Chapter 31
My breathing fractures into stuttering, uneven gasps. My chest strains under pressure. The room tilts and jerks out of place. The edges blur until reality feels unstable.
Rage detonates.
Thoughts disappear entirely. There’s only this shrieking static in my skull and a laugh trying to claw its way out of my throat.
Just a violent, grinding fury with nowhere left to go.
Oh, this beautiful euphoria that comes after a kill.
Too loud for my head, yet too addictive to ignore.
It makes me thirsty for more. For worse.
I crouch, my hand closing around his hair, and I lift his fucking head like a trophy.
An object that used to talk too much.
I start walking toward the door. My steps are steady and driven by the same hard pressure in my chest. My body knows exactly what to do now and no longer answers to logic.
Something inside me is thrilled, vibrating with a sick, electric joy that makes my vision pulse.
“Wait,” Wes says.
The sound reaches me and irritates something deep. My head tilts mechanically. Inside, something howls.
Control is gone.
“Get out of my way.”
“You’re walking straight into a death sentence,” he shouts, his neck cords bulging, fear forcing the words out harder than conviction ever could.
His eyes flick everywhere before they settle on mine. When they do, something in him falters. Ah, even his fear feeds the monster inside my skull.
“I agree with you. I do,” he says, voice thin and breaking. “But you’ll never get into the mansion like this.”
I remain quiet, waiting for him to finish and stop scraping at my nerves.
“You’re covered in blood,” he adds, swallowing hard. “Calvano’s men will see you coming from miles away, and they won’t hesitate.”
My fingers tighten in that fucker’s hair, my grip locking like a reflex. Wes’s words hit a nerve I was already seconds away from tearing out.
“And what’s your proposal?”
“Calm the fuck down,” he rasps. “Gear up. Helmet on. You wanna make it past the door or not?”
My eyes roll back in contempt.
“You can lose your mind later. Get to his fucking office first,” he adds.
I hate it, but he’s right.
That’s what really sets me off.
That the fucker is fucking right …
Of all the goddamn things.
“Don’t be stupid before you even get to him.”
The beast in my head snarls, furious at the leash, screaming to finish it. It wants noise. Mess. It wants bodies to learn the lesson the hard way.
I want that too. God, I do.
However, I force it down, shove it back into its cage, and feel it slam against the bars and spit at me for the betrayal. Just for now.
I let Anderson’s head fall to the ground and clap twice as a slow, sinister smirk spreads across my face.
“I’m impressed, Leslie.” I cross my arms.
His breathing comes out more forced. “Do you trust me?”
“Nope.”
“I know Calvano better than you ever will.” He walks up to me and looks me dead in the eyes. Points for his bravery.
“I worked for him for years. But if you’re dead-set on walking into a fucking death trap, be my guest. You’re doing me a favor. One less bullet I gotta waste.”
Fuck …
The fucker is right, and I have to swallow it.
My hands aren’t as tight anymore. The urge to kill is still there, but it’s settled. Soon, it’ll get its turn.
I did as Wes suggested. I geared up to bury the blood and the noise in my head. I grabbed that fucker’s skull, jammed it into the helmet bag like the useless piece of shit it was, and casually walked out of his disgusting place.
I don’t have much time until they realize their big boss is long gone.
But as soon as we rode off, his men came after us. Predictable. Cute, even. I thought I had some time for a head start, but I was wrong. Dare it is.
Being a former assassin has its perks, because I know this city like my own pulse. Every tight turn, every dead alley, every stretch of road nobody sane would take.
I’m sure there’s already a bounty out on us.
I’m already bored.
When we arrived back at Calvano’s, it all went down exactly like Wes said it would. No resistance or questions. They waved us straight through the door like obedient fucking dogs. Hell, they were waiting for us. Waiting for that filthy stack of cash Anderson had shoved into our hands.
I bet this is the money he thought could buy Isabella. My girl. My fucking girl.
And Calvano—that bloated, worthless fucking corpse pretending to breathe—is ready to take it. Ready to sell his own daughter and slobber over the bills like a pig at a trough. For what? Power? Safety? Another useless day on this planet?
It doesn’t matter. He’s dead either way.
Fuck, my head won’t stop screaming about it. My hands shake because they want his throat.
I try to stay composed and barely manage it as I enter the mansion in full gear. My helmet is still on, and I’m carrying this filthy fucker’s head while moving straight toward Calvano’s office.
