CHAPTER 34
I’m hiding behind some crumbling parapet of an old industrial yard, peering over the ledge down to the beach. I agree with Finnigan—what a ridiculous amount of confidence Frankie B must have to think he is safe here. It’s quiet, deserted, no soul in sight on the moonlit sand, or beyond. It didn’t take long to spot him, even as he is further down the beach now, closer to the pier. From Carter’s words I thought he was already at Dalton Pier, but he is actually walking toward it.
Toward our meeting spot, though it’s technically supposed to happen in just over an hour.
My fists clench, teeth grinding as I watch him walk with a ridiculous swagger like he owns this beach. This is the man who broke me… how unbearably pathetic. More anger filters through my mind, my body too, fueling my muscles like it’s priming them.
He took my sister! He took me! Used me… then passed me right over to his boss.
That anger hits the soles of my feet, my hands clenching around the strap of my small bag I crossed over my body to keep close. Red hot rage fills my vision, my steps quickening with the adrenaline it brings, and not even the constant rumble of the surf soothes me. Before I round the corner I grab my phone and open the text I already wrote on the car ride here—it’s short, maybe heartbreaking—but it must be done. I’m ducking behind the parapet, right where it ends and beach sand begins to soften my steps, and I have a clear view of the man who will dictate my fate.
Squatting, I remove the bag off my body, drop my phone inside of it and pull out the knife I got from Maddox, sliding it in my boot. I grab the gun Finnigan gave me for protection, though the silencer I’m currently screwing at the end of it I stole myself from his office. I don’t remember why I did it, maybe some unconscious instinct that ironically will come in handy right now.
Shadows swallow me next to this parapet, and Frankie B and his men can’t spot me, but I can see them clearly. I waited long enough, checking my surroundings, the vicinity, and none of this looks like a trap for The Sanctum. Maybe I was wrong, maybe we were all wrong. But I’m not backing down. They’re maybe fifty yards away from me, enough for clear aim, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins might affect the skills I’ve honed in the last few months. Maddox is not a huge fan of guns, but he taught me well. I’m not half bad, but tonight… I have to be better. Because there’s no way I can stroll down that beach to get to Frankie if his lackeys are still moving.
Ice invades my gut as the realization of my intention hits my rational thoughts—am I about to kill these men intentionally this time around? Frowning, I take a moment to acknowledge my feelings, but the ones I’m looking for never come. I feel no apprehension or remorse because the memories of me held down during my assault are filling me with the only emotions that matter right now.
So I lift the gun, aiming it in their direction, bobbing slowly up and down as I follow their movements. The moment one of the men stops walking I squeeze the trigger.
“Fuck!” I curse under my breath when the bullet whizzes past them and hits the sand.
Through the crashing sounds of the waves, only two of them notice the disturbance, but they don’t look like they understand what it was. Gripping the bottom of the magazine harder, I inhale deep and aim again releasing it slowly at the same time I squeeze the trigger. The muffled pop is drowned by the rumble of the sea, and one of the men staggers back and reaches for his stomach. I shoot once more, aiming higher, and I expect a scream as he crumbles to the ground, squeezing his chest, but confusion is keeping them silent even as they whirl to look around.
The sea would swallow most of their pointless noises anyway.
As guns are drawn and their gazes search for me, the scene changes from calm to alert, but I force my anxiety back down my throat. I aim once more, not for the head since fifty yards is too far away for me to guarantee the accuracy, but for the chest. Only, the bastard moves just as the bullet flies. Slow panic threatens my muscles and focus, and only one of the next three bullets grazes one of them.
“Just stop moving!” The anger does something to me, and before they can spot my location, I squeeze the trigger once more, and the second man falls back on a piercing shriek. “Finally.”
I take my eyes off of them for a moment, searching for the source of that shriek and find the woman Frankie took for a walk, now forcefully trapped in his arms, held away from the gruesome scene.
That brief moment was enough for the third man to spot the general direction the bullets came from, and several shattering pops ripple through the sound waves. I manage to duck before the concrete of the parapet takes the hits. I expected something akin to a boom when they made contact, but it’s surprisingly quiet. I rise to find him moving closer, and more bullets strike concrete, one flying just above my head as I duck down.
“This is not how I plan to die.” Not before I reach Frankie.
I slide down on my knees and forearms, inching to the edge of the parapet as low as I can go, since the bastard is shooting high. I peer past it as another shot hits the concrete—he’s no longer fifty yards away. The sand is slowing him down, but he’s covered half the distance to me. Good. My aim will be more certain. I squeeze the trigger and the bullet rips through his shoulder on a painful bellow, the sound like music to my ears, but he’s not down yet.
