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“P-please.” He snatched off the ski mask and looked up at me. “Dante, she made me do it!”
“And you failed.” I pulled the trigger.
His body jerked with the impact of the bullets, and more blood stained the white snow, creating a macabre painting before me.
What will happen now? This couldn’t have been Francesca’s whole plan.
I stood there for a moment, staring at their lifeless bodies.
The battle was over, but the war had only just begun. I could feel that fact deep within my bones.
The snow continued to fall, gently covering them, as if trying to hide the ugliness of what had just occurred.
Then, something even more shocking happened.
Oh.
The distant wail of police sirens grew louder, and I looked up, knowing what was coming next.
There’s no way someone called the police and they came that quickly.
My head throbbed.
They were already on their way.
Francesca’s plan was clear now. She’d sent men to kill me, knowing I would easily eliminate them and have dead bodies on the street. Clear evidence of a homicide.
It was a trap, perfectly laid, and I had walked right into it.
Goddamn it.
A police car screeched around the corner. Its lights flashed.
The siren cut through the stillness of the night as the vehicle stopped right in front of me.
The door opened, and a cop stepped out. I recognized him immediately.
Officer Daniels.
Although he was at the top of our payroll, he and I never got along. He had this odd crush on Francesca that tilted toward psychotic obsession. And I didn’t like the fact that we were working with a shitty disloyal cop with a bad cocaine habit.
Son of a bitch. She teamed up with him.
Daniel’s beady eyes met mine, and I saw the triumph in them. He knew he had me.
I glared at him. “Tell Francesca that this isn’t the end, I won’t let go and I won’t forget.”
“I never deliver a dead man’s message.” Daniels spat on the ground in front of him. “Drop the guns, raise your hands, and get on your knees. You don’t want to give any of my friends in blue an excuse to shoot.”
I raised my hands slowly, feeling the weight of defeat, the bitterness of betrayal. “Why aren’t you going to shoot me yourself?”
“I would love to, but the Chief is already suspicious of me.” Daniels pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Plus, the Widow said that the bullet had to come from a clean cop. If it happens, it has to look official.”
More police cars arrived.
Their lights painted the snow-covered street in red and blue.
Doors creaked.
Voices shouted, and I knew that running was not an option. In fact, they were probably hoping I would flee.
My heart pounded in my chest.
One day, I will kill you, Francesca. One fucking day.
The cold wind whipped at my face and stung my eyes, but I refused to look away, refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing my fear.
“Dante Moretti, you are under arrest.” Officer Daniels blew out smoke and approached me with his handcuffs at the ready.
I said nothing, my mind already turning, planning, plotting.
This is not the end.
As they led me away, I glanced back at Zuri’s place.
Thank God she had not been in the window. Hopefully, she had her music on and had never caught a sound.
She said yes. . .and I’m going to jail. . .
My heart shattered like glass, its fragments cascading down into a cold abyss.
While Francesca’s victory may have been absolute and final, I burned for vengeance, and it would be dripping with blood.
Chapter 2
The Art of Vengeance
Five years.
That was how long I’d been trapped behind these oppressive walls, confined to a world where freedom was just a distant memory.
Five years.
Time had become a dreary blur, a continuous cycle of relentless workouts, reading, and solitary contemplation.
And of course one couldn’t forget the psychopaths living around me.
Five years.
With little to do, I transformed my body into a weapon, honing it through rigorous exercise. Muscles bulged and flexed across my frame.
My shoulders had broadened, arms thickened and hardened like tree trunks, forcing the jail staff to increase my shirt sizes every year just to accommodate my growth.
My chest had become a wall of strength, while my back rippled with power.
But it wasn’t just my body that had grown; my mind had sharpened too, fortified by the countless books I’d consumed.
In the solitude of my cell, the world of literature became my refuge, a means to escape the harsh reality of imprisonment.
And I spent my time pouring into the classic stories of revenge. When I read Hamlet, I too was like the prince, consumed by revenge and driven to madness by his father’s murder. In Moby Dick, I stood next to Captain Ahab in his pursuit for that piece of shit white whale.
I schemed with Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights to exact his revenge against the Earnshaw Family.
