Before I can process who lays undoubtedly dead behind the curtain, my eye goes to the dark red splatters all over the tarp, causing my heartbeat to pick up. My heart is beating so loudly that my ears feel full.
I stand there, just staring, and then he slips his equally red-covered hand in front of my gaze, reaching it out for me to grab. I look up, and then, the quickening of my heart beating dulls. Instead of racing anxious, sickening thoughts, I am met with an eerie calm. A calm that eradicates my fear, and it is then that I see him.
I truly see Carmine. Not his flesh but his soul. Before me lies death. Skeletal, raw death. It’s the kind of metaphorical death that makes me know that, in this moment, this is the end. The end of what I knew before him, the end of living a life, waiting for a soul as fucked up as mine to mend my wounds and accept my scars. Taking on the burden of living life broken, not alone, but together.
I squeeze his skeleton-inked hand, finally moving my eyes to the scene behind the curtain. Even with the blood that surrounds us, with the distinct stench of metallic death that penetrates these exposed brick walls, my hand in his, we proceed forward in silence. There, lies evident a new form of understanding between us. The beginning of something I never saw coming, the start of something my soul has been knocking at my chest to let in.Him.
Chapter38
Carmine
With her hand in mine, I feel her tighten her grip as her boots crunch on the blood-drenched tarp. She tries to move methodically as to not get any blood on her shoes, but with the amount that is seeping from what is left of my father, it’s almost impossible at this point. Not to mention, the hand that she is holding onto for dear life is stained with blood that has already transferred onto her skin.
As we walk past what remains of Armando Moretti, she stays quiet. No quick-witted comments, no reaching for her phone to attempt to call Vanessa, no screams, nothing. Not like she could make a call even if she wanted to, as there isn’t a cell tower to be found for miles. It’s one of the many reasons I love bringing my kills here, nowhere to escape and nowhere to call for help.
I wait for her to process what she has just seen as I bring her to the back brick wall, away from my father’s latest and, more importantly, final mess. She lets go of my hand and stands there, just staring at my father.
I leave her there as I continue to walk, lighting another cigarette. I lean my back against the rough wall, with my arms crossed, waiting for her. I have waited what feels like a lifetime for her. What’s a few more minutes?
She finally begins to walk toward me, her heels leaving the plastic tarp, now hitting the concrete floor louder with each step. I feel the blood rush to my groin as I am met with an angry scowl on that beautiful face of hers.
How fun.
She walks closer to me, and her perfume immediately overpowers the smell of the nicotine that spills out of my mouth. She steps closer until her cleavage rubs against my bent elbow with cigarette in hand. She takes it from my fingers and brings it to her mouth, puckering, careful not to smear her lipstick on it. I stand there, breathing her in. She is a fucking vision and as always, an unpredictable one.
For someone who detests smoking, she sure seems comfortable, inhaling the smoke without coughing, as if she were a seasoned smoker. She blows the smoke in my face and the mixture of the nicotine and her mouth in such close proximity to me is truly intoxicating.
God, I want her so fucking bad.
“Why?” she asks bluntly between taking puffs of smoke into her perfect mouth. She tilts her head back, pointing toward my father.
I hesitate. There’s so much to unravel; a simple answer won’t suffice. I can’t help but smirk instead of answering her. I can tell she is trying so hard not to unload her anger on me.
“Mi reina, those are bad for you,” I tease, deflecting her question as she puckers her lips around my cigarette, taking another drag.
She releases the smoke that collects in her mouth, blowing it towards my eyes, causing me to blink as it burns my pupils.
“Don’t be a fucking hypocrite. You’re bad for me, yet here I am,” she says with her arm up, taking in the almost empty warehouse. I look past her, taking mental note of the cleanup I have to do.
I decide to go back to her initial question for me. I love seeing her feisty side, but even I know that I am on thin ice with her.
“Why what,mi reina?” I hiss, taking back my cigarette, locking my eyes on hers.
“Should we start with why you killed your father and fucking dragged me here to be an accessory to murder?” She takes a deep breath, ready to rattle off a laundry list of questions she has for me. “Or the fact that my Titi was here, and that you know her? I don’t know, Carmine, how about fucking all of it,” she exclaims. “You have some explaining to do.”
“Calm down, Lucille Ball,” I tease again.
“This isn’t the time for jokes about one of my favorite shows.” She shakes her head, flustered. She stomps her heel in anger. “Stop avoiding my questions. I’m tired of playing your games,” she says, unconvincingly. But I know her father trained her well. There is a high possibility she is armed, and if I don’t play my cards right, I could be the next corpse in this warehouse.
A devious expression crosses my face. I can’t help myself. I’m a glutton for punishment and seeing her fired up is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
“You didn’t seem tired of the games we played last night,Sen.”
“I told you to stop calling me that.” She stomps her foot once more, however, this time she takes the remaining cigarette butt from my hand, tossing it on the ground as she does.
“No, you didn’t; you asked me why I called you that. You never told me to stop,” I challenge her.
“You are so frustrating! Stop patronizing me.” She goes to turn away, but I refuse to let her escape.
