Atlas
“But I deserve to be the one who takes your life.”
With one swift move of her right hand, knife flashing, she halts—teeth bared in a vicious smile.
Gabriel’s hands shoot to his throat, and a muffled gurgling sound is all that comes from him while he chokes, the sound breaking into wet gurgles.
Summer stands there, observing, drinking in his suffering like a much-needed drug to dull her own pain.
I hope it does, though I’ve figured out for myself that revenge never works quite as expected, giving just enough satisfaction to feel it, yet never enough to make a difference.
But it’s all one can do not to feel helpless.
“Pezzo di merda! Affoga nel tuo sangue, come io sono affogata nelle mie lacrime.”
First time hearing her speak Italian. I have no doubt those are insults, but they fall from her lips with an alluring beauty.
“Choke on your blood as I choked on my tears,” Connor mumbles under his breath, what I presume are her words.
Summer flips the knife once before crouching right in front of Gabriel.
“Bowels in or bowels out?” she asks, but the cold weapon drives into his stomach without hesitation, before the question mark has settled.
Her hand struggles slightly while the edge moves upward, effectively gutting Gabriel like a fish, letting his intestines spill on the floor.
She’s most certainly not squeamish.
And she wears brutality like a jewel on her crown. Fuck me, I can’t look away.
Leaving the knife lodged beneath his ribs, she gets up, taking a step back, before pointing the gun at his head.
She stays there, unmoving, watching the last drops of life drain from Gabriel’s body. But not long enough to deny him the bullet that finally takes it away.
Her hand doesn’t tremble when she pulls the trigger. Her eyes don’t blink, wanting to witness the bullet pass through his skull, leaving nothing but an empty shell of a body, deprived of the life she’s owed.
How fucked up am I that pride in her swells in my chest?
I had interesting plans for that brown-noser when he dragged his sorry ass back from Europe.
Days of torture for every tear Summer shed.
Weeks for every nightmare . . . and I was counting.
Months for every “I’m sorry, brother” whispered when she thought no one was listening. But this—it’s so much better.
Gabriel’s body falls back on the floor with a thud, and it’s only then that her eyes find mine.
“Thank you!” she says, but the gratitude in that deep blue is more than a thousand words could ever express.
Then she tucks the gun at her back and drops down beside Gabriel’s body. Pulling the knife from his soon-to-be rotting flesh, she stays there, taking in the sight once more. Her hand finds the sliced throat, bathing in a plethora of still gushing blood. Why does she do that?
When Summer stands, her right hand holds the knife, while her left one drips with blood as she strides back, heading for where my father is.
She stops next to him, letting her bloodied hand trail down his face, staying there long enough for the red on her palm to become one, staining his skin.
Then she casually smears the remainder across his suit, before flipping the blade a couple of times, too fast for me to follow.
I only realize what’s happening when Mason’s grunt hits my ears.
There’s a knife sticking from his resting-on-the-table hand.
When I zero back on Summer, the smile she holds is a beacon of light amongst a dark storm.
Then she circles the table, sitting right across from Mason.
“Does the family name DeLuca ring a bell? Or is almost a year and a half too long to remember the people you brutally tortured and killed? Katherine and Dante—my mother and father. And all of that for money my father never took from you. That man over there”—she points at Gabriel’s body—“staining the wooden floor with blood, is the one who took over, ordering mine and my brother’s deaths.
Maeve and Milo. You probably never even got to hear our names, did you?
When your goons shot my brother in the head, his blood was splattered all over my face—same as yours is decorated now.
I was numb—unable to move or speak, barely breathing, locked in my own body—just like you are now. ”
She pushes a couple of plates to the side and leans on the table.
“You asked me what I would do for your son? If I would kill for him. I can do better. I won’t kill you, though I think not a soul in this room would miss you.
See, no one here is rushing to save you.
Not because you’re a monster. It’s because you’re beyond saving.
