#hurricane heller chapter 14

[nichenarratives]

Hurricane Heller 14

A Niche Narratives Fanficiton.

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14. Heartfelt Sentiment

Reassigned to Fiores' former underboss position by the end of the week, Mordecai finds himself with very little free time, something he doesn't begrudge. Having recently severed all ties with his family and now his only friend, he's glad for the distraction that comes with restructuring an entire network of lucrative hustles, burying himself under the workload. Mentally exhausted by ledgers and body still healing, he's swift to pass out once he hits the mattress, barely able to ruminate on emotional detriments.

Once able to walk reliably, he borrows Mr Kovitz's cane and makes a point of visiting each establishment now under his management, both to familiarise himself with each business and obtain first hand experience of their functionality. He quickly realises that while Fiores introduced an overarching ledger system into all seven of his branches, he didn't train anyone specific to manage them, resulting in numerous sets of incomplete ledgers, lost stock and missing revenue.

Weeks are poured into fixing inconsistencies, repairing core infrastructure and generally reorganizing the staff to ensure each site had a single man responsible not just for stock or ordering, but for collating each employee's ledgers into one at the end of each night. This final ledger, along with all the individual ledgers from each employee, are then checked for errors and approved personally by Mordecai before being sent to Savage; a workload that keeps him exceptionally busy.

Finding himself in control of those enterprises' finances, not only does he instigate a similar commission system to the one he arranged with Fiores but increases the percentage for those who maintain final ledgers, ensuring they manage their time and men as effectively as possible in his absence.

The more enjoyable financial work is infrequently interrupted by interrogations summons, a branch of his duties Mordecai most detests, now he has more interesting engagements to attend. He resents every target for dragging him away from his management role and it shows in his methodology. The rumours spread suggest he's less patient with the obstinate, more violent with his persuasive techniques and often would inflict further harm after confessions 'to be certain' they'd shared all they had to offer before the session concluded.

There's also rumours he's personally executed targets after their torture sessions ended, but it remains pure conjecture; the Kosher Butcher won't discuss his work in the factory with anyone, not even Gabriel.

Weeks slip past without acknowledgement. After a second, painful visit from the brash nurse, Mordecai learns to clean and dress his own wounds and three weeks later, removes his own stitches with boiling water, scissors and a pair of pliers. All that remains is a slight indent in the muscle of his outer thigh, edged with a thin scar; no phantom pain, no loss of mobility, no compromised function. 

I got lucky, he thinks whenever the scar catches his eye. He often traces the edge of it with a claw in the shower, the fine line where no fur regrows, a reminder to be more diplomatic. With newly acquired spare funds and a livelihood worth protecting, he invests in his first handgun; a stolen piece an older enforcer sold for a quick buck, now slung at his hip. To ensure history does not repeat itself. 

With excess funds saved by managerial systems, Mordecai repairs the rundown launderette that's become his office and begins running the shop as an actual laundromat, which helps remove the increasing number of blood stains his suits accumulate when he moonlights at the factory. The small boost in revenue even allows the tom to pay enforcers to ensure he's never ambushed while finalising accounts.

In the launderette back room, surrounded by ledgers and a cup of Earl Gray in hand, it's easy to forget he used to have a life outside of the underworld. It's only on Sundays, when residual memory buried deep in his subconscious continues to wake the monochrome tom well before sunrise, that he remembers; a mother, two sisters, early morning prayers. An entire other life he's abandoned.

For almost a year, Mordecai rises and walks the dark streets as he did as a child, cloaked by twilight, as if ashamed of the ritual, his hat pulled low and hands deep in his overcoat pockets. The pistol taps his thigh with each step, a reminder of all he's committed to as he pauses at the end of the street and waits, hidden in the shadows until the remnants of his family sleepily file out of the home and head to the morning services.

Once they turn the far corner, he'll jog up the steps, slip an envelope of money under their door, and head home again.

His emotions are always conflicted as he walks home; with his eighteenth birthday, living alone and not having spoken to her for a year, Mordecai has no obligation to his mother's bills. He could keep his earnings, spend all his savings on a lavish lifestyle befitting an underboss, or move into a larger place in a better neighbourhood. He'd be self made; respected; feared; and alone in his peaceful apartment.

Yet he still pushes half of his wages under the door while they're at temple, perhaps too ashamed to face his mother, or perhaps too afraid of a confirmation rejection. Sundays are hollow and empty, every activity unfulfilling until he just goes back to bed, sleeping away the day and waking early to begin his week once more, a week full of numerals and victims, all exhausting and distracting, always busy.

This Sunday is supposed to be the same. He wakes early, dresses smart, slips his pistol into its holster and heads out with his overcoat collar popped, shoulders hunched, his old satchel bumping his hip. Arriving at the corner, he pauses to wait and checks his pocket watch, running his thumb across the embossed face before clicking it open. He's on time. They'll leave any moment.

Time passes, but his family doesn't leave. Brows knit into a frown, Mordecai once again checks his watch, holds it to an ear to check it still ticks and has not malfunctioned. Fifteen minutes have gone by beyond their latest former departures and yet this morning, there's nothing. He takes a tentative step closer to glance inside, but with the curtains drawn and lights off, he can't see any movements in the windows.

The monochrome tom deduces they must have left earlier - it's happened once before - and resumes his usual routine; extracting an envelope of cash addressed to mother from a breast pocket, Mordecai jogs up the steps, crouches down, and eases the wedge beneath the door.

Once content the envelope is safely inside, he straightens, adjusts his coat and has just turned to leave when he hears the door crack open. He freezes on the top step, ear turning to the sound as a slither of weak light illuminates the view to his left. Despite the opportunity being right there, practically begging him to engage, he just can't find the strength to turn and face whomever caught him delivering the money.

The door closes, leaving Mordecai alone once more, lost to the twilight of yet another Sunday. His shoulders sag, dark ears fold back and he holds the creaking metal railing as a ground for his emotions, unsure what he'd hoped to happen, but definitely discontent even his family couldn't talk to him. Emerald eyes close as he grips the railing tightly, his leather gloves creaking, forcing himself to breathe, to focus-

Mordecai stiffens, left hand immediately going to the handle of his pistol as slim arms encase his torso, drawing him into the small feline directly behind him and a warm embrace. It takes him a heartbeat to feel the pince nez dig into his back when a face presses between his shoulder blades, but he releases the pistol soon after, exhaling shakily as he rests a gloved hand on his sister's arm, relaxing just a little in the familial embrace.

"I miss you," Esther whispers into the dark, a secret lost to the developing sunrise. Her arms tighten a smidgen, pulling at his waist, the envelope of cash crinkling in her grasp just under his arm. "We all do. Come home. Please."

For once, the monochrome cat is lost for words, incapable of drawing any with adequate weight to feel fitting. Whether she's aware of that or simply accepting of his silence, Esther doesn't demand a response from her estranged brother. All she does his hold him, breathing him in, memorising the feel of embracing him for what feels like moments but is closer to minutes until finally, she releases him to the shadows.

Numbed nerves tingle as Esther wordlessly goes back into their childhood home, a brief slither of light once again cast onto Mordecai's back before a quiet click brings their private reunion to a close. It takes the tom a few minutes to find the momentum to leave. He jogs down the steps and heads to his own apartment, locking himself inside before spending the rest of the day trying to burn a restless energy deep in his bones, painfully nostalgic memories of his time at home constantly floating to the forefront of his mind

[nichenarratives]

Teaser time? Teaser time.

Chapter 14 of Hurricane Heller. Taking valuable lessons from former mistakes.