“Fuck.” I stand up, turn to look at Natalie.
She’s immovable, sitting on the foul bed, fisting the filthy blanket. I don’t think she’s blinked or taken a breath.
I turn back to the guy, take my pistol and point it between his eyebrows.
I don’t hesitate.
She wants to see. She’ll see.
I pull the trigger—once, twice—twin holes in his forehead, between his eyes.
Overkill. but it’s quick. My form of mercy. He’s dead in an instant.
“Call a fucking cleaner.” I holster my gun and, with blood on my hands, gather Natalie up into my arms, and she doesn’t resist. I carry her to the car, cradle her in the backseat. Salvatore slides into the driver’s seat and a moment later, we’re driving away.
23
NATALIE
Two weeks have passed since that terrible night. My mind is in chaos but I won’t stop to sort through the thoughts. To see again what I saw that night. I won’t think about what happened. I won’t feel the man’s hands on me. Won’t hear the sound of a silenced gun fired. I close my eyes against the picture of Sergio standing over the man, gun in his hand, cocked. Aimed. Fired. Not once, but twice. With perfect precision.
Did he even notice the blood that stained his coat? His hands? The blood he smeared on me when he held me.
I shudder.
The sound is strange, the silencer not quite silent enough. One millisecond and a life is snuffed out.
I don’t feel sorry for that man or for the others who died that night.
I think about the driver who was killed because of me, and even him, I keep thinking that he chose this. He chose this life. Does that make me like them?
The image of Sergio that night, furious like I’ve never seen him, is burned into my eyelids. Cruel and lethal. So fucking lethal.
He tried to send me away. Didn’t want me to see. But I wanted to see. I wanted to know exactly. Needed to.
What I heard in his father’s house, it pales in comparison to what I witnessed that night.
“Miss.”
I blink. The man behind the counter looks annoyed. “Sorry.” I empty my basket of things I don’t need—magazines, candy, cold medicine—not to bring attention to the one thing I do. The pregnancy test.
I’m sure now. The test is extra. I’m late. My body feels different, more achy and tender. And I can’t keep food down morning, noon or night.
The clerk tells me the total as he bags my things and I pay him in cash, take my change and leave. I don’t even say goodbye. The drug store is two blocks from my house and Ricco and another man whose name I don’t remember are following a few paces behind me. They’re not subtle, but I manage to ignore them. Besides, I don’t think they’re meant to be subtle. Sergio wants anyone who may try to take me again to think twice.
He calls me each night but I don’t know where he is and he hasn’t tried to come over. I thought he would. I can guess what he’s doing. The damage he did the other night was only the beginning. He’ll punish whoever was responsible. Am I supposed to feel guilty about that? I don’t. And again, the same question comes up:what does that make me?
I told him what I could remember about the man in the suit. Told him I thought the others were set up. That the leader knew Sergio would come. Knew what he’d do. I was always meant to be rescued. Another message, a louder one than the funeral flowers left on my doorstep.
I unlock the front door, my fingers icy as I push it open. I’m wearing knitted fingerless mittens. Not a smart choice for the temperature, but I’m lucky I got shoes and a coat on beforeleaving the house. I haven’t brushed my hair in days. My brain is mush.
After locking the door behind me, I set everything down, give Pepper a pat and head upstairs. I don’t look at the instructions. It’s pretty self-explanatory. Pee on the stick, of which there are two in this box.
I pee on that little stick and set it on the counter. I’m looking at the image on the back of the box, the one with the two pink lines as if I need it to know what they mean. But it’s faster than I expect. It doesn’t take a full minute before they appear on the stick.
Strange, I thought this official confirmation would feel different, but it doesn’t.
I toss the test, the one I already took and the second, still wrapped one, into the trash can along with the box. I touch the dark shadows under my eyes, take out a tube of concealer and smear it on. Apply generous layers of mascara, too much so my lashes clump together. Looks like spider’s legs—like the morning after a really long night. I don’t care though. I drop the still open tube on the counter, watch it roll into the sink, and go into the bedroom.