People fear you. That’s power. But no one loves you. ”
She stands, looking down on Mason.
“Come after me. Please!”
Her statement sounds so sincere, like she truly wants it.
“I’d love to peel the skin off your body and feed it to you. Raw.”
I’m sure whoever once invented the word savage had my future wife as a definition in mind.
Summer strides for the bag, taking another syringe out, and heads straight back to Mason. Then she pushes the needle inside my father’s thigh with enough force to make a man wince at the sight.
“What . . . ?” I trail off. She’s letting him live?
She glances at me, but she doesn’t answer, injecting whatever’s inside that syringe, meant to save the very man she started all this intending to kill. Then she snaps the needle, leaving the metal fragment buried under Mason’s skin.
“Oops! How clumsy of me. Thank fuck I didn’t pursue a career in healthcare.”
I don’t know if the whole needle thing hurt, but the muffled grunt coming out of my father when she twists the knife clockwise before pulling it out of his hand tells me he felt that one for sure.
“Summer,” I call out her name, but she marches for the kitchen, pretending she didn’t hear me.
Washing the blood off her hands, she draws a heavy inhale.
“Those guards outside . . . are they decent people?” Her question comes with weariness, pointed at whoever’s willing to answer it.
“They are the worst of the worst.”
Connor replies with a grin, already on his feet again, no doubt thriving in what’s unfolding.
“You sure?”
“Gabriel was a peach compared to them,” he continues, reassuring her of what all of us know.
Summer strides back for the table, stopping right in front of Mason again.
“You killed my dog—I’m killing yours outside.” Her gaze shifts back to Connor. “Three of them, right?”
“Wanna feed them some lead?” He asks.
“I can handle them on my own.”
“Like hell you can.” I grab her arm once more, effectively stopping her.
“Have a little faith in me, love.”
“I’m going to ask you again. What do you think you’re doing?”
Her palm lands a gentle caress on my cheek.
“I love you, and I wanna build a life with you. Killing your father is not the way to do that. I’m giving us the only semblance of a clean slate I can think of.
What you do with him is entirely up to you, but I’m not going to be here for that, because then the choice would be tied to my well-being.
I want you to make your decision, knowing I’m safe either way, and it’s an outcome that isn’t shaped by your need to protect me. ”
“You’re not going anywhere! I told you, I’m never letting go of you.” My grip on her arm tightens enough for her to know I mean what I say.
“You’re not letting go. You know where to find me. Remember?”
“L-l-lies.” A gravelly, barely audible voice chokes out, drawing everyone’s attention to the source.
“Hm, that worked faster than anticipated,” Summer notes, taking a step back, away from the table. I let her, recognizing the need to put some distance between her and Mason.
My father struggles to fill his lungs with air.
“F-fed—” Cough. “Lies.”
“I’m gonna leave you to it.” Summer tries to take another step back, but I stop her.
“If you think I’m letting you go out there alone—”
“Those men won’t perceive me as a threat until it’s too late. I can take them out without turning this into a shootout. If any of you follow me, that would no longer be the case.”
“But a shootout is so much fun.” Connor grins from across the table.
“Not when the people I love can get hurt.”
“Awww . . . see, Art? Principessa just said she loves me more than you.”
“Shut up, Connor!” multiple voices roar in unison.
Summer gets to the bag, and after briefly rummaging inside, she takes out a couple of thick rolled-up wads and stuffs them into her back pocket.
“M-Maeve!” Mason sputters, drawing back Summer’s attention.
Connor looks down at him, hand twitching, probably itching to put a bullet inside my father’s brain. He’s far from the only one plagued by such thoughts.
“What?” Summer saunters for the table. “You wanna threaten me or something? A tied dog barks. A dangerous one bites.”
A sardonic smile.
Still unable to move, barely able to speak, in a room full of people holding years upon years of hatred for him, and his lips still curve with dark amusement.
“Dante. Fed. You. Lies.”