Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 69102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
I drag one foot out of the pool, listen to the sound of water drip back in, watch the ripples.
There’s a weight to water. What would happen if I just slipped in right now? It would take the slightest movement. A shimmy forward, just a shifting of weight. I could be quiet. Not make a splash like last time when he threw me in. I was scared then. Now, I could just slip beneath the surface and let myself float, let the water carry me, engulf me. Feel myself become weightless. I’d close my eyes this time. I don’t want to see. I like the sound of it, of water filling my ears. But I’m afraid it will hurt when I breathe in. Lungs aren’t meant to hold water, and I think it will hurt.
And so, because I am a coward, I stand and dry my feet as best as I can in the grass and put on my shoes. I walk to the back of the garden where there’s a door. It’s locked, I know from the last time, but I take the pistol out of the waistband of my shorts and aim it at the lock, and I fire.
It’s loud, and I know Vincent hears, but it doesn’t matter because I’m fast. When the door falls open, I run. I run out into the street, and I keep running. I don’t look back. I don’t look over my shoulder. Not once. I just run and run and run until I’m engulfed not by water but by people. By so many people that I can disappear.
16
Giovanni
Kill hands me a glass of whiskey and pours a generous one for himself.
“Hugo got a little more out of John Diaz, which eventually led to some photographs,” Kill says once he’s finished his glass.
“Photographs?”
He nods.
“You’ve seen them?”
“Yes. And you should know, it’s bad.”
I feel every muscle tense. “How bad?” I need to be prepared. I’ve been unprepared with her once before.
“I don’t know the girl, but after seeing what I saw, I hurt that motherfucker. I don’t know what kind of deal you made with him, but he’s wishing he was dead right about now, and the only reason he’s not is because you wanted him kept alive.” He points to an envelope lying on the table among several monitors. “I’ll leave you to it.”
I hear myself thank Kill in a voice like my own but not quite mine. I stand there, holding my drink, not quite drinking, though, and watch as he disappears into the elevator. His expression is hard, unrelenting as the doors slide closed, and I’m left alone. I turn, set my glass down, and pick up the envelope. I sit behind the desk and open it. And I stare. I just stare at the grainy color photo. I guess it was taken with a phone. Blown up to 8x10. The quality is bad, or the camera was dirty. But not bad enough to hide this.
It takes me a full minute to turn it over and look at the next one. I only do it after I’ve memorized every face in that first one, recognizing three easily. Emilia, John Diaz, and the asshole whose nose I broke tonight. The rest I don’t know. They’re in the other photographs as well. Just as I wonder who took the pictures, I see. A selfie. Alessandro and Emilia. Except he’s the only one smiling. And I know they’re in chronological order. I can see it on her face. I can see exactly when the fight went out of her. I can see when she learned to roll over and survive. Just survive.
The whipping wasn’t what broke her.
Five men.
Five pieces of shit.
Five pieces of shit and her brother, the grand master. And lying on the floor between them, one bleeding, broken girl.
Rage churns in my gut. Rage and a burning need to do violence. To hurt. To break. To kill. Slowly. Painfully. To maim. To dismember. And finally, to wipe from the earth.
I stand up. Push the button for the elevator. Get on. Music assaults my ears when the doors slide open. I step out, but it’s like I can’t hear or see anything.
My hands are fists of concrete and my body is steel. A weapon more deadly than a gun.
Hugo and Kill are waiting for me by the doors that lead to the downstairs rooms. I don’t acknowledge the looks on the faces of the people I pass. Of the sea that parts as I approach. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, and I don’t recognize myself. My eyes are hard, like stone. Rage has turned them almost black. The tension in my muscles makes me look even bigger.
Neither Kill nor Hugo speak, but they follow me down the steel stairs, the sound of three approaching men like a death sentence because each one of us, we’re lethal.