Pop Goes the Weasel (Zander, Casual)

Hector remembered when his parents were both finally gone, he hadn't cared enough to actually do anything with their belongings. He just rented a storage container, hired someone to pack everything, and moved it into the locker, locking it and ignoring it. He paid the rent on it monthly and forgot it was there. Decades later though, the storage service was closing and he was forced to deal with it. Hector knew that he could have just hired someone again to deal with it or told his men to take care of it but for some reason he decided to handle it himself on the weekend. In a pair of old jeans, faded on the knees and frayed at the heel, Hector painstakingly went through every box. There was stuff in there that Hector hadn’t even remembered from his childhood. A large, wooden sided television, copper pots and pans, large family photos of his father’s ancestors, and a box of expensive jewelry that had to have belonged to his mother even though Hector couldn’t remember her ever wearing them.

He found boxes of his old things. The single action figure he had stolen from a kid at school and hid under his mattress so his dad wouldn’t find. The right arm had broken off and was taped to its side with duct tape; a disfigured G.I. Joe that Hector had named Calvin. His arm had been blown off in a grenade blast and the doctor reattached it the best he could, the doctor being a 7 year old Hector. Hector had loved that toy; he would hide under his covers at night with it and read books by the light of the large, archaic flashlight he had also nicked. They would read through the only books Hector could get his hands on, mostly encyclopedias and the bible. Then, when his father finally passed out for the night, Hector would sleep with Calvin pulled tight against his bruised ribs and hide his swollen, blackened cheek in the single, flat pillow he had.

Calvin ended up in Hector’s pocket to be taken home.

Boxes of clothes were stacked in a corner to be given away, furniture and knick knacks joined them. The only things that Hector took the time to really sort through were boxes of papers which also held pictures. The papers Hector read through carefully and sorted them into folders: the necessary and the unnecessary. Most of the photos he glanced at in passing and tossed in a trash bin but one caught his eye. His mother was in a hospital bed, his father beside her, and in her arms were two small babies. Hector knew it wasn’t from his birth because he stood off, barely inside the frame of the picture, thin and dark, like a skeleton with a thatch of heavy hair. He sat in his father’s old chair in the storage unit, staring at the picture for far too long, one of his men who was helping him actually came up to him and tapped his shoulder with a concerned “You a’right boss?” Hector nodded and waved him off, pocketing the picture next to Calvin.

He finished with the important papers and left, giving instructions to donate everything else.

Back in his office, Hector began digging. Calling in a favor to someone who worked in child protective services, Hector learned something that knocked the breath out of him. He had two brothers, Zander and Percival, given up for adoption. He was struck by two emotions simultaneously. Shock, shock at the fact that Hector couldn’t even remember his mother being pregnant. The shock melted away when the fact that Hector couldn’t remember 80% of his childhood overruled that thought. It was no surprise that his father had beaten that memory out of him too. The second emotion that swept in was anger. They had gotten out, they weren’t subjected to old man Tormei’s drinking and beating, or their mother telling them that if they didn’t scream or cry it wouldn’t be so bad.

Anger at his mom for loving them more than him, for loving them enough to save them but not him.

Hector wanted to burn the picture and lock the file up again but he knew he couldn’t, not with this new information. He knew theses men’s biological pasts and had a duty to share it with them. Alcoholism on their father’s side, eating disorder on their mom’s, heart disease, cancer, and diabetes ran rampant from both ends. Hector knew that he had to be a nice guy and share this with his brothers. He hated that word, it felt so dirty. They weren’t his brothers unless they spent their Friday nights curled up in a closet just to avoid their father; they weren’t his brothers unless they lied through their teeth every Monday that the newest bruise really was from them being clumsy and falling off a bike; they weren’t his brothers unless they cried tears of sheer joy the day their dad died and went drinking in celebration.

They weren’t his brothers.

It took a few calls to find out where and what happened to each brother. Percival floated around in the system until he was adopted and Zander was picked up by a good, influential family. Finding them out in the real world was just as easy, especially with Zander. He would be the first brother Hector visited, then Perry.

Making sure to have the file in hand when he finally went to Zander’s office in Manhattan, Hector couldn’t help but be a bit nervous about it. Whether he liked it or not, he would be visiting blood. That was a strong, deep connection that he, as a mobster, couldn’t ignore. That proud heritage that connected every made man was running through Zander Devereux’s veins. Of course Hector couldn’t invite him into the family business but he could do his part as a Don and honor the genes.

Hector didn’t make an appointment for the surprise visit. He just showed up and the secretary, stunned that the mayor was standing in front of her, silently let him through. He marched up to Zander’s office door, dressed in a sharp grey suit, and knocked twice before letting himself in. “Zander Devereux?”