Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 149338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149338 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
“Call 911, you ungrateful... bastard, I can’t… No puedo…” he whimpered, sweating profusely now. “My heart…” He grabbed his chest, trying to stand to reach the phone receiver in front of him. Inching his fingers closer and closer until his body betrayed him.
“So close, yet so far away.” I clapped my hands, then took another puff of my cigar. Blowing smoke toward him. Making him cough.
His legs gave out and his body slid off the table backward, falling to the ground. His glass followed, shattering into a million pieces below him. He landed on his back, head bouncing off the floor, convulsing uncontrollably.
Stubbing the cigar out in the ashtray, I sat back watching him seize on the ground and enjoying every last fucking second of it. Letting him feel the spasms of his heart pumping hard through his body. His veins protruding, losing circulation. Spit forming near his mouth, as his back arched off the floor choking on his own saliva.
His body betraying him like he betrayed my mother.
I finally pushed off the desk, stepping toward him, each stride more determined than the last.
Crouching down, close to his face, I growled, “The dead can’t talk, old man.” Throwing his own words back at him. Wanting him to remember the day he set my life in motion.
The day he damned me.
“Please… help me…” he muffled so low I could barely hear him, placing his hand over his heart.
“Like you helped my mother?” I didn’t falter, gripping onto his throat, squeezing lightly. Cutting off more of his air supply.
His eyes widened in fear. I would remember the look on his face for the rest of my life. Another memory that would forever haunt me until the day I died. I held him down, pinning him to the floor by his throat, feeling it constrict under my fingers. I wanted him to feel everything as I choked the life out of him, slowly. Wanting him to feel the pain as he took his last breaths. Hoping that his life was flashing before his eyes.
I needed to witness him struggle like my mother did, fighting for his life.
I leaned forward, getting as close as I could to his ear, staring him dead in the eyes. I spoke with conviction, “This was for my mother.”
His eyes glazed over, the realization that this was my retaliation. My revenge for my mother’s death. My vengeance on making it right by murdering him.
His son was his demise.
“Eye for eye, motherfucker.” I gripped his throat as hard as I fucking could. His body convulsed, legs, arms shaking uncontrollably and all over the place. “May you burn in Hell,” was the last thing I gritted out before his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he was dead.
Letting go of his throat, I stood. Taking him in one last time, making sure he was really gone. Nudging him with my foot, rolling him over so I wouldn’t have to look at his fucking face again. I didn’t close his eyes or make the sign of the cross, I never wanted his goddamn soul to rest.
I took a deep breath, immediately feeling a sense of peace since my mother died. I walked over to where the autopsy report laid on the floor, picking it up and placing it on his back. Along with the Pentobarbital that was inside of my suit jacket.
Forever condemned.
“Come and clean up this fucking mess. It’s done,” I ordered to one of my men on the phone.
And I left.
El Diablo never once looking back.
“We have a problem,” Esteban stated, barging into my office without knocking, forcing my attention to him.
The days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and one year bled into the next. I was twenty-four years old and I was Lucifer himself, leading the way to Hell. Almost a year after I took care of my father, I met Esteban at one of my strip clubs downtown.
Let's just say he wasn't enjoying the entertainment.
I was talking to my men, when we heard a little girl scream, “Stop! Don’t hurt him.” My men tried to step in and intervene, but I put my hand out in front of their chests, stopping them. I pulled out a cigarette instead, leaned against the brick wall behind my strip club and watched. Esteban was getting his ass kicked by three junkies in my alley. He was homeless at the time, rummaging through the dumpster for food. Sleeping under overpasses or in alleyways. He was a scrappy little fucker but he could handle his own.
Taking as much as he was giving.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little figure cowering in the shadows. I walked toward her, picking her up and placing her in my arms. She had bright green eyes and long dark hair, she couldn’t have been older than four.