“Because he stole something very important to me, as he did you.”
“What did he do that was worth having his blood on your hands?”
“He killed my mother,” I confess. I hate saying those words, even to this day. They sting just as much as they did from the moment it happened.
I walk over to her, grabbing her chin with my hand. “And he killed your parents for the ties they had to my mother.”
“Oh my God.” She gasps. “Ties? Wait, my Mama and Papa? It was him?!” she exclaims in instant disgust for my father and breaks down crying. Sad, beautiful, justified tears.
I go to embrace her, wanting to take away the emerging pain she is feeling. But as I go to touch her, she flinches, moving away from me instead of leaning into me, like I want her to. Like she should.
“Sienna, there is a lot you don’t know,” I say in a begging tone.
She looks at me and sniffles back her tears before clearing her throat.
“Fucking clearly.”
Chapter39
Sienna
This is what I wanted … right?Answers.
I spin around and away from him to think. Although, thinking or processing the information I just heard feels impossible when all I can see is blood. So much blood everywhere. I bring my hands to my temples, as if massaging them can work a magic spell and give me the words to say, the clarity I need, the right thing to do.
Ha, the right thing.
The right thing would be to run … fast. Away from this man, away from this warehouse, to somewhere—anywhere—that has even one bar of service. To get help, to call Nessa, or the local police station, wherever we are.
But I don’t want to do the right thing. At least, not by society’s standards of what is right. Because if what Carmine is telling me is true, that the man who is responsible for half of the DNA in his body is, in fact, the killer of his mother and my parents, then who am I to punish him.
My chin is still in his hands, his scent, his overpowering presence,his darknessbegins to work something inside of me like an all-consuming incubus.
“He stole your happiness. He needed to pay the price,” he declares as he breaks loose from the grip he has on me and heads to what looks like a tool bag made of leather.
I’m looking back at him, standing there in the crimson of our shared enemy, when I notice his eyes. Once harsh black pits, they seem lighter, if that’s even possible. Still ebony, but instead of being pitch-black, they resemble dusk. It’s like exacting this revenge lifted a weight off his depraved, aching soul. But the thing with eyes is that they speak for us, often when we are unable to speak for ourselves. And it’s now in his silence that his eyes scream something from the depth of his soul that he wants me to know.
“Tell me something, Carmine,” I say as I begin to circle the crime scene that he has now, by default, involved me in. “I know your father wronged you. He did the unthinkable—he took your mother from you. But why include his transgressions against my parents in your vendetta?”
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he seemingly ignores my valid question and walks over to the large, black leather bag on the tarp that is in the middle of a pool of blood. He begins searching intently for something, while still leaving my question untouched.
Vexed, I break the silence. “I asked you a question.”
Still futzing in that god-forsaken bag, he does not answer. I swear, through his peripheral vision, he must be able to see the pure anger I am feeling toward him now, because he begins to smile.
Done with these games and craving answers, I charge toward him, grabbing his thick arms and moving him away from his tool bag. But he is built like a rock. My attempt is futile and only makes him laugh more, sending pure rage into my veins. He then grabs me, and in one stealthy swoop, pins me to the ground, with a devious smirk just inches from my face.
“Answer me, now!” I demand, trying to free myself from his body on top of mine, but he doesn’t let up.
He brings his lips just inches from mine as my anger somehow turns into a heated arousal. Cool and collected, he shoots me a grin once more before finally parting his lips. “You know, when someone does you a favor, I believe the proper thing to do would be to extend a thank you.”
He gets up and walks toward the brick wall to the far corner of the warehouse, with what looks like an incinerator near it.
I sit up and speak, even though it’s to his back. “Right, thank you for committing a gruesome murder that you now have involved me in.” My voice echoes, drenched in sarcasm.
I stand to follow him, continuing to talk. At this point, I don’t care if he responds, I just want him to listen and hear what I have to say. Hopefully, I can instill some logic into the man. “In case you have forgotten, Carmine, my best friend is a cop, who, oh yea, works with your fucking cousin. Do you seriously think this can be swept under the rug?” I ask, continuing to make my way toward him as he is busy conducting sick, twisted business as usual, messing with what is definitely an incinerator, now that I have a closer view.
“Do you really think this is my first kill?” he asks with a confidence that makes it clear to me that, no, it is not.
