He whips his head around, squinting into the dark.
"Who are you? Where's my meet?"
“Oh, come on, Andy,” I say, my voice dripping with acid.“You don’t remember me?”
I can see a small twitch in his cheek as he hesitates.
“Should I…?”
I take another step, moving fully into the harsh pool of yellow light so he can see my face.
“You better,” I growl, “because I’m the one who is going to put an end to your despicable life, you bastard.”
I close the distance in two long strides, grabbing him by his jacket and lifting him from the ground.
“You hurt the woman I love, and you killed my unborn child. Tonight, you pay.”
For a second, he looks terrified. Then, he starts laughing—a high, derailed sound that echoes off the metal tanks.
“Dorian Marshall. Boss.” He pushes against my chest with all his strength, managing to stumble back a step. “What took you so long?”
I cannot hold the rage boiling inside anymore. So, I hit him with all the pain I could not let out.
Andy wipes his nose with the back of his hand, his voice burning with hate.
“You ruined my life when you sent me back home,” he rasps, scorn dripping from his words. “So, I returned the favor.”
“You were a thief!” I roar, the sound tearing from my throat as I drive a boot into his ribs again. “You’re lucky I sent you home and not to a cage, you, pathetic piece of garbage.”
He collapses into a jagged laugh and looks up at me, savoring the devastation on my face.
“Maybe,” he whispers, his voice thin and cruel. “But she was the best piece I’ve ever had, Boss—”
He pauses, licking the blood from his lip before spitting the final words directly at my feet.
“… Your piece.”
At that point the dark side takes over, and the red haze swallows me whole.
I launch at him. I don’t recall the specifics of the next minutes. I only know the sensation of impact—knuckles on bone, the wet crunch of cartilage, the grunt of air leaving a body. I pour every ounce of agony I lived since Dellashared her nightmare, every moment of heartache over the baby we lost, into my fists.
When the haze clears, Andy is on the ground. His face is a ruin of blood and swelling.
I just look at my hands covered in blood and I clench my fists again. The thirst is still there and I barely hold myself back from finishing it right here, right now.
I took some hits—my ribs ache—but Andy is on the ground, and I am standing.
David comes out from his hiding spot, checking his watch.
“It’s time! The Morozov’s are here.”
Andy stirs, coughing pink froth. He looks up, and I see a flicker of real fear in his eyes for the first time.
“You called the Russians? You didn’t have the balls to do it yourself?”
As I stand and straighten my ruined, blood-spotted suit I realize the rage will always be there but I need to be next to Della.
“Actually, Andy,” I say in a dark, cold voice. “I have the balls to give you the slow excruciating death that you deserve, and the brains not to stain my hands with it.”
