CHAPTER 24 #3
The sharp snap of heavy brush breaking echoes aggressively from the tree line.
The Silvestri enforcers are close now. They are so close I can clearly hear the distinct, terrifyingly mechanical click-clack of their assault rifles being readied off safety.
The blinding, chaotic beams of their tactical flashlights are violently cutting through the dark trunks of the pines, just fifty meters away and closing fast. I look back at the illuminated path leading into the trees.
It’s right there. I could stand up, put my hands in the air, and walk back into the fold.
Freedom, a life of hollow, sickening luxury, and absolute safety with my murderous psychopath of a brother.
Then I look down at the bleeding, stubborn monster beneath me, the man who dragged me to hell and forced my eyes open to the absolute truth of my family’s legacy.
A flashlight beam aggressively sweeps across my face for a blinding split second, turning the world completely white.
"I see them! Near the edge!" one of the enforcers shouts into the night.
"Fiorella! Come to the light, sister!"
The word makes me violently nauseous. Sister. Alessio’s men saying it like they’re calling a stray, disobedient dog back to the porch before they put a bullet in its head. The sheer, unmitigated audacity of these men.
"They're coming, Angelo," I say, my voice dropping down to a dead, utterly cold whisper. "Decide now."
I don't inch backward toward the safety of the trees.
I don't move toward the light. Instead, I lean entirely into the darkness. My expression hardens into something completely feral, something terrifying even to myself. I reach out with both hands and grip Angelo’s sweating, pale face.
My bloody fingers leave brutal, dark streaks across his sharp cheekbones.
I lean down, my face inches from his, my honey-amber eyes burning with an absolute, unhinged fire.
I tell him that I am not a Silvestri anymore.
I am completely dead to them. I am whatever violent, ruined thing he manufactured in that underground bunker.
Angelo watches me with a chaotic mix of utter dread and complete, mesmerizing awe.
I dig my thumb aggressively into the small, silvery scar on his chin, an absolute gesture of possession.
If I am going straight to hell, I am dragging the man who bought my ticket right down into the flames with me.
"You wanted to erase my family, Angelo?" I ask, my voice vibrating with absolute certainty.
He just stares at me, his chest hitching.
"Look at me," I say, my breath hot against his cold skin. "I'm the only thing left of them."
He swallows hard, his eyes entirely locked onto mine.
"And I'm choosing you."
I lunge forward and crash my mouth aggressively against Angelo’s.
It is a kiss that tastes violently of sweat, heavy copper, and pure, unfiltered desperation.
It isn’t romantic. It isn’t sweet. It is a brutal, high-impact collision of two completely ruined souls pledging a final, bloody suicide pact right on the edge of the world.
Angelo groans loudly into my mouth, the sound vibrating through my teeth.
His good hand snaps up, his thick fingers fisting violently in the tangled mess of my chestnut hair at the back of my skull.
He pulls my head aggressively backward, deepening the kiss with a dying, hyper-possessive hunger that completely devours the oxygen from my lungs.
Our teeth clink painfully together in the rush of adrenaline, but neither of us pulls away.
It is the first time I have felt entirely alive since the night he shoved a rag over my mouth and threw me in the trunk of a car. And it might be the absolute last.
"Mph... you crazy bitch..." he breathes out heavily against my bruised lips, a twisted compliment wrapped in a curse.
"Yours. I'm yours."
"Then let's go to the bottom together."
I break the kiss abruptly, my chest heaving, oxygen burning my lungs.
I grab the thick, heavy nylon webbing of his tactical harness with both hands, wrapping my fingers tight into the straps.
I check the heavy plastic buckle securely with my thumb, making sure my grip won't slip on his blood. I am preparing to literally drag his body the last terrifying three feet to the absolute edge of the drop. Angelo’s bloody fingers blindly fumble on the limestone until they find the grip of his discarded Beretta.
He scoops it up. He knows exactly what he has.
Three shots left. He looks up at me from the ground, his dark, oil-slick eyes completely filled with a terrifying, twisted pride.
We have maybe ten seconds to live. We are literally staging our final act.
"Ready?" I ask, my muscles locking tight.
"Never," he spits, racking the slide of the gun with his thumb. "Do it anyway."
"On three."