Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 63052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
This is what it will be like when my father’s gone. Me in the back of the car. Me, alone. I’ll leave Natalie as far out of this as possible. Keep her safe.
The baby, in a way, I hope it’s a girl. I wonder if my father thought about that when mom was pregnant with me. If he wished for a daughter so as not to have to pass this legacy on to his own. I wonder if, to some extent, there’s a part of us that knows that the inheritance of the first-born male is a condemnation. A daughter can’t rule. Not in our family. Sexist, I know, but her husband would take control when the time came.
I’m thinking about this when Eric slows the car.
“Need to refuel,” he says. The kid who was supposed to make sure the car was ready before we left the city hadn’t show up. Probably hungover somewhere is my guess.
“It’s fine,” I say. I need to stretch my legs anyway. Meeting was in Manhattan and I’ve been sitting for too long.
I climb out of the car and dial Natalie. It’s late, but she said she’d wait up.
“Hey.” Her voice is soft.
I can hear her smiling. It makes me smile. “Hey. Were you sleeping?”
“Nope.”
“Dozing?”
“Maybe.”
“Did you eat dinner?”
“A grilled cheese sandwich,” she says. “Two, actually. I’m trying to get to that four-hundred pounds so we can see if you still think I’m beautiful.”
I chuckle.
“Are you almost home?” she asks, a note of worry creeping into her voice.
“About thirty minutes away. Go to sleep. I’ll wake you when I get home.”
“No, I’ll wait up,” she says through a yawn.
“I like waking you up,” I whisper. She knows what I mean.
“You’re dirty, Sergio Benedetti.”
“You like me dirty, Natalie Benedetti.”
She snorts, then her voice turns serious. “I miss you.”
“Me too. This was the longest three days of my life, but I’ll be home soon.” The pump clicks, and Eric takes the nozzle out. “I gotta go. I’ll see you soon.”
“You promise?”
“I promise, sweetheart.”
We disconnect.
There’s no screeching of tires as two SUVs pull into the station, their windows tinted black. There’s no rush. They just slow as they turn into the lot. I’m tucking the phone back into my pocket when it happens. When I feel something isn’t right.
Silence is supposed to precede an ambush.
Silence always comes before devastation. It’s what I’ve always believed. How I’ve always thought it would happen.
But when I hear the first round fired, it’s like slow motion. I turn and watch Eric’s body fling backwards. A dark red spot appears on the front of his shirt. It begins to spread in a perfect circle feathering along the edges like a snowflake. That’s what I think of when I see it. A fucking perfect snowflake.
He’d left his coat in the car. He doesn’t have his weapon. Not that it would do any good. They’ve come prepared.
Fuck. We shouldn’t have been out here, in the open like this. Unprotected and vulnerable.
Instinct has me gripping my weapon and I take aim and shoot at the driver’s side window, even though I can’t see for shit because even the windshield is black. I hit the driver though. I know it when the SUV speeds up, crashes into a parked car just outside the twenty-four-hour market.
The first bullet hits me at the back of my arm. It’s my gun arm. But I know the sound of an automatic. There’s more to come.
It’s time.
My reckoning.
I know it. I’m sure of it like I’m sure of little else.
For as much as I think about death, for as aware as I am of its eternal presence, it’s cold, bony fingers, like claws, shadows trailing me, clinging to me, for as much as I am aware, when it comes, when it is inevitable, it’s still somehow unexpected.
I manage to turn. The cowards put a bullet in my back, below my shoulder blade. It burns. Sends me to my knees. I look at the passenger side window. It’s rolled part of the way down. I can see a flash of hair, a quick glimpse of blond or gray. But the bullets are still coming. Six, I think. Seven. I’m on my back and something warm is sliding up to my neck, down over it.
And all I can think about is her.
Her face.
Her eyes.
The baby inside her.
My baby whom I’ll never see.
My wife. I’ve had her for so short a time.
I won’t keep my promise to her tonight. This will be the first time I don’t keep a promise to her.
I think of the box on the family tree with my name on it. The date of birth. Who will fill in today’s date underneath my name? Who will color in the red cross. Will that task fall to her? No. It can’t. I can’t let it. It’s too heavy for her. Too dark.