Thirty Minutes

Filly Ingles

"Thirty minutes Conlon. That's all she has left."

Those words would echo in his head for the rest of his life. The rasping confidence in those words. The grim pleasure of Hunters ultimatum. He'd wanted to put Spot in this position for years, for their very first moment, the Italian and the Irish had sparked with hatred that could be seen from New Jersey.

Thirty minutes, the blink of an eye.

He'd been stupid. He couldn't believe how stupid he had let himself act. For a piece of ass and a slow burn. Skin on skin and he had traded Brooklyn for her. He had unwittingly sold his whole life down the river with the little Italian bitch.

Thirty minutes, to alter a life.

He'd believed her, the scars had convinced him as well as the power of those lying brown eyes. He'd never had anyone like her before. He had never had anyone before her. She had sucked him in and taught him how to drown in her and beg her for more.

Thirty minutes, to make up a mind.

She needed his help now. So her brother had said. "I have your little bitch, and you know what I'll do to her." And Spot had realized the perfect trap the siblings had laid for him. Hunter would hurt her, and badly, worse then Spot could think of; In torment he knew Hunter could and would surpass even Spot's worst moments when it involved Mia.

His sick obsession for his sister had been obvious to everyone the moment he had lost her, only to find her in Spot's domain. Mia Tortulo had that affect on men. The dueling rage between wanting to submit to her and wanting to strangle her so you would never have to hear her vicious mouth, and would never have to live in the agony of knowing someone else had had her. Not only had Hunter Tortulo had to live for six weeks in that agony he had to live knowing it was the Irish he hated so much that had had her.

Thirty minutes, to finally decide

One thing had mattered to Spot from the moment he had walked off the boat and his foot had touched the Brooklyn dock. One thing. One place that made up who he was. Brooklyn. His home, the first real home of his life, that had whipped, beaten and schooled him in pain and hardship. A home that had granted him friendship, leadership, and love.

For the immigrant who had told any who would listen that he would never be betrayed. That by his sheer force of will he would have a faithful army of followers and he would never know betrayal because he wouldn't allow himself. For that determined young man to play the fool and fall in love with the Italian whore was stupid.

Thirty minutes, to whisper your name

The ultimatum should have been an easy choice; Brooklyn or the whore who had been sent to torment him into submitting to her brothers' wayward plans for the home that had raised him like a mother and father. His choice was made for him as far as his boys were concerned. Brooklyn came first. Duty came first.

Spot sipped the whiskey from his dirty glass and looked at the clock on the wall as the long hand ticked over. Thirty Minutes. His decision had been made. His boys were safe. His home was safe. He had done what he was supposed to do. He'd done the smart thing.

He slugged back the rest of his drink and whiskey tears bled from his eyes as he called her name in pain.

"Mia!"

Thirty minutes, to shoulder the blame

The world shook around him and the chair fell backwards as he shot out of his seat. He pushed the his door open, flinging it wide as he ran down the stairs of the Brooklyn News Boys warehouse.

"I've changed my mind! I take it back!" Spot called to the heavens; to the god he had been told to believe in. The blowing wind was an obstacle to his journey, as was the lack of air in his burning lungs, and the pain of his tearing leg muscles. But he pushed on, he had to get to her, no matter the fool it painted him.

With something close to hysteria he kicked open their door; panting, sweating, and broken already by the mere thought he had entertained.

The knife in Hunters hand and the silence from the woman wearing the red dress he had saved up to buy her, bit anyone with a heart worse then the chill in the wind.

Thirty minutes, of bliss, thirty lies

Spot dropped to his knee's pulling the small form of his dark haired love into his hands, his fingers stroking her face and lips, trying to coax that vicious tongue out of her mouth. "Mia?" He gasped and shook her.

"It was – always you. Three years it was alwa-" She was heaving in air painfully. She looked dead but she wasn't. She was alive barely. "I waited for you to come. I knew yo… you would. But you didn't." She was gasping in painful little bursts now.

"We could have been a family." Her death kissed hand fell to her open stomach, "You, me and our bab-"

Then the life was gone out of her. Even before the final breath left her body. She wasn't his love anymore. Mia Turtulo had gone to heaven where she would be served by angels to repay the torture of an angel on earth, and her final brutal moments, without a loving hand to protect her as was only ever her due.

Thirty minutes, to finally decide

"You were late." Hunter said the blood and gore that covered his chest not as disgusting as the face and the voice and the hands that could kill his own sister for loving another man.

Spot's face was ravaged with tears that he was unashamed to cry as he stood the emotional pain wearing on his every limb, as he bent to pick up his lovers body. "I am going to treat her as a Conlon should be. You have no ties to her." Spot's voice was wobbly and weak with tears, guilt and rage.

Spot turned his back then on the man who had ruined Mia Turtulo's life from the first moment he had taken a step away from his duty as her brother and into her tormentor. He carried his wifes' body - or the woman who would have been, away from her torment for the first time since the abuse started she finally had someone with the strength to do what was best for her.

In the moment it takes to make plans and mistakes, we lose, we fail.