Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
I make a fist and slam it against my thigh.
I was so close. So fucking close. I had her and we were happy for a few hours, my life was right, complete, I was a real person and not just a husk of a man consumed with rage and revenge.
And then I killed Don Bruno and got what I’ve been dreaming of for so long, but it doesn’t feel like the culmination of years and years of sacrifice and hard work.
No, it feels like I dipped myself into hell and the stink of sin won’t wash clean from my skin.
I walk through the house. Vestiges of the party from the night before are scattered all over: abandoned glasses, flowers in vases, a discarded tie, a half-smoked cigar, plates and wrappers and bowls. The staff works to clean it all up, but it was one hell of a wedding.
Gavino’s standing outside of Karah’s room. He frowns at me as I approach, and I halfway expect him to slug me in the jaw. Instead, he pulls me close, shakes my hand and hugs me.
“Thank for bringing her back,” he says.
“She’s my wife. I’ll do anything for her.”
It feels good to tell the truth after so many lies.
He nods once and releases me. “She’s a mess right now, but go in if you want.”
“Has she said anything?”
He shakes his head. “Won’t talk at all.”
“She was silent on the drive back from Vegas. Five hours and nothing.”
“Fuck.” He seems exhausted. We’re all exhausted. “We’ll help her. Whatever it takes.”
I squeeze his shoulder and step past him into Karah’s bedroom.
She’s wrapped in the sheets in the middle of the bed. She’s freshly showered and her hair’s still slightly damp. She looks like a lump and she doesn’t react as I sit down next to her. She’s awake and staring at the window, but doesn’t seem to register my presence at all. I can’t tell what’s going on inside of her head, and I wish so desperately to be able to connect our minds together so she can understand me, but that’s not how brains work. There’s no telepathy, no true connection, only this ceaseless void between people and our desperate attempts to bridge it.
“When I was ten, my parents were murdered.” I speak quietly and low. She shifts slightly, and I know she’s listening. Something inside of me is tightly coiled, something black and mossy and covered in muck, but I feel it unwinding as I begin to tell my story. “My father was an accountant, but not a very good one. He did jobs for difficult clients, the sort of men that trafficked in less than legal professions. I guess he was morally flexible and criminals took advantage of that. I pieced all this together years later, but I know it’s true. He started working for Don Bruno when I was six and was the main accountant for the Famiglia by the time I was nine.
“He stole from them. I don’t know how much or for how long, but he stole and got caught. That’s why they came and put a bullet in his head. That’s why they set my house on fire. I swear, Karah, if that’s all they’d done, I could’ve moved on. I might not have forgiven them, but I wouldn’t have turned into—into this.” I stare at my hands, at the little scars and the tattoos. I wouldn’t have turned into a monster.
“When the fire was at its worse, my mother dragged me into a second-story room and helped me out of a window. I remember hearing her scream as they came upstairs and killed her and threw her body into the flames. I heard the anguish and torture and terror in her voice and I heard the gunshots. They murdered her, they burned my old life, and they threw me into hell. And if she hadn’t sacrificed herself to get me out that window, I’m sure they would’ve killed me too. I was ten years old and the worst was just beginning.”
I go quiet for a second. She’s staring at me with those big, beautiful eyes, and I want to kiss her so badly but I know it’s not the time. I need her to understand before she finds her voice, and after I’ve told her everything, after she truly sees what I am, I’ll accept whatever decision she makes.
If it’s death, then it’s death. No fighting. Not anymore.
“My mother was innocent. I was innocent. But I was thrown into the foster care system where I was beaten, abused emotionally and physically, raped more than once, and preyed upon by older men and boys. I dedicated myself to revenge and turned myself into a weapon. I worshiped at the altar of death and pain, and I honed myself into what I am today, all because your father ordered his men to murder my father, my mother, and me. I met your brother and worked to befriend him, joined the Famiglia, and struggled to climb through the ranks. I was ruthless. I did whatever it took because my goal was to one day get to your father. I wanted revenge for my mother and for the life they stole from me. I wanted revenge for the hell they damned me to.