Fishbones Book II – Chapter 43: Home

Posted On December 1, 2021

Ferris wasn’t sure how long he had stood watching. Fire trucks had arrived, one after another, until the night sky was illuminated with flashing lights. Full of shouts and the torrent of water. They were sensations he was familiar with. Fire—loss. Ashes drifting down like snow.He had finally let go of Demos when the struggling stopped. His partner hadn’t said a word, hadn’t bothered to wipe the wetness from his eyes. And when Ferris finally managed to tear his stare away from the flames, Demos wasn’t there at all.

His heart began to race, palms prickling as his eyes darted over every inch of the dock and parking lot. He couldn’t have gone back to La Veloce, someone would have seen him. Then where—?

Ferris froze on the spot their car had been parked. Or more accurately, where their car had been parked. It was gone.

Demos had left without him.

With a curse under his breath, Ferris dug his phone from his pocket. It felt slippery in his hands as he snapped it open, his fingers jabbing at buttons much harder than they needed to. But Demos wasn’t picking up.

After eight rings Ferris hung up, then tried again. Once more, there was no answer. The Ghost had never ignored his calls before. He had never even let it go past three rings.

Ferris’ pulse picked up. He ignored the sweat beading on his forehead, only running toward the street. Two cabs drove past him before one finally stopped and Ferris hurried into the backseat, breathless. 

But where was he supposed to go?

He stared at the cab driver, who turned to look back at him expectantly. 

“The restaurant,” Ferris muttered to himself. It was the first place that came to mind.

“What restaurant?” the driver asked, unamused.

Ferris blurted out the cross streets of Ristorante Giorgetti and the cab weaved back onto the street. Streetlights flooded the cab with stripes of light as they drove. Ferris continued calling in vain, until ten minutes later they reached the restaurant.

But Demos’ car was nowhere in sight.

With a dry breath, Ferris gave another address. His hand gripped his phone so hard it nearly cracked. Where was he? He wasn’t answering—was he angry at Ferris? Was he safe?

As they drove, he fought the urge to bury his face in his hands. His eyes strained through the taxi window, scanning for any signs of Demos’ Alfa Romeo. But it was nowhere to be seen.

When his phone finally rang, Ferris nearly dropped it. He scrambled to open it, heart now pounding as he held it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Where is Demos?” 

Ferris’ heart sank like a stone. It was Victor. He swallowed, then found his voice.

“I don’t know,” Ferris said. “I’m—“

“Find him,” was all Victor said before the line went dead. He’d hung up.

Ferris’ hand lowered. He stared at his phone, his body slowly going numb. “I’m trying,” he murmured.

After an hour he had run out of places to search, gaining nothing but an impressive debt on the taxi meter. The compound had been empty, as well as every park, restaurant, and cafe they’d frequented. With every minute that ticked by his hands lost more feeling, all sounds overpowered by the pounding in his chest.

“This is a cab, not a motel,” the driver said. “You’re going to have to get out sometime.”

Ferris picked his head up. A motel. There was one place, one whose address Demos had known by heart. The same place they had given Buck an impromptu tooth extraction. There had been a look in the Ghost’s eyes when they’d arrived. Something far off—closed out. As if he were punishing himself for something.

“The Bliss Motel,” Ferris said. “On the north side.”

“All right, but this is the last stop. I have a family to get home to.”

#

As the cab exited the highway he could see it, the tall sign for the Bliss Motel. A glowing beacon through the black of night. His pulse picked back up, rising from an anxious titter all the way to a pounding like a fist on a door. He struggled to make out the parking lot beneath the red neon glow. 

And there it was. The Alfa Romeo.

Ferris cursed again, shoving a handful of bills into the driver’s hand, then nearly tripping over himself as he spilled out of the running vehicle. Through the dark, on the second floor walkway, a single figure was smoking a cigarette. The light was visible even from the street—a spot of orange cutting through the night.

It was a silhouette he would know anywhere, at any time. And apparently in any lighting. He’d found the Ghost. 

The moment Demos looked up, his entire frame stiffened. He slipped into a motel room, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Demos—“ Ferris exhaled a cloud in the cold air, then darted across the parking lot. He took the stairs two at a time before finding the very same door Demos had disappeared through. The knob rattled in his fist—locked. 

“Demos, please,” he said, his voice carrying through the dark. “Please talk to me.”

“Go home,” came Demos’ muffled, weary voice from behind the door.

“It’s not home without you.”

