Summer #2
“I have a plan,” I interrupt. “Could you all please sit down for a couple of minutes? I’ll be right back.”
“Do you mind filling us in?” Dean’s demanding tone wouldn’t let anyone with the option not to elaborate further. But he’ll have to wait.
“No time for that. He won’t last that long.” I flick my hand back at Mason.
“Isn’t that the point?” Jacob says with a gun dangerously shaky in his hand, but I leave his question hanging in the air.
I reach into the duffel, pull out a butterfly knife, and slip it into my back pocket, covering it with my shirt again. Rummaging through the bag of endless murderous treasures, I fish out the wide-rimmed glasses I wore when I first started playing games with Atlas.
For what I’m about to do, I need whatever disguise I can get, but the glasses and my new hair color are where the options end. Can’t exactly slap on a fake mustache, can I?
“What are you up to, baby?” Atlas asks, grabbing the Glock I left on the counter.
“I’m taking care of the situation, baby,” I answer, bitterness still lacing my tone.
“Summer,” my boyfriend calls after me when he sees me unbuttoning my shirt, all the while heading for the door.
A pull on my arm doesn’t allow me to open the front door, forcing me to face him.
His strained features drain all of my residual anger, my palm drifting in a featherlight caress across his cheek.
Is it his pretty face that earns my forgiveness so easily?
Or is it the fact that I can get shot outside, and I wouldn’t wanna die mad at him?
“What do you think you’re . . .” Atlas tries to say, but the amount of cleavage I’ve put on display is obviously distracting enough to leave him unable to finish the sentence, or to hold eye contact. That’s the objective.
He moves to button my shirt back up, but I slap his hands away.
“Stop!” Atlas halts, and his eyes level with mine. “Gabriel won’t look at my face and recognize me if he’s staring elsewhere.” He gawks, dumbfounded. “Do you love me?”
“You know I do.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Always.”
“I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t come after me or you’ll blow it.”
I know what I’m asking of him, but I also know he truly trusts me enough to do it, though I’m sure it would gut him to let me out there alone.
Before he can say another word, I rip away from his grip, swinging the door open, not closing it behind me. I shudder at the thought of being recognized, but I cover it under a veneer of composure.
When I look straight into the eyes of the monster who took my brother away from me, there’s hesitation in my steps, in the steadiness of my voice, and the amount of honey the tone can offer when I say, “Mr. Bennett, right?”
There’s a splinter of a second when his eyes meet mine, but it feels like an eternity, waiting to see if the spark of recognition will light in his gaze.
When it drifts down my cleavage, it dawns on me that a report stating I was dead won’t be what stops him from remembering me, nor my red hair, or the glasses.
On that night, almost a year and a half ago, my face was sunk by tears, twisted by pain, tortured by helplessness, and broken by sorrow, to the point I’m now unrecognizable to him.
He won’t recognize me because the person he saw before isn’t me anymore.
The lies to lure Gabriel inside roll off my tongue better than ones a politician spills, and I throw in the temptation of the delicious food inside as a bonus.
And he does follow right after me, like a lamb to the slaughter, yet whether I kill him or not tonight is not up to me.
But I’d be damned if I don’t make my reintroduction, reminding him who I am and what it is he took from me.
The moment I take a step inside the house, I let Gabriel pass me by, glancing at the table, noticing all of the guys, except Atlas, are back in their seats like I asked them to.
Pushing the door closed, I take the weapon from behind my back and stalk after him before he’s zoned in on how stiff his boss looks. The pointed end of death to the back of his head makes his steps falter. Does the realization of what’s happening to Mason hit him, or should I give him a hint?
“Hello, Gabriel!” I greet him in a more informal manner, taking off the glasses and throwing them to the ground.
“What the hell is going on here?” he asks, without moving from his spot. A gun to the head has that effect.
“Take an educated guess,” Atlas chimes in mockingly.
The way my boyfriend’s hands curl into fists tells me he’s all but ready to slay this monster for me.
“Turn around. Slowly!” I command, but Gabriel doesn’t comply. “Look at your helpless boss. He’s unrecognizable like this, isn’t he? Make me repeat a request once more, and for the rest of your life you’ll be eating through a straw, pissing and shitting yourself every time you remember me.”
And he does turn.
“Your gun,” I demand with a smile.
He takes one out from underneath his jacket and throws it to the ground, away from him.
“Your crazy whore is going to get you into so much trouble,” Gabriel spits at Atlas.
