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)
One of the overhead lamps blinks. I keep walking. I know where to go. I know which door the asshole from tonight is behind because at Kill’s nod, a soldier opens a door, and I step inside.
He’s leaning against the far wall, arms folded across his chest. When he sees me, he straightens, alarm stealing the arrogant assuredness of his expression. His nose has stopped bleeding, but it’s about to start again.
“Leave us alone,” I say, my voice unfamiliar. Like that of someone caged and seething for too long. Like some rabid animal.
The door closes behind me, and I’m alone with him. He’s putting his hands up, and I think he’s trying to say something, but I don’t hear him. I can’t. Rage is ringing too loud for me to hear anything but it.
I move directly to him, take his hair into my fist, and this time, it’s the wall I smash his head against, and it’s not just once. This time, I don’t stop. I do it again and again and again. Blood is splattering against my face, in my nose, my eyes. It’s in my mouth, but I still don’t stop.
He’s gone limp, and his face, it’s collapsing…collapsed. He no longer looks human, and there’s so much blood, but I only realize it when I drop him. When I see the pool I’m standing in, that’s stained my shoes and ruined my suit.
But I still don’t stop.
He’s dead. Long dead. But I kick his gut, his back, his broken face. I beat him until every bone in his body is broken and only regret I didn’t start with this. I didn’t start with the pain before killing the piece of shit.
When I’m done, I wipe the back of my hand across my face, my nose, but it only smears the blood, doesn’t wipe it away. I don’t feel anything when I look at the man on the floor. When I look at the mess I’ve made. I don’t feel good or bad or less human. And I don’t feel satisfied either.
One bang of my fist against the door, and it opens. Kill and Hugo are outside. They glance into the room when I make my way to the door behind which John Diaz is waiting to die.
The guard opens that door, and I step inside to find him drinking water through a straw. He’s sitting in his stupid fold-out chair, drinking his last water. When he sees me, he stumbles to his feet, knocking the chair down behind him. He drops the bottle, spilling the water, and falls backward.
I won’t make the same mistake with him. I’ll do it differently. Opposite. Slow. Although I can’t promise too slow.
One word keeps repeating in my head. One single word.
Rapist.
He mutters something as I pick him up, but he can’t talk because half his tongue is missing, and I slam my fist across his jaw and send him flying into the wall, and I don’t stop. I don’t stop until he, too, is a pulp of blood and guts and death.
17
Emilia
He’s gone.
He’s gone. No one is here. Nan. My father. The soldiers. No one.
The taxi is waiting a block away, and I think I should go back before he leaves. He’s already been paid. He can take off and abandon me here.
We’re a couple of hours outside the city in a town I’ve never heard of. It’s the opposite of the city—small and quaint and quiet. The address is a simple house in a normal neighborhood, and the only sign there was anyone here recently is that there are two empty bottles of beer in the sink and a half-eaten container of takeout that doesn’t yet stink in the fridge.
There are two floors with one bedroom downstairs and two more upstairs. I know he was here, my father. Or someone was who had to be wheeled in and out. I can see the tracks on the floor. What happened, though? Who moved him? If Alessandro found him, he’d be dead. I’d have found a bloody massacre if my brother had found him, so that’s not it. Did Giovanni move him? Why? Why would he? It makes no sense.
Or did he give me a false address, knowing I’d come?
I’m angry, but anger is good. It’s better than fear. To be afraid is to be weak.
I open the kitchen door and step into the backyard. It’s big and nestled between tall trees, a whole forest. It’s so dark here, I can see stars. I almost never see stars. I look up at them, listen to the silence. Silence does have a sound. Heavy, like water. It can be deafening. The noise of the city, I need it. This utter stillness, it would kill me.
It’s cooler up here than in the city. I hug my arms to myself, wishing I had a jacket or better shoes. I go back inside to take one more turn through the house before leaving, but when I’m in the kitchen, I hear a car pull up outside. Hear two doors open and close. I take my gun out of the waistband of my shorts and listen to the approaching footsteps. Men, I can tell. It’s always men. Their footfalls are heavy. I wish I could see from here, but the kitchen window overlooks the backyard. Whoever it is is coming up to the front door.