Click.
Nothing.
Just a dull, traitorous sound. The kind that makes your heart stop harder than a bullet ever could.
I stare down at the rusted .38 in my hand like it just betrayed me.
Because it did.
Tommy blinks once.
Then smiles.
"You dumb bastard," he says.
He moves faster than I thought he could. His fist slams into my jaw. I stagger. My back hits the brick.
The gun clatters to the ground.
Then his other hand comes in like a freight train. My nose shatters. Blood sprays across the alley wall.
He kicks my ribs in. Once. Twice. I hear something crack.
"Fucking hell… out of everyone, I never thought you would even try this shit. I bring in more money for this fucking family than anyone, and even Gino's dog thinks he can touch me?"
I can't breathe.
I try to crawl. My hand brushes the bag.
He steps on it. Again. And again. Hard. Crushes it flat. Crushes my fingers too. It was like every stomp was boosting his self-esteem.
I scream.
He crouches beside me, breathing heavy.
"You fucking dog."
I see the gun at his waist. His hand moves for it.
Not slow this time. Not dramatic.
Just practical.
He pulls the chrome out and presses it to the side of my head.
I don't beg.
I just whisper, "See you soon."
Then everything goes black.
Same mattress.
Same stink.
Same 6:13 AM.
I shoot upright, gasping. Fingers twitching. Nose intact.
Phone buzzing on the nightstand like a warning siren from a dream.
I died. Again.
And I still came back.
What kind of devil keeps bringing me back?
This is the second time I've died.
Same body.
Same damn day.
I laugh into my hands.
It starts low. Builds into something wild.
I can't help it.
The rules are different now. I just don't know them yet.
But I will.
Not today, maybe.
But soon.
I get dressed slower this time. Deliberate. Calculated.
No panic. No rush.
I already know how this day ends if I go in blind.
I light a cigarette I don't need, just to feel the smoke in my lungs. Just to feel alive.
Even that's starting to blur. What is being alive, if it can be undone like this?
I make it to Tony's Deli again.
Same gum under the handle. Same flickering neon.
Inside, the same three guys at the back table playing cards. Same smell of old salami and oil.
Gino doesn't look up.
"You're late, E."
"Was dead," I mutter.
"What?"
"Nothing."
He nods to the table.
"Job's the same. Don't fuck it up."
This time, I don't just walk away with the job. This time, I stay. Watch him light a smoke. Watch the way his hand doesn't shake.
"What's in the bag this time?" I ask.
He squints. "What are you talking about?"
"I mean the job. The pickup. You don't normally tell me not to fuck it up. Is there something important?"
Gino's stare hardens.
"You must've grown a pair this morning."
He stands up and calls the other guys in the deli.
"Can you believe what he just asked?"
One of the guys says, "What?"
And Gino grins, "He said, 'What's in the bag?'"
They start laughing.
Gino reaches for my head and slams it against the table. Then slaps me.
"Say it again," he growls, punching me in the face with every word. One hand tangled in my hair, yanking me down with each hit.
Then he throws me on the floor and sits back down.
Reaches for his drink. As if to say I'm finished with you. Go do what I said.
I walk out. But I don't forget.
Dying twice made me forget the pain of getting beat up.
It made me overconfident.
I wasn't scared of dying anymore.
I would've never asked something like that before.
Something had changed in me.
I needed to find a way to survive.
As much as I was getting used to dying, I didn't want it to happen again.
I needed to understand what was happening.
Tommy… he seemed to have some animosity toward Gino.
But why would he rob his own uncle?