“What did you say about my woman?” My boyfriend strides toward Gabriel, gripping his throat and punching his face in rapid succession, effectively breaking his nose.
“Honey, don’t! Leave him to me!”
Atlas halts, but the immense desire to let Gabriel experience pain in all ways possible is all over his face. Yet it seems the need to make me happy is what compels him to take a step back. I didn’t even need to use the magic word.
“Apologize to her!” Atlas orders.
“Are you kidding me?” Gabriel huffs a snicker, his broken nose dripping blood all over the floor.
“Now!” my boyfriend roars, pulling the gun from the back of his jeans and pointing it at Gabriel’s face.
“I don’t need him to apologize,” I shoot out, before Atlas has fired his shot. “Could you pass me the duffel bag?”
His Glock stays pointed at the target. My boyfriend doesn’t seem to care that I don’t seek apologies. I think he’s the one who needs to hear it.
“I’m sorry,” Gabriel grits through bared teeth.
“Coming right away, love,” Atlas says, heading for the bag and fetching it for me.
Taking it from his hands, I halt, realizing that I’m in a room full of people, who I’ve dragged down into my drama. Looking back at the table, so many sets of eyes are closely following my every move.
“Sorry for bringing you into my mess. This, here, doesn’t concern you, so you should leave.” My words are pointed at all of them.
“You’re family. It concerns us,” Carter points out.
“None of us are leaving,” Dean adds.
Connor and Link offer reassuring nods, visibly sharing the same sentiment. Having their support warms my heart.
But Jacob surely doesn’t want to be here for this part.
“Jacob, you—”
“I’m not leaving either. You could’ve shot me to save yourself. I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing. There’s a car at the back entrance. You can get away with it.”
“And miss the show? I’m not going anywhere. Go on! Don’t stop on my behalf.”
Keeping the gun trained on Gabriel, I set the duffel on the side counter and rummage through it.
When I pull out a staple gun, Atlas looks at me like I’ve just yanked a rabbit out of a hat.
I toss it to Gabriel, who catches it, though his brain clearly hasn’t caught up with its purpose yet, confusion swirling in his eyes.
“Shut your mouth with it,” I command.
His eye twitches.
“Come on, Gabriel! Didn’t we agree about me not repeating a request? Either you shut yourself with the staple gun, or I’ll shut you up with a bullet. How do you like your options?”
Gabriel takes the staple gun, pressing it against the corner of his mouth.
Clack!
A muffled groan comes out of him.
Clack!
He does his best to hold the sounds that the pain coerces out of him.
Clack!
When he’s all done, my face lights up at the sight of what I now consider to be my new favorite way of silencing someone. Judging by my boyfriend’s smirk—his too.
“Kneel!”
Of course, he doesn’t obey.
I lower the gun abruptly and blow out his kneecap with a single shot, making Gabriel fall to the ground. His cries are muffled by his stapled mouth, but the pain is so very audible in them.
Shortening the distance, I wait long enough for those stifled grunts to die out, while a tremor runs through my hand that’s holding the gun, as if Milo himself is causing it, pushing me into pulling the trigger.
“Kill the punk! You can have your fun with the girl before you get rid of her. What a shame! Such a pretty face!” My chest heaves and my voice nearly cracks as the pain builds up inside me.
“Those were your words, Gabriel. That punk’s name was Milo DeLuca.
My brother. Your orders took him from me.
” I gulp, trying to steady my voice. “You took him from me. Do you remember?”
My attention shifts to Atlas, watching how my pain becomes his. Holding his gaze, I ask for silent permission. Not because I think he would want to spare Gabriel. I made a promise, and I need his permission to break it.
“Take what you’re owed, love.”
I hope he sees the gratitude in my eyes, for my throat is too tight for me to be able to voice it.
There are no cries or barely intelligible pleas coming out of Gabriel, no no’s and don’ts, not because of his sealed mouth. He knows better than to beg.
“Do you still think I’m pretty?”
Gabriel nods, well aware that confession won’t save him, but in the face of death, honesty is given freely.
And there it is again, that transcendental sensation running through me, as goose bumps, both cold and warm, erupt on my skin, like Milo is right next to me.
Do you see this, brother? Are you with me?
My hand lowers, like it’s him pushing it down. But he’d never want me to spare that monster at my feet. He’d want me to make him suffer.
“You don’t deserve a pretty face as the last thing you’ll see.”