Page 132 of Thin Lives

That just pissed Calisto off more.

“Where is my boy?”

“Dead,” Affonso spat out. “Like I should have done to you.”

For a breath’s time, Calisto hesitated. His heart ached, but he didn’t believe Affonso.

He couldn’t.

Cross would have been Affonso’s last hope. He wouldn’t hurt that boy.

“He’s somewhere in this fucking place, isn’t he?” Calisto asked as he brought Affonso’s battered face down into the wood again. “Tell me where he is, or I’ll—”

“Fuck you, Calisto.”

Not caring that his time was running out—he’d still been counting down—Calisto forced Affonso to his back, and brought the barrel of his gun right in between the man’s eyes. “I will watch your brain paint this fucking desk, Affonso, so help me God.”

“You would kill your father?”

“I had no father—you are no one. You never were.”

The briefest flicker of pain and resignation flashed in Affonso’s eyes. “I have loved you all your life, Calisto.”

“You loved what you made, not me. It isn’t the same thing.”

Calisto knew that, now.

And it made all the difference.

He was done wasting time with Affonso, because in the background of the screaming fire alarm, he could hear another kind of wailing. Faint as it was, it was there.

A baby’s cry.

Pulling the manila envelope from his pocket, Calisto yanked the papers out and flipped to the final page, slamming it down over the side of the desk where Affonso’s blood hadn’t managed to stain.

“Sign it,” Calisto demanded.

Affonso’s gaze cut to the side, glancing at the paperwork and then back to Calisto. “I’ll sign nothing.”

Frustrated, but unwilling to show it, Calisto snatched a pen, forced it into Affonso’s shaking hand, turned the man over, and grabbed his fist in his own. He forced Affonso’s signature, as messy as it was and with a little stain of blood at the end, across the dotted line. Then, he slammed the folder closed.

“She’ll file these in a month, when you don’t come back home, and they magically appear on the doorstep one day,” Calisto murmured in Affonso’s ear. “Divorce papers, you know. After all you’ve done to her, she deserves this.”

Grabbing for his gun again, Calisto rolled Affonso back over again, aimed, and cocked back the hammer.

Affonso didn’t look away.

Neither did Calisto.

He wanted to see his eyes.

Emma deserved one thing.

Calisto deserved another.

He pulled that trigger—blood and brain matter sprayed across the front of the desk and against the opened door and wall—and it was the easiest fucking thing he had ever done.

Calisto dropped Affonso’s limp body without another thought—he barely even looked at the man as he snatched up the signed divorce papers that essentially freed Emma and gave her any and all access to Affonso’s trusts, accounts, and assets.