No one pays attention to me. Not a glance or a reaction. They’re trained for this kind of silence. Trained to look through things, to ignore what matters. They do the same to Isabella every day, so this comes easy to them. It’s fucking routine, and somehow, that makes my head buzz even louder.
Colton stands outside his office. Ah, Isabella likes that asshole, but frankly, I don’t give a shit.
“Mitch?” he asks, his hand ready on the gun on his waistband.
I don’t answer him, fury boiling inside me again. I storm straight toward him, and before his hand even clears the holster, I slam my helmeted head into his skull.
I kick the office’s door open. Both Calvano’s and his bitch Boris’s eyes snap right at me. Boris reaches for his gun. I draw mine without thinking and put a round through his head.
Calvano stays quiet, just sitting there, and I can’t tell if that’s confidence or stupidity.
The head slips out of my hand. I take my gear off slowly, savoring the thought of him still clueless about what I’m hiding underneath.
Blood-soaked fabric comes into view. My breathing kicks up the closer I get to his end. I cling to the image of him screaming, choking on pleas, realizing too late that mercy isn’t coming.
I rip the helmet off and toss it to the floor, exposing my blood-smeared face.
“I’ve got a package for you,” I breathe, smiling widely. I bend down, pick up the head, and kick it. It skids and stops at his feet.
“Weren’t you the one who wanted to keep heads as trophies on the shelf?” I hiss, almost breathless.
His face scrunches with disgust at the sight of that fucker’s head lying next to his feet.
“You fool!” he seethes. “What have you done?”
For the first time, boredom slips from his face and panic snaps into place. Absolute and delicious panic, enough to make the sickness inside me kick and writhe.
I spread my arms. “Nothing more than what a caring father would do once he learned what that fucker was planning for his precious princess.” I scratch my temple with the muzzle. “Oh, wait. You were supposed to do that.”
“You waged a fucking war between me and Anderson’s men, you fucking moron!” he yells, turning all red. “There’s a reason I wanted him out of my way and closer to me.”
“Really? He was such a crybaby.”
“He has people everywhere. People who would do anything to have my head on their plate.”
Slowly, I prowl closer. “I guess that makes a lot of us.”
He backs the fuck up, fumbling for the desk like it’s going to save him—or maybe he’s scrambling to call his buddies.
“Don’t be afraid,” I say softly. “Tell me about your pure intentions.”
I shoot his good leg. The pain tears a sound from him that’s too rough to be a scream. He drops hard and grabs his cane out of reflex, like an idiot.
“Ouch. I guess now you’re a real limp.”
“Ti seppellirò vivo, pezzo di merda!” I will bury you alive, you piece of shit!
Oh, there’s that panic again.
It’s too much and not enough at the same time. My thoughts start tripping over themselves, racing, spiraling, chewing on the sight of it like a bad habit I can’t break.
It nourishes me. It feeds the sickness I carry, the one that only stirs when someone finally understands how powerless they are.
I march up to him, but he swings the cane from the floor and cracks it against my cheekbone.
That’s it.
Something in me breaks loose again. It’s not a thought or a feeling anymore. It’s noise and heat and need, pounding behind my eyes, crawling under my skin. The hunger comes all at once, and I can’t hold it back. It wants out. Now.
I grab him by the collar and smack his head against the desk. “You wanted to sell her,” I say, over and over. “You wanted to sell your own daughter.”
I let go of his collar and punch him instead. “She’s mine,” I snarl, the words tearing out of my throat. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”
Something presses against my skull. Then I hear it. The unmistakable click of a gun’s hammer being cocked.
Fucking snake Wes.
“Move,” he hisses lowly.
“What makes you think you’re scaring me this time, Leslie?” I mock, not moving a muscle.
“Then, please. Try me,” he growls, leaning in, pressing the cold steel of a blade against my throat.
My breathing calms down and my heart beats slower.
“Kinky,” I murmur, lips curling into a smirk. “Full house, isn’t it?”
“Back off,” he repeats.
“We’re not done,” I mouth with wide eyes to Calvano.
I let Wes pull me back to stand and lazily fold my hands behind my back.
“Get out. Not on my carpet,” Calvano rasps, breathless. “Dispose of him. Make sure he never comes back.”
“Yes, boss.”
I scoff. “Cocksucker.”
“I’ll send help,” Wes reassures and pushes me to the entrance.
Oh, this fucking rat will get exactly what he’s earned. I’m going to kill him like I killed Anderson, and worse than I’m going to kill Calvano.
We leave the room and drift through the mansion’s halls. I have no idea where the fuck he’s taking me.
