PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
I never wanted to be a criminal.
I don’t want this, I don’t want to be here. The current here is the back seat of a burner car, in this case a shitty black Ford. My brother, Luke, is beside me, staring at his phone, smiling. His mind is clearly elsewhere.
My father is driving, and beside him is my uncle Tony.
Outside, the Atlantic coastline streaks by, in all its neon glory. Golden lights, glittering buildings, million-dollar sports cars. It’s like Florida forgot it’s a swamp for a second. Hordes of well-dressed people are out partying, but we speed past them.
I cross my arms. Everyone else in the car wants this life. They want power and glory, to drive fast cars and wear expensive suits and hook up with pretty girls.
They want to kill, too. For power. For family.
Or maybe they don’t want to. But they’re at least okay with it.
I’m not interested. In any of it.
Outside the window on Luke’s side, the ocean stretches out, reflecting the Technicolor city lights, the neon blazing against the dark sky. This town truly is designed to be seen past sunset. During the day, it looks gaudy, like a bad theme park. At night, though, it turns into something kind of magical. It’s a playground for adults, where you can get pretty much anything you want … as long as you’re hot or rich enough.
We stop at a red light. A group of guys in tank tops and designer jeans crosses the street. We’re in Donovan territory now, so those boys belong to them, even if they don’t know it.
“It’s time,” says Dad, looking up at us through the rearview mirror. “Masks on.”
Shit.
I didn’t bring a mask.
Luke remembered his—of course he did—and pulls it on. It’s a black ski mask, leaving only his eyes and mouth exposed. Dad and Tony put theirs on, too. I can’t help but think this is them in their natural state of being. Miller criminals. One of two plagues on the city. There’s us, and the Donovans, and we’re both as bad as each other.
At least that’s what the cops say.
“Hey, Dad,” I say.
“What?”
“There’s a small chance I forgot my mask.”
His silence is intense alongside the classical music he plays in the car. Beethoven, maybe? I don’t know, and I don’t know why he does it. Maybe he wants to add a little class to our grim task. Like classical music somehow makes us sophisticated, better than other criminals.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my slacks. I don’t even need to look at him to know how disappointed he must be. I’m already such a failure in so many ways. I’m no Luke, for starters. On top of that I’m too soft, too careless, too lacking in family devotion …
He has no idea I left my mask on purpose.
I’m a good actor. I can sell it.
He has no idea who I really am.
“You what?”
“Are you sure it’s not in your bag?” asks Luke. “Come on, we’ve been planning this for weeks.”
I make a show of going through my backpack. I see books, a school sweater, and my tablet. But no mask.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s not here. I must’ve left it at home or something.”
“I told you,” says Tony. “He’s not ready.”
“He is,” says Dad. “He’s just distracted. Probably chasing some girl. That’s it, right, champ?”
I shrug.
“See?” says Dad. “Don’t get me started on the dumb shit you did when you were seventeen. Donna was the only thing you ever thought about.”
Tony chuckles. “She sure was.”
Dad looks at me through the rearview mirror. His murderous expression tells me everything I need to know. I get it. I’ve let him down, yet again. He lightened the mood to save face in front of Tony, but I’m nowhere near off the hook. I swear I’ve tried to be good at this stuff. I’m just not as in this as they are. The Millers hate the Donovans with everything they have.
Me?
I’d never admit this to the others, but I’ve never really hated them. I know I should, because of what they did to my family.
We used to be the closest of allies. The Millers controlled our territory unopposed since the twenties, making millions off the illegal alcohol trade. And right by our side were the Donovans. Things were good, fortunes were made, and little blood was spilled. But then the fifties came around, and the patriarch of the Donovan family wanted to get involved in narcotics. Our patriarch, my great-great-grandfather, said no, not wanting to pump poison into the area, or risk destabilizing their relationship with law enforcement.
The Donovans betrayed my family, broke off, and built their own empire off narcotics. Now they control nearly half the city.
So, yeah. Donovans and Millers aren’t friends at the best of times.
Last year, it got even more personal, though.
They murdered my grandfather. They shot him as he was leaving a supermarket of all places. Right in the street. He died on the curb, with bullet holes in his back. It was the spark I think both families had been waiting a long time for, and once long-simmering tensions finally erupted, the city went to war.
When it’s done, only one family will rule.
“You can stay in the car,” says Dad. “It’s too late to go back. We do this tonight.”
“All right,” I say. “If you think that’s best.”
“No, Matt, I don’t think that’s best. I wish you’d remembered your damn mask.”
“It was a mistake, okay?”
“Just … don’t do it again. I’ve got enough on my plate right now, I shouldn’t have to manage you, too.”
I can’t help but think, Isn’t that your job? Seeing as you’re, you know, my dad.
Dad pulls over, stopping down the street from the restaurant that’s a favorite meeting place for the Donovans. Sofia’s. It’s 11:00 p.m., so it’s closed. At least that’s a good thing. My family won’t be burning anyone alive tonight. This is about taking something away from the other side. Making a statement.
It’s the way things are done.
“You sure this is a good idea?” asks Luke. He’s gone pale. “We could try again tomorrow.”
“No, we do this tonight,” says Dad. “They won’t see him, the windows are blacked out.”
“Are you sure about that?” asks Tony.
“I just said I am.”
“There are probably security cameras up and down the street. Lie low, Matt. Just in case.”
Dad grips the steering wheel tight. I undo my seat belt and slide down the seat.
The three of them climb out of the car and go around to the back. I hear the trunk open. They reappear a few moments later, each one of them holding a Molotov cocktail. These aren’t the ones used in street warfare, though, these are the best of the best: thick bottles filled with powerful incendiary chemicals.
Dad holds up a lighter, and soon, the ends of each one burn bright.
And there they are, my family. Doing what they’re supposed to. I know there’s the stuff to make a fourth Molotov in the trunk, but obviously that’s not happening tonight.
I’m glad I “forgot” my mask. Dad being mad at me sucks, sure, but I don’t want any real part of what’s about to go down. Even though I’m here. Despite my best efforts to distance myself from this, I’m still an accessory.