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Suddenly, something crackles and pops in my chest. It bubbles out from under my ribs and fizzes gently under my skin.
I drag a knuckle over my jaw and shake my head, amused at my own venomous thoughts.
No. That’s not me.
When I’d vowed to burn down the gypsy’s wagon last month, it was an empty threat.
Still, with the snap of my wrist, the Zippo’s flame dances against the darkness, taunting me with possibility. Explosive revenge is Angelo’s bag, and Gabe, well, he’s proof it’s often the quiet ones who are the most psychopathic. Either of them would burn down this wagon without giving it a second thought, but Mama always used to say I was the gentleman out of the three of us. Your brothers have iron fists, Rafey, but you have the silver tongue and the voice of reason.
As I slide the lighter back into my pocket, my fingertips graze over my dice, and another dark thought seeps into my brain.
Since the old witch has so much to say about fate, I’ll let my dice decide hers. I draw them from my pocket, give them a good shake, and drop them at my feet.
They roll less than half a meter, then come to a lazy stop. I peer over and laugh.
Lucky number seven.
“So be it,” I mutter to myself, loosening the tie around my neck. I slip it off and slide it through the door handles, forming a tight knot.
I bring my Zippo to the tip of it and set it alight.
I’ve never liked wearing ties, anyway.
