Mac’s gaze shifted to Bruce’s lifeless body, just outside the room where Finestra’s men dropped him when the biker gang descended upon them.
As the police rounded up the bikers and the mobsters, it all became too overwhelming. Mac squeezed his eyes shut, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. This massacre was his fault. He had no idea what was supposed to take place here tonight, but he knew he upset the plan, and people were dead because of him.
Jake pulled Mac to a sitting position and wrapped an arm around him. “Hey. It’s OK. It’s over.”
“It’s not OK! People are dead! Your father is dead!”
Jake was quiet for a moment, and for the first time, actually showed a bit of sadness. “Live by the gun. Die by the gun. It was his way of life. He chose it.”
Two cops, covered in riot gear, burst into the small office and pointed handguns at Jake and Mac. “On the ground! Now!”
Jake complied, but Mac froze. He wasn’t an outlaw biker or a mobster. Neither was Jake. They were victims.
The police raised their weapons higher. “Face down on the floor!”
Mac jumped, startled at the outburst, and immediately laced his hands behind his head and stretched out on the floor.
The cops patted them down for weapons and then cuffed them both. They made Mac sit in a chair, but they tugged Jake by the arm and started to pull him from the room.
“Be careful! He’s shot,” Mac warned.
One of them looked at Jake’s clothing and his slicked-back hair. “Are you with the Finestra Family?”
“Yes. I am,” Jake answered.
What the fuck was Jake saying? “No. He’s not. We just walked in on this. We didn’t know what was going on,” Mac pleaded, but Jake glared at him to be quiet.
“I’m Jake King.” Jake motioned toward the open doorway with his chin. “That was my father, Bruce King. But I’m here with the Family. You can verify that with Don Finestra.”
One cop held onto Jake while the other exited the room. He quickly returned and nodded. “This guy checks out. The Family vouched for the both of them.”
Mac’s jaw dropped open when the cop removed both their handcuffs and told Jake to sit next to Mac. One cop guarded the doorway while the other returned to the mayhem in the warehouse.
“You’re part of organized crime now?” Mac whispered, shocked at the revelation.
Jake raised his hand to silence Mac. “I’ll explain everything later. I promise.” He laced his fingers through Mac’s. His eyes watered and he slowly smiled. “It’s over.”
“Over? We were in the middle of a shootout. It’s a bloodbath out there. How is this over?”
“Trust me. If it wasn’t over, would I do this?” Jake rested his hand on Mac’s thigh, leaned in and kissed him. He let his lips linger, then pressed them harder and deepened the kiss.
It was the first kiss they’d ever shared in public, other than in the gay bar where Mac had performed, and it made Mac’s heart pool with the warmth of liquid butter.
“I love you,” Jake said, loudly. Unashamedly.
Mac couldn’t believe anything that just happened. From the murder of Bruce King and the multiple blasts of gunfire, to the kiss and proclamation of love, it all seemed unreal. He suddenly remembered the reason that made him jump on a plane to Chicago. “I love you, Jake. So much. I needed to tell you in person. I felt so bad that I let you leave Nevada without telling you how I felt. I couldn’t stand the thought of you thinking that I didn’t love you anymore.”
Jake displayed a cocky smile. “I knew you still loved me. You didn’t have to follow me into the worst part of South Side. At night. Into a deserted warehouse. To tell me you love me.”
Mac let out a small, choked-up laugh. They shared a small kiss, then pressed their foreheads together and stayed like that until two EMT’s entered the room.
One of the paramedics immediately started assessing Jake’s injury. The other threw a blanket over Mac’s shoulders, which seemed ridiculous because he wasn’t cold, but he found it comforting. More paramedics came in with a stretcher, but Jake refused to be carried out.
“I can walk,” he stated.
When they exited the small office and were on their way to the ambulance out front, Mac finally saw the full effect of what happened. The crates that had been sealed when he entered the warehouse were now open. Guns and rifles in all shapes and sizes were on display. He looked at several other open crates and saw sealed bags of white powder. Then his head snapped to the members of the Finestra Family. They were no longer in cuffs. The men were all standing in a group with a bunch of uniformed officers. Salvatore Finestra was at the center and a reporter had a microphone in his face. He was giving some kind of statement.
