“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. “Youtook 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.”
Chapter 44
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 certainlynotsqueamish.
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 hadinterestingplans 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.
