He hears me coming, spinning around. His gun comes up.
I don't slow down.
The bullet whistles past my ear as I duck left, using the momentum to close the distance. His second shot goes wide because I'm already on him.
My hand fists in his greasy hair, using his surprise to slam his face into the wall. The drywall cracks. Not enough.
I pull back and drive him forward again. His nose explodes in a wet crunch.
Again. The wall dents deeper.
Again. Blood spatters across white paint.
Again. Teeth scatter across the hallway floor.
His gun clatters away as his legs give out.
Only when he stops twitching do I let him drop.
The door to 5C is closed. No sounds come from inside. No screaming. No crying. No voices at all.
The silence is worse than screams would be.
I shoulder through the door, both guns raised, ready to paint these walls with Russian blood.
A strangled sound comes from the bedroom. Not quite a scream. More like someone trying to breathe through crushed windpipe.
I cross the apartment in three strides, getting in the bedroom.
The scene that greets me stops my heart.
Daniil Morozov straddles my wife on the bed, both hands wrapped around her throat. Blood soaks the sheets beneath them, though I can't tell whose. Sophia's face has turned purple, her hands limp at her sides, no longer fighting.
She's dying.
My love is dying.
Daniil's head snaps toward me, his hands releasing Sophia's throat. She doesn't move. Doesn't gasp for air. Just lies there, still as death.
A smile spreads across his bloodied face. "Too late, Sartori."
I drop both guns. Don't need them for what I'm about to do.
Something primal takes over, something that existed before words, before civilization, before anything but rage. I become the monster I've always known lived inside me.
My fist connects with his jaw before he can stand. The crack sounds through the room, but it's not enough. Nothing will ever be enough.
I grab his collar, hauling him off the bed, away from her. My knuckles split against his cheekbone. Blood sprays across white walls.
He swings at me, catching my ribs. I don't feel it. Can't feel anything except the need to destroy him with my bare hands.
My knee drives into his stomach, doubling him over. I bring my elbow down on the back of his skull. He drops to his knees.
Not enough.
My boot connects with his face, snapping his head back. Teeth and blood fly from his mouth. He falls backward, and I follow him down, straddling him the way he straddled my wife.
My fists become hammers. Left. Right. Left. Right. Each impact makes wet sounds against what used to be his face. Bone crunches beneath my knuckles. Cartilage tears.
