Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
A ntonio
I light a match and flick it into the pool of gasoline and The Honeymoon bursts into furious flames.
I watch for a few moments.
I don’t know what I hope for–some glimmer of satisfaction at ruining Benedict’s beautiful vessel?
Instead, I feel nothing but the gnawing emptiness that’s been with me since the moment Dahlia jumped over the side.
My men and I motor away from the unanchored yacht, now a Norse burial ship, carrying the dead across the rainbow bridge, or wherever the fuck they supposedly go.
I lost three. We took out a dozen of theirs.
I should be satisfied that the battle was won, but all I taste is the ash in my mouth.
“Where to?” Leo, my soldier behind the wheel, asks.
I shake my head.
“You don’t know, boss? Or you don’t care?”
“Head to Miami, you idiot,” Il Greco, my capo, mutters. “We’re in a fucking motorboat. It’s not like we can sail to Australia.”
“Shut up.” I just need to think. To figure out my next move. I always have the next move. I’m the fucking king of strategy.
Except right now, my mind is completely blank.
I don’t care about the next move.
I don’t care about anything at all.
It’s no longer about revenge. I realize, suddenly, that it never was. It was about that girl in the closet who I felt unworthy of.
All this work was actually to bring myself up to Dahlia’s level. To make myself worthy of her.
And I just blew it all by showing her what I really am.
A monster.