There was a pause before Demos replied, his voice even tighter. “You’ll manage. You have before.”

“But Victor—“

“How am I supposed to face him?” Demos snapped through the door. “My family? I was there—I was there and I did nothing! I let him die. Because you wouldn’t let me go!”

Ferris placed a hand on the door, chipped paint scratching his palm. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you did!”

“What did you expect me to do?” Ferris’ voice was raising, surging. “Let you run off to face six armed men?”

“I could have saved him!”

“No, you couldn’t! You would have died!” Ferris shouted at the door, hand closing to a fist. “You would have died right there beside him and then I’d be the one saying it.” He took in a single, shaky breath. His throat felt stripped, raw. “I could have saved him.” With those words Ferris cracked, his cadence falling apart, vision blurring from the welling in his eyes. “I’d be saying that every day for the rest of my fucking life!”

There was only silence in response. Ferris swallowed, pushing up his glasses to rub the water from his eyes. He had known—he had known when his arms had been wrapped tight around Demos’ body. He had known that if his grasp slipped, if he let go, that he would never see Demos again. Every breath, every heartbeat, and every trace of strength in his body had fought to hold him back. So he could see Demos again the next morning. So there wouldn’t be two funerals.

“Are you sorry?” Demos finally said, his voice soft—barely audible through the door.

“I’m sorry you lost your grandfather,” Ferris said. “But I’m not sorry I stopped you.” His stare bore into the motel door. Fist still tight, voice still shaking. “I could relive it a hundred times. And a hundred times I wouldn’t let you go.”

Again, there was silence. Ferris chewed his lower lip, his eyes falling shut. “The last thing Gino told me was to take you home,” he said. “Please.” With that single plea, he weakened—hand slipping down the door’s surface, his forehead bumping the old paint. “Come home.”

After another moment of quiet, there was the metallic clacking of locks, the rattling of a chain. Ferris looked up as the door cracked open to see him—to see Demos with reddened eyes and a weak back. Pale, sweating, and smudged with ash.

Their eyes met and the Ghost collapsed into his chest, fingers twisting the front of his shirt. As Ferris pulled him into his arms he noticed just how badly Demos was shaking. How quickly the front of his shirt became stained with tears.

These were tears he knew well. Ferris had shaken the same way, sobbed the same way, when he had been told his father hadn’t made it. His entire body had gone so numb that he hadn’t even been sure he was breathing. Even five years later, the feeling still hit him.

Once again he held his partner tight. He couldn’t let him go, couldn’t lose him again.

“When he spoke to you,” Ferris murmured. “It sounded like he said—“

“Lo so, e ti voglio bene,” Demos said, his voice cracked and dry. 

“That means—“

“I know. And I love you.”

#

Ferris’ hand didn’t leave his partner’s shoulder until they arrived at the compound. Demos had a blank stare—drained. Still processing. The grounds were quiet, chilled air laying heavy over the driveway. As they approached the front door Ferris caught sight of Victor’s Lincoln—parked askew as if he had bolted from the vehicle before it had come to a complete stop.

Upon entering, Victor was the first thing they saw. He was standing by a console table, hand gripping a phone receiver as he spoke. His eyes were red, his face caught in the echo of a grimace. Ferris had never seen the man like this before. Hands unsteady, tie unraveling. As if reality had caught him off guard.

The moment the door closed behind them, Victor’s head shot up. His eyes widened, a shaky stare locked on Demos. Ferris could hear a thin voice still coming from the phone’s receiver when Victor hung up—silencing whoever it was. 

“I’m sorry,” Demos said, frail—as if he’d gathered every last ounce of his strength to speak. “I’m sorry, I tried to—“

He stopped when Victor’s hands found his face. He was holding Demos’ jaw, his stare intensifying—trembling. Fabric rumpled as the man pulled his nephew in, holding him just as tightly as Ferris had at the marina. As if he were afraid he might lose him.

“Thank God,” Victor said, his voice breathy. He held the back of Demos’ head, coarse fingers curling.

Demos tensed, taking in the embrace of a man who had practically raised him without a single touch. A man who never stopped criticizing him, challenging him. Whose smile had to be earned through sweat and blood. Who said “I love you” to his Town Car more often than to his own flesh and blood. 

Who was now holding him as if the boy in his arms made up his entire world. After a moment, Demos gave in, weakening in his uncle’s hold.

Victor exhaled, a pained breath escaping his chest—one he seemed to have been holding for years.

“Thank God you’re all right.”