“Who the fuck are you?” someone yells from the distance.
That’s Frankie B.
I don’t answer. He’ll find out soon enough.
Pulling the trigger once more, I hit the man’s hip, and he staggers, finally falling to the ground. My legs shake as I rise but the early moonlight hits his features, and for a couple grueling seconds I’m pinned in place, panic striking down my nerves.
“I know you.” I whisper, focusing my pistol at him. The satisfaction at his fury-twisted pain rippling his features breaks through my fear.
He lifts his own weapon, but I shoot him right in that arm before he can aim, and the gun flies out of his hand.
“You fucking bitch!” he roars, screaming in pain he couldn’t possibly hide.
His words don’t touch me. I can hear them, but they mean nothing as they float somewhere in the distant places of my consciousness. This feels like a first step, because this bastard was there.
“You held me down.” I seethe, stepping closer through the soft sand.
I’m only a few feet away, enough to see the pain-steeped rage marring his features. God, it looks so pretty.
What an odd thought.
Warmth fills my belly, satisfaction turning the adrenaline coursing through my veins into a surge of power.
“Evelyn!”
My gaze whips toward the voice, and I pinpoint Frankie’s position—he’s farther away than before, arms wrapped tight around the woman who struggles against him. He seems surprised that it’s me he’s looking at.
“He’ll rip you apart,” the man on the ground spits, “worse than he did the first time. And then he’ll give you to all of us to share and break until all we’re fucking is your empty carcass.”
I look down at the man crumpled to the ground, spit falling between his thin lips as he attempts a seedy grin when I take aim once more. “But you won’t be one of them.”
The bullet hits right next to the bridge of his nose, blood and eye matter splattering all around him, and on me too. Then silence comes. Sweet silence amongst the crash of the surf, and when I look up at Frankie B, the smugness is broken by something else. It looks like fascination, but I think there’s fear in there too.
Once again, I wait for the guilt and disgust for murdering three people to crash down on me, but nothing comes. All I feel is contentment and can’t help but wonder what’s wrong with me. As I watch Frankie aim his weapon at me, I do feel a bit of fear too. Still no guilt though…
Is this it, the moment all will be over and he will no longer invade my dreams, turning them into endless nightmares?
I wait a few seconds longer, yet he makes no move to squeeze that trigger. Not even when I begin walking toward him. The blonde woman he forces against his body is shaking silently, trying but failing not to look at the bodies strewn across the beach as dark makeup streams down her pretty face.
I shouldn’t waste time, but I’m curious. “How did you know my name?”
He grins and I want to vomit, “You told me. You probably don’t remember though, you were off your head impaled on my dick at the time. ”
Bile lodges in my throat and I tighten my grip around the gun. I shouldn’t have asked.
“You’re early, Evelyn. I wasn’t expecting you yet.” His lisp grinds my eardrums, and I would gladly make him eat a bullet just so I don’t hear it anymore.
“Thought I would surprise you since you wanted me here so badly.”
“The plan was to keep you for myself, but considering this”—he waves his gun around the beach and my handy-work—“taming will be necessary. And I’m afraid I’m not good at taming. I tend to kill them, accidentally of course. Lucky for you, I know a few experts at it. I want to say they’ll take good care of you before you’re returned to me, but the truth is… they’ll break you apart. Bit by bit, split your mind in so many pieces, you won’t even remember your Sanctum, and your body will bear no memory of anything other than their grueling training. You will be pliant, docile. And willing.”
I swallow the acidic bile in my throat as I stop not even ten feet away from the man.
“Never.” I fume, lining up my gun with his forehead.
I won’t miss from this distance, but the asshole yanks the woman in front of him, using her to shield himself as she wails and squirms in his grip.
“Coward,” I hiss, keeping my gaze off the intimidating barrel of his gun. “All those threats, just so you can kill me with a gunshot?”
“You stupid fucking girl! Who said anything about killing? I will maim, fix you later, or maybe just partially. Leave you with a limp or something as a constant reminder of your failure.”
Failure…
Failure to protect my sister.
Failure to save us.
Failure to avenge us.
I will not be a failure! Not again.
I aim next to the woman’s head and pull the trigger. Adrenaline breeds irrational strength, and she cries out, ripping out of his grip and drags herself away.
“Goddamn it!” he yells and shoots at the same time.
Piercing, hot pain slices through my left bicep, and with a shriek spilling off my lips, I squeeze the trigger.
It clicks. Empty.
