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A sob broke from her chest.
Her car.
Burning in flames.
No, god, no.
The sight seared itself into her vision, the tall flames of orange licking the red of her car, sucking its life away, turning it into charred black right before her eyes.
Tears escaped her eyes as she looked at the one friend, the one constant she’d had for so long, be brutally murdered, pain and rage suffusing her with every passing moment. That car had been her freedom, her escape, her companion. That car had held her when she’d shouted songs at the top of her lungs and when she’d broken down in tears, delivering her to safety.
That car.
Her car.
Morana looked at it, sobs bursting from her chest. Her father had done this. His men had done this.
For one long minute, she stared at the burning mass of metal, mourned it for one long minute. Then, she buried the pain deep inside and let the rage take over.
The men had to be nearby, to make sure she was dead, and to get the proof for their boss.
Standing up, she wiped under her eyes and pulled out her gun from her waistband.
They wanted death? She’d deliver it on a fucking platter with blood on the side.
Wiping the remnants of all tears, Morana let the heat infuse her, and crouched down, creeping slowly towards the road from the inside, clearing her mind of all thoughts, all pain in her body ignored.
After a few minutes of nearing the edge, the black SUV her father’s goons used came into view, parked a good distance away.
Morana stayed crouched low, recognizing them.
Two men. Only two men sent to take care of his daughter. But two of his closest men.
Too bad.
The men stood beside the vehicle, their gazes on the burning wreck where they thought she would be.
She needed to take them out, make an example of her own, and send her father a clear message. Nobody messed with hers and got away with it unscathed. No one.
She knew she couldn’t shoot one without alerting the other, and her body couldn’t handle a fight injured if she was spotted. It needed to be quick, efficient. Narrowing her eyes, Morana pointed the gun at the vehicle, at the gas tank to be specific, getting a clear shot from her vantage.
Her hand shook slightly, but she steadied it.
Set an example. Tell Daddy Dearest to fuck off.
Taking a deep breath, Morana closed one eye, took her aim, and fired.
The SUV was intact one second, blown up the next. It wasn’t like in the movies at all. It was done and over within seconds. She watched even as her arm recoiled as the same flames licked the vehicle and her father’s men along with it. She dropped down on her ass, exhausted, on the cold ground, feeling no satisfaction, nothing but emptiness.
She sat there, hidden from view, behind two gravestones, wanting nothing more than to go to the penthouse and sleep. But she couldn’t go. Not without a car and not when her father’s other goons could very well be nearby.
With shaking hands, she put the gun down and pulled out her phone, tears streaming down her face again.
She knew she could call him. She somehow also knew that he would come.
She wouldn’t. She was a mess, again, and she couldn’t make it a habit to let him help her. But then, who could she call? She had no one.
Opening up her contacts, Morana stared at the third number right near the top, a number she’d acquired just recently, and swallowed, hitting call before she could think about it.
