A familiar face stares back at me.
It can’t be.
How is this possible?
I glance at my father. He doesn’t see the man’s features—my attacker’s back is to him.
The man swipes his mask back into place, then gags me and binds my hands behind my back. He marches me to my mother and I relive her terrible death.
When it’s over, I open my eyes and stare at the dark ceiling. I’m breathing hard, my heart pounding in my chest. I’m covered in sweat. I take off my covers and allow the cool night air to sweep over my body.
I can’t believe it. I had seen the man who’d murdered my mother, but I’d repressed the memory all these years.
I have to wonder though. Is it really him? Or is my mind just playing tricks on me, confusing the present circumstances with the past?
Is the man who murdered my mother really The Cleaver?
I’d recognize that forehead to cheek scar, and that long, Pinocchio-like nose anywhere.
Yes. It’s him. It can’t be anyone else.
And it’s only a matter of time until he kills me, too.
History is going to repeat itself after all.
There has to be a way to escape.
There has to.
30
Massimo
It was a good thing I’d grabbed the bulletproof vest from the armory before I left, otherwise I’d be dead now. Still, I could really use a life jacket at the moment.
Despite the cool water around me, my body still throbs painfully where the bullets from the high-powered rifles impacted. While a bulletproof vest protects against penetration, it doesn’t completely negate the energy of the impacts, which felt like nasty punches to my chest and abdomen. Going to have some bruises later.
I concentrate on my predicament, staying calm, allowing myself to float on the water rather than fighting the waves, which are particularly choppy today. I’ve been stranded in the sea before. I know what to do.
I watch the Rizzo speedboat recede into the distance, and with it, Angela. Losing her was a gut punch worse than anything those bullets gave me. I failed her. But I’ll get her back. I swear I will.
First, I have to survive this.
I front crawl toward the simmering wreckage of my speedboat. My brothers are good swimmers, too, and I know they’ll be heading toward their own craft.
A wave slams into my face as I turn my head to snatch a breath of air, and water shoves into my lungs. I cough, choking, but continue on.
I reach my boat. The flames have died down, courtesy of the water splashing over the gunwale, and I give the blades of the motor a tentative touch. The metal feels cool beneath my fingers. Good. I grab on and take a moment to rest. The engine above me is a melted mess—it won’t be starting again.
I take several breaths and cough out some more water. My hearing is diminished slightly—I’ve got seawater filling both ear canals.
I glance at the other wreckage. It’s about a hundred feet from me. The fires burn low there, too, lingering only because of the gasoline The Cleaver poured onto the vessels.
I check my phone. The saltwater killed it.
I squint, looking for my brothers. I scan the surrounding sea and the boat itself. I can’t see them, but they could be hanging on to the other side.
They can’t be dead. They can’t be.
