The Brother's Anniversary

West knew Onyx was particular. He was a mafia king, ruling the city of New York from the police to the deepest underground roots. He ruled it with an iron fist and a precise line where if anyone crossed it, they weren’t reprimanded. They were removed.

But at his warehouse where the King’s office was stationed, he was slightly more forgiving. His crew had become his family in a sense, people he cared about and fought for when other gangs got involved. His crew took pride in the Morcelli Mafia being in their name and having him as their protector. A whisper of it, and people would make paths for them, guns would drop to the floor at the sight of them, and the air itself seemed bent to their will. But being family was just a word; it wasn’t definite. Onyx still owned them. He owned every single soul in the underground city he had created.

And today, the word ‘family’ proved to be only a word. The precise line was now a thread. Onyx was colder than usual and less forgiving. He had already pushed a newer man into a wall with the golden barrel under his jaw, with a dare to speak again. The man wisely hadn’t spoken, even if he wanted to. Onyx’s strong hand had been viced around his neck, cutting off the ability to.

In another instance, Onyx had punched another member in the jaw for simply accidentally stumbling into him. The moment had been explosive, violent. Not typically Onyx’s character. It was even more terrifying when Onyx stood over him wiping the rings on his hand clean of the blood with a handkerchief before discarding it over the fallen man calling him a cruel name.

At a meeting about a new shipment coming, a man who had a few years on him foolishly spoke his worries – or tried to.

The King gave his orders, voice cold and stern. “I want this done clean, fast, and silent. We have an hour to get all of it off that shipment of the two cargos before the next security rolls in. If anything is left behind, you will be left behind with it.” Onyx had warned. He stood tall at the long table with his group leaders, all twenty of them, four from each of his warehouses, in his black tailored shirt, tie, and gloves, his hands behind his back. His eyes had drifted, making eye contact with every one of the men in that room. A silent message: Don’t mess this up.

And then one foolishly spoke. A newly promoted leader.

Any other day, and it would have just been a demotion on the spot, but instead, he had crumbled on the spot. The cleaners were still scrubbing the blood from the marble floors, and the smell of gun smoke still lingered in the air.

West hadn’t seen it, but everyone knew about it and heard the single round go off. When Onyx had summoned West to his office, the younger man had frozen where he stood at the word. He swallowed hard. He knew that Onyx wouldn’t kill him because Onyx had taken him under his wing like a brother, allowing him to even live with him in his penthouse, but West did mess up. He had forgotten to request a new shipment of false IDs, and with the King in such a mood, a simple mistake could mean severe punishment. Onyx wasn’t one to give second chances.

But Onyx didn’t even bring it up. West stood before the dark oak desk as Onyx sat in his chair across from him, his eyes fixed on the setting sun through the window, illuminating the amber glass in his hand. They sat in the silence for a moment. Each ticking second was agonizing to West, sweat already beading on his hairline.

“You’re driving tonight.” Onyx had simply said.

West’s jaw tightened, and his eyes widened. Onyx had driven them here on his brand new Mercedes. West drove getaway cars, not luxury, and the thought of even rubbing one of the gold rims terrified him. He wasn’t even supposed to have driven with Mercedes, but he did because Onyx had meetings to attend and let West join him for the free gas “Are you sure?”

Onyx glanced at him, his brown eyes flickering in the sun making them look red for just a second, “Did I stutter?”

West swallowed, wanting to step back but knowing it was wise not to move unless instructed. “No, sir.”

Onyx stood, “That’s what I thought.” He said. He stood up, setting the now-empty glass down, “We leave in ten.”

“Yessir.”

“Leave my office.” He said without looking at him.

As West shut the office door behind him, leaving for the employee room to gather his things, four other members approached him. “What did he do?” One asked. “Did he choke you out or-“

West looked at him, confused, “He spoke.”

“Was he drinking?” the second one asked.

West frowned, “Yeah,” he confirmed, “The expensive stuff too.”

The third one, Marcel, the one who had been here the longest out of all of them, swore under his breath. “You be careful tonight, West. He’s drinking because of his brother. There’s no telling how fast he can snap, especially if he takes a few joints or coke too.”

West's eyes narrowed in confusion, “What do you mean?”

Marcel raised an eyebrow, and the other three took notice to leave the room; they knew the history. “Has he never told you?”

West grabbed his and Onyx’s jackets, his wallet, and the keys from his locker, “I mean, I know his brother died at fifteen, but that’s-“

“Murdered.” Marcel corrected, voice low and dark. “Caleb was murdered. Shot down by another mafia leader to prove a point. Onyx became the Mafia King that day killing the highest man on the food chain. His brother died in his arms because of that man.” West stayed silent. He had never even heard the late brother’s name until then. “He’s drinking and smoking because his brother was murdered this night ten years ago,” Marcel said, his voice low.

West froze upon the realization.

Marcel straightened and cleared his throat, “I didn’t say anything, though. I shouldn’t have even said his name.” He nervously glanced around as if Onyx would spawn right then and there. With that, Marcel left the room.

