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It’s not like Dad not to lock the doors. Then again, he’s been more forgetful of late. Mom says he sometimes forgets to set the house alarm before going to bed. He’s not getting younger, but he’s not old enough to be that negligent yet.
“Dad?” I call, taking the stairs to the upper level two by two.
His office spreads over half of the first floor. The spacious room boasts blackwood floors, a corner chimney, a crystal chandelier, and a genuine nineteenth century pressed ceiling. The wide windows frame the Outeniqua Mountains. Together with a skylight, they let in plenty of light. The decoration is a mashup of steampunk and factory-loft styles. The whole building is a work of art.
“Dad?” I say again, quickening my steps down the hallway.
Overhead lights with industrial trumpet shades throw circles on the teak floor. The bulbs reflect in the stained-glass wall that gives a view of the inner courtyard below.
“Surprise,” I say, sticking my head around the doorframe. “I brought—”
The scene that greets me cuts the rest of my sentence short. The food drops from my hand. The bottom of the bag breaks. Fries and packets of condiments scatter around my feet. Those objects I can process. Not the blood and gray matter on the floor. Not my dad lying in that puddle. Not Santino Russo towering over him. And not Angelo crouched next to my dad, wearing black leather gloves and holding a gun in his hand.
ChapterFour
Angelo
Sabella stands in the door with a scream trapped in her throat. She doesn’t give sound to it, but it’s there. It’s in her eyes. It’s in the way horror transforms her features. But she’s frozen. She wants to run. Cry for help. Deny what’s in front of her. She can’t. Her body and brain are locked by a terrifying spell of shock.
I know.
I’ve been there.
She’s a fragile picture of a delicate object that’s been violently broken. A beautiful vase. Shattered. Shards of paper-thin glass. And even when she picks up the pieces, she’ll never be the same.
I know.
Food lies around her feet, wasted. That’s why she’s here when she wasn’t supposed to be. She wanted to surprise her father. She brought him lunch. Or dinner. It’s too late for lunch and too early for supper. Too late to unsee what she’s witnessed.
There’s no choice. I have to finish the job. Even if she screams, no one will hear her. The office buildings around us are closed for the weekend.
Tearing my attention away from her, I place the gun in Edwards’s hand and fold his lifeless fingers around the shaft.
My father looks down at the body with contempt as I straighten. He adjusts his jacket, steps over the blood, and walks to the door.
“Finish her,” he says, holding her gaze as he shoves past her.
Finish her.
Because she’s a witness.
Because we don’t need her any longer.
ButIneed her. God knows, I hate her for it, but I do. I don’t even know when it became so imperative that her father kept his promise. Maybe when I first saw her. Maybe before, when she was nothing but a distant knowledge and a vague concept of my future. Maybe when I kissed her. Definitely when I fucked her. Undeniably when I branded her with my seed in her pussy and my mark on her skin.
Finally, she finds her voice. What escapes from her lips is more of a raw sound than a scream. Instead of running away, she rushes to her father and falls on her knees beside him. She reaches out, groping.
Before she can touch him, I grab her arm and drag her up. It’s cruel. It’s inhumane to withhold this from her.
I know that too.
I have to, lest she disturbs the scene or steps in the blood and leaves prints.
“Don’t look,cara.” I drag her toward the door. “Goddamn. You shouldn’t see this.”
“No.” She fights like a wild animal. “I need to help him.”
I shake her. Hard. “You can’t help him.”