He stops at a room I’ve never been in before, shoves me inside, and brings the gun up on me.
“I’m flattered. Still straight, by the way,” I say, shrugging.
“You’re so fucking stupid!” he yells as if I insulted him. “You attacked Calvano on your own? What were you thinking? What’s your great plan, hm?”
My brows furrow. “I’m confused.”
“Fight me,” he says sternly.
“Huh?”
“No. Shoot me.” He holds the gun out to me. “It’ll be more convincing.”
“Gladly.”
I take the gun and fire into his shoulder, and it knocks a rough grunt out of him as he staggers back.
“You bitch,” he groans, clutching the wound as blood leaks through his fingers.
“What about you?” I ask. “What’s your master plan?”
“I earned his trust back.” He smiles widely. “I’m not a dead weight anymore.”
“So why did I shoot you?”
“Because I owe you,” he mutters, rolling his eyes like it disgusts him. “You could have killed me, but you didn’t.”
I shrug. “Yeah. Bad habit.”
His jaw tightens. “Now we’re even.” He jerks his head toward the door. “Now get the fuck out of here. I’m giving you a head start.”
I pause, just long enough to be annoying. “You’re terrible at gratitude.”
“Don’t make me regret it,” he snaps. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“I’m not leaving without her.”
“Oh, come on, don’t make me dig two graves.”
I shake my head. “I’m not leaving without her,” I repeat.
“Spare me the tragic-hero crap, pretty boy. She’s doomed in this hellhole,” he says with disdain.
I glare him down, making my point clear.
He lets out this long, sharp breath, eyes rolling to the ceiling.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Hit me.”
My brows pinch. “I didn’t know you were into that kinda crap.” I blink at him, actually stunned. Wes—of all people—asking me to hit him? What the hell?
“Fucking asshole!” he snaps, cracking me across the cheekbone.
“About damn time.” My eyes light up with delight. “Here comes your boogeyman.”
I launch at him, swinging harder than I should.
Oh, bitch, I’ll absolutely outdo myself for you tonight.
His fist smashes into my face so hard my ears ring, driving me into the floor.
Damn, he has balls.
“Stay the hell down!” he barks, punching me again. “I’m sick of your face already!”
He’s over me, raining fists.
“Damn, Leslie, buy me dinner first!”
I snap up, hook my legs around his arm, and twist. In a blink, I roll us, flipping him under me.
“Hi,” I grin, wild-eyed. “Miss me?”
Now it’s my turn to play.
I slam my fist into him.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
“Aww, don’t die yet,” I coo, punching him again. “We’re finally having fun.”
He snarls, landing a powerful one across my face. “You talk too damn much.”
“And you hit like a bitch,” I snap, headbutting his nose. “C’mon, Wes! Don’t get shy now.”
He growls like a pissed-off dog, grabs me, and hurls me farther than I thought his dumb arms could. We stagger back to our feet—blood everywhere, can’t even tell whose is whose.
“Good,” he pants, spit and blood mixing on his chin. Then he kicks his gun toward me. “Now shoot me.”
I snort. “And I’m the one with a death wish?”
“He knows I’d never let you go any other way,” he barks.
I bend down, grab the gun, and point it at him.
“And he’s gonna believe I didn’t kill you? With that stupid face?”
Wes scoffs through the blood. “Shoot me!”
I do it. I pull the trigger and nail him in the other shoulder—far from his heart, but close enough to make damn sure he knows I didn’t fuck up the shot.
Then the mansion’s sirens erupt, shrieking through the halls.
Now we’re playing.
Wes slams back into the wall, barely holding himself up, blood pouring through his fingers.
“You’ve got about two minutes,” he pants, staring me down.
“You’re so generous,” I taunt.
“Shut the hell up,” he growls. “Get the fucking girl and get out of here.”
I pant. “Asshole.”
“Dickhead.”
I stare at him a second longer. He’s an asshole. A useless, loud-mouthed, pain-in-my-ass cockroach I’ve fantasized about crushing with my boot more times than I can count.
But he’s also the idiot keeping me alive right now.
Generous in the worst way, reckless as hell, and stupid enough to risk his own neck because he owes me.
Reckless. Generous. Suicidal.
And unfortunately for my sanity, that’s the kind of shit you don’t unsee.
I toss him a lazy salute. He gives me this half-assed nod back, already sliding down the wall like the dramatic bastard he is.
Then I bolt down the hallway to find my girl.
I’ve got about two minutes, right?
Then what?