Page 11 of Darkest Kiss

"Well." Marc wrings his hands. "I couldn't exactly text you."

Andreas blows smoke right in Marc's face. "Well, since you brought this to me." He smiles and coughs. "I know you want something. What is it?"

"I—" he blinks. "What, you mean money?"

"Yeah, dummy. I mean fucking money. What would make you more comfortable? $15k? $20k? My time is very valuable, Marky."

My uncle has an almost mournful look on his face. "It's a line I can't cross. If the press gets hold of this at any point in the future⁠—"

Andreas shrugs. "We need to talk about the girl.”

“What girl?”

“Don’t play dumb." Andreas's voice freezes me in place. "Your niece."

Every muscle in my body locks up behind the shelf. Me?

"What about her?" Something shifts in Marc's tone. Careful now, where a second ago he was only scared. "Noemi doesn't know anything. She runs the register, she reads her books, she keeps her head down. She's nobody. Leave her out of it."

"Relax." A wet chuckle. "She won't be your problem much longer. That part's already handled."

Handled? There’s a pause. I hear my uncle swallow from clear across the room.

"Handled how?" he asks. "Andreas. What does that mean, handled?"

"It means it's above your pay grade." The humor drains out of Andreas's voice like a coin down a grate. "You drag me down here to lecture me about my own product, you turn down my money, and now you want the details of arrangements that don't concern you. Remind me what you're good for?"

I clamp a hand over my own mouth. Beads of sweat break out over my brow. Whatever handled means, my uncle either can't stop it or doesn't know how.

“Now look here, Andreas. You can’t bring Noemi into this. That wasn’t our agreement.”

There is a moment where Andreas seems to be sizing my uncle up. A corner of his mouth kicks up. “Idiot.”

BANG BANG! Two gunshots ring out, muffled by the books and low ceiling. I squeak and cover my mouth, watching my uncle fall down, bleeding from a bullet placed right in the middle of his forehead.

Shit! Marc’s head turns slightly and I see red gore escaping, blood already pooling. He’s dead.

I gulp. My hands are already moving, the phone already up, my thumb already tapping. The camera clicks. Once, twice. Two photos, one of my uncle, one of the man who just shot him. I don't know yet whether I've just signed my own death warrant or saved my own life. Maybe both. Either way, I'm the only person alive who knows they exist.

The little upload icon spins in the corner of the screen, sending both snapshots into the cloud. And then a gentle chime sounds.

The chime is the loudest sound in the world.

Andreas Vitelli whips around and growls when he sees me. "Fucking bitch."

As soon as he moves toward me, I turn and flee out the front door. Andreas fires once, misses, fires again, and it shatters the plate-glass front door.

I'm going to die.

Somehow, despite my growing panic, I manage to flee down the street, ducking into a convenience store. Lotto signs and beer brands in the window, a bulletproof case by the cash register. I run to the window, startling the older man organizing stacks of cigarette packs.

"Please! Help!" My voice comes out in a rasp. "911! They⁠—"

The guy is already dialing as he gives me a skeptical glare. "You wait outside."

"I can't. They're—" I look behind me. "They'll be here soon. Please, can I⁠—"

The door chimes. I look back, swallowing, as two dark-suited young men with slicked back hair enter. One quickly grabs me by the arms. The other looks at the man calling the police and fires his weapon straight at him. The plexiglass stops the bullet but crumples slightly, losing its clarity. The man behind the counter may still be calling 911, but that thought is lost to me as the guy holding me gives me a shake.