What the…?
I do it again, but no bullets fly. Then I press it frantically a few more times, keeping my eyes on Frankie.
A sickening grin pulls at his lips, and he bolts toward me. My eyes widen as I step back and throw the useless gun at him. It hits his head but barely slows him down.
The instincts I’ve been honing in the last few months kick in, and I duck to the right, slamming my right fist in his exposed ribs, then to his head when he bends in pain. He comes for me, staggering on the uneven sand, and I take the opening and kick the gun out his hand. But the asshole is quick, swearing as he throws punches that I manage to intercept and move away from.
I sidekick him low in the gut, then grind my teeth through the ache in my bicep as I throw a quick series of jabs to the throat and head, following him as he stumbles backward. Even so, he lands a couple clumsy but painful punches to my stomach, my legs staggering as I heave, and he takes the opportunity and tackles me to the ground. He doesn’t pin me fully, but trying to push him off with that burn in my arm at the same time memories of him on top of me assault me, is almost impossible.
“I missed the feel of you under me,” he spits at me with that lisp of his and the seediest of grins pulling at his lips.
When he bends his head to make some sort of contact with mine, I headbutt him with as much force as I can gather in this position. He barks out his anger more than his pain, but at this point I’m deep in a frenzy, half here, half in the memories of him laid over my body, and I use my good arm to land as many punches as I can, blocking his attacks as well. I only pause for one brief moment, but he takes the opportunity and wraps a hand around my throat, squeezing hard enough that pressure builds behind my eyes. I claw at his arms, his shoulder, back, neck, and everything else I can get my hands on, but the man doesn’t budge. Instead, he squeezes tighter and panic surges deep in my belly as I bend my legs and plant my feet to try to haul him off.
“That’s it, you look so much prettier when hope leaves your eyes and your life is in my hand,” he says on a tone he probably thinks sounds seductive, but I want to throw up.
The edges of my vision blur, the haze spilling in further as the air catches in my lungs, but a cold slither of hope presses against my ankle, reminding me it’s there, and I reach down to grasp it. A grin pulls at my lips, Frankie frowns, but the confusion turns to a gut-wrenching bellow when the blade of my knife sinks just under his ribs.
He releases my throat to check the wound, but I use his distraction to flip us over, straddling his thighs. I lift my arms high, holding the hilt with both hands, and as his eyes bulge and mouth falls open like a fish out of water, I slam the blade in his stomach with such force, the sides of my fist make him fold over, spitting blood.
The gurgled sounds coming from him scrape against the back of my throat threatening my stomach to turn over, so I pull the knife out and smash it right back in there. But the noise keeps happening, so I repeat the assault.
You’re making me sick! Stop!
I slam it in again. Then once more, and the gurgling twists to a whimper. It caresses against my senses, it soothes.
I crawl backwards away from him, my chest tight with unshed tears that burn behind my eyes. He’s still, his chest barely moving with weak breaths, mouth agape as he grasps to every ounce of air, and his gaze is fixed on me as he holds his palms over his bleeding abdomen.
“You were wrong… you’re the one who looks pretty when hope leaves your eyes, Frankie B.” I scoff, shaking my head. “What a stupid fucking name you get to bear while you die.”
Utterly ridiculous, like some guido who ended up on the wrong side of the tracks. Through blood pouring slowly out of his mouth he manages a weak, taunting laugh.
“You’ll die… a horrible death when he finds out,” he mutters.
Frowning, I cock my head, but he continues anyway.
“I wanted you to myself… but you’re worth less than cattle to him.” He takes so long to spit out the words between blood and staggered breaths, I’m losing my patience.
He’s referring to his boss, Bartiste. Killing his right-hand man will demand retribution, but The Sanctum is fully prepared to take him on.
“Save your breaths, Frankie. Your threats mean nothing.” I gather my knees to my chest as I watch the man who changed my life, waste away. I’ll sit here for however long I need to. I need to see this.
“My name…” He coughs, spluttering blood that looks black in the moonlight.
He whispers something, but through his dying breaths and the waves of the sea, I can’t make it out. He blinks slowly, eyes staying more closed than open.
I slowly roll onto my knees, getting just a bit closer to the man to see if his moving lips actually spew any relevant words. When his gaze opens to me, I can see the dying light peering back, and I smile. It’s the death of my nightmares.
“My name…” he says in a weak whisper, “is Franco Bartiste. He’s my father.”
He exhales one more breath as the light seeps out of his eyes, and my mouth falls open.
“Oh, my god.” I just murdered Roberto Bartiste’s son.