West stood silently as he took it in. All he had known was a brother died at fifteen in 2015, over ten years ago. Now he understood Caleb was murdered.

--

When they got to the penthouse, West left Onyx alone. Onyx hadn’t said a word the whole drive or in the elevator. When they walked inside his place, Onyx had pulled off his tie and gloves, rolled up his sleeves, and took a bottle of whiskey with two joints to the balcony.

West had kept everything quiet in the million dollar penthouse. The TV stayed off, the lights low, dishes waited, and the radio stayed silent. West even stayed in his room, the guest bedroom, the entire time so that even his footsteps were unheard on the marble floors.

It wasn’t until two in the morning that West grew worried and walked over to the balcony doors, the foul smell suffocating the air as the stubs of the joints smoldered on the railing. Onyx leaned over the balcony rails, the bottle almost empty now, staring blankly at the city he ruled below that echoed with the night life. His dark hair that had been combed back was now disheveled after hours of him tearing his hand through it.

“Hey,” West said slowly from the doorway, “You gotta come inside now. You’re gonna catch a cold or get alcohol poisoning.”

At that, Onyx took another sip of the whiskey, his back still turned to him.

West slowly approached and reached out, touching Onyx’s arm, “Onyx?”

“I’ve had worse,” Onyx growled, replying to the earlier statement, his speech slightly slurring, “A little alcohol and weed never hurt anyone.”

West gently took the bottle and tilted his head to try to meet the older man's eyes. Onyx’s eyes were now red, rimmed, and glassy, simply watching West's hand as he submitted, purposefully not meeting his gaze. West looked at the remaining liquid, “Onyx, there’s barely a shot left." He said with a low, careful voice, " And you finished two joints. You have to be feeling awful right now.”

Onyx stood straight keeping up with the bravado, sniffling once but not saying anything. He crossed his arms, uncoordinated but done, to hide the trembling hands of his buzzing body.

West set the bottle down and looked Onyx in the eyes, which were brimming with unshed tears now, “Onyx?”

Onyx's eyes narrowed, but not looking at anything in particular obviously trying not to let the water fall. “I’ve been trying to remember, but I can’t,” Onyx whispered, voice trembling. His balance swayed and he leaned against the wall taking a slow shaky breath.

“Remember what?”

Onyx didn’t speak, didn’t look at him, jaw tight so much it looked like it hurt.

West took a step to the doorway, “Did you forget something at the office? I can go back and-“

His eyes finally met West's, “His laugh. I can’t remember it.” Onyx whispered. He scoffed a laugh but the smile broke. Onyx bit the inside of his cheek and went to rub his jaw with a now shaking hand. He stayed still for just a moment, his body swaying dangerously before his body gave out. He fell back, his back hitting the wall as he slid down. He sobbed once with another broken smile, “…I can’t even remember his voice anymore.”

West’s heart and chest ached. He had never seen Onyx, the mafia King, one of the most powerful men of New York, cry or look so defeated. So…human.

Onyx put a hand to his forehead, head low. “I had given… I gave him my hoodie that night because he wanted to go to the warehouse… it was cold, but he was so excited…. He was so happy...”He pulled his legs up as if trying to make himself smaller even though his movements were slow and uncoordinated still, “I promise our mom….in time for dinner.” Onyx sobbed then, full-body shaking sobs, and West immediately pulled him into a hug. Onyx didn’t hug him back, but he fell into it.

“He bled in that hoodie. I tried so hard to keep him awake…he said he was cold…But I can’t remember his voice…” Onyx said something else after that but West couldn’t understand him, his speech slurring even worse with the sobbing and alcohol. 

“Onyx, it’s okay. You don’t have to continue.” West whispered, rubbing Onyx’s back comfortingly.

“When he fell asleep…I told him it was okay.” His voice shook hard, choking up at ‘asleep’. He looked up at West, and West winced in sympathy for the older man. He had never seen Onyx so broken. “He was so…tired.”

“Onyx…”

Onyx’s words tumbled over one another, some sentences being understandable and others not, “It’s not okay. I can’t remember his voice or his laugh. It’s not okay, West. I shouldn’t have brought him. I should have said no. He could still be-“

“Onyx, stop. It’s not your fault.” He hugged Onyx tighter, whispering into the sobbing man’s ear, “It’s not your fault, you hear me?”

--

West fell asleep in the chair in Onyx’s bedroom that night. After an hour of sobbing, Onyx’s voice had become hoarse, and he was left bone tired. The high had crashed, and the alcohol had made him feel sick. He lay curled in his bed, miserable under the sheets, and West had watched him finally close his eyes with a shaking sigh. There hadn’t even been tears left to shed by the time he finally fell asleep.

West hadn’t meant to fall asleep himself. He meant to stay awake in case Onyx woke up sick or needed anything. But there he was, asleep in an awkward position that would leave him with an aching neck, watching over the King. The person who had taken him under his wing…like a brother.