When the bullet tore through my chest, I remember thinking two things. First, that I deserved it. Second, that I would finally get some rest. I was wrong on both counts.
Blood spread across the pavement like spilled oil. Sirens howled somewhere in the distance, but they were not coming for me. They never did. I blinked once. Then again. Then I woke up.
Same beat up mattress. Same stabbing springs jabbing into my ribs like they knew I died on them. The stink of cheap weed, burnt toast, and sour sweat crawled up my nose like a bad memory. I was back in my shitty one bedroom.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. 6:13 AM.
I died last night. I know I did. I remember the blood. The pain. The cold. And now I am here. Again.
Twelve hours earlier or whatever yesterday was I had been running dumb errands for Gino, the lowest level capo in the Romano family. A two bit scumbag with too much gel in his hair and not enough brains to fill a shot glass. That bastard never trusted me with a loaded gun.
I delivered packages, watched alleyways, scrubbed blood out of the upholstery in stolen cars. If someone needed to be roughed up, I held the guy's arms while a real soldier broke his nose.
Nobody in the family knows my name. They just call me "E." Short for errand boy. Short for expendable.
But last night changed something.
I got sent on a pickup job. Back alley behind a liquor store. Bag of cash, nothing special.
Then out of the shadows came Tommy Rizzo slick suit, crooked grin. One of Gino's favorites. Said I saw something I should not have.
I didn't. But maybe I do now.
He pulled the trigger. Dropped me in the dirt like yesterday's garbage.
But today, I'm breathing.
My hands shake as I drag myself to the sink. Cold water. Slap to the face. The mirror shows the same haunted eyes. Still 29. Still a mutt in a city full of wolves.
But I know something no one else does.
I died. And now I have a second chance.
My phone buzzes again. Same message as yesterday.
"Pickup. 7 PM."
Gino wants me dead. He just doesn't know it yet.
I walk to Tony's Deli. It is where Gino runs his "office." The streets are already sweating. Summer rot clings to the buildings. Trash steams in the gutters. Kids tag walls while corner boys flash product with no fear.
The city never sleeps. It just coughs smoke and bleeds slow.
I push the deli door open. The bell above jingles like it is laughing at me.
Gino's in the back, lounging like a discount mob boss. Feet on the desk, chewing a toothpick, looking like he runs the city.
He gives me that same look from yesterday, like he can't remember if I owe him money or if I just smell bad.
"You're late, E," he says without looking up.
I smile. It is the same smile I wore yesterday, just cracked a little wider.
"Got caught in the morning rush," I lie.
He waves a hand.
"You still got that job tonight. Grab the bag, bring it back. No bullshit."
I nod like a good dog.
"Sure thing, Gino."
But inside, I'm already ten steps ahead.
I know the alley. I know the time. I know Tommy Rizzo's coming.
The difference is this time, I'll be ready.
I spend the afternoon watching the alley from across the street.
A broken camera on a liquor store roof blinks red, but I know it is dead.
No witnesses. No backup.
That is why they chose this place. Easy to clean.
I buy a burner piece from a guy who owes me a favor.
Twenty five dollars and a pack of smokes gets me a rusted .38 with only three bullets.
I don't plan on using it not yet at least.
But it is nice to have something that can bite back.
When 6:45 rolls around, I slide into the alley and lean against the wall.
The bag sits behind the dumpster like always.
I pretend to check my phone.
Heart thumping like a war drum.
Then I hear it. Shoes on gravel. Just like last time.
Tommy Rizzo steps out of the dark, same slick grin, same smug swagger.
"You lost, E?" he asks.
I shrug.
"Just doing my job."
Tommy laughs. It is the same damn laugh from the night I died.
Except this time, I am not frozen. I am not afraid.
I know how this ends.
Or I did.
I step sideways, just enough to put the dumpster between us.
Tommy notices. His smile twitches, falters for a half second.
Good.
He doesn't know why, but something's different.
"You look like you seen a ghost," he says.
I don't answer.
I just stare at him. Not his face not really.
His right hand. The way it twitches near his belt.
Same spot he reached for the last time I died.
Gun tucked just behind the buckle.
Cheap piece.
Chrome, flashy, something that screams look at me.
I already looked. Last night, I looked.
Tonight, I remember.
He steps forward.
"You got the bag?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"You check it?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"Not paid to ask questions."
That's always been the game.
Keep your head down, mouth shut, hands clean or at least clean enough.
But not anymore.
"Lemme see it," Tommy says.
"Gino wanted me to bring this directly to him."
"I'm a fucking made man. You answer to me too. Do you guys think I'm a fucking joke?"
I toss the bag forward.
It lands with a thump, skidding a little.
His eyes drop, just for a second.
That's all I need.
The .38's already in my hand.
Not aimed. Not pointed.
Just resting low, like a snake coiled in my palm.
He straightens.
Tries to play it off.
"Easy, E."
I pull the trigger and the gun jams.