I hit him again. And again. He fell to the ground, blood pouring from his face. I kicked him in the ribs. Heard something crack.
"This is for Angelina," I said, and kicked him again.
He was crying now, begging, trying to crawl away. I followed.
"This is for my child."
Another kick.
"This is for every moment she spent afraid."
Another.
"This is for making me worry I'd lost them both."
Another.
He wasn't moving anymore. Just lying there, broken and bleeding. I knelt beside him, grabbed his hair, forced him to look at me.
"You came after my family," I said quietly. "The worst mistake you ever made."
I slit his throat. Not quick. Not clean. Slow enough that he felt it. That he knew exactly what was happening. His eyes went wide. He tried to speak but only blood came out. I watched him die. Watched the life drain from his eyes. Watched until hewas completely, irrevocably dead. Then I stood, wiped the blood from my hands, and walked away.
"It's done," I told my father when I reached the cars.
He nodded. "Clean up crew?"
"Send them. Make sure there's nothing left to find. I mean fuckin’ minced."
"I’ll let em know."
I got in the car and Marco drove me to ditch my clothes, clean up, and back to the hospital in silence. By the time we arrived, the sun was starting to rise. I went straight to Angelina's room, feeling a billion pounds lighter than when I left. She was still out and sighed in relief. I didn’t want her to wake up alone and I would’ve felt like shit if she had. I kissed her forehead and sat in the chair where I planned to be until she woke up.
Angelina
Iwoke up to sunlight streaming through hospital windows and the steady beep of monitors. For a moment, I couldn't remember why I was here or why everything hurt. Then it all came rushing back.
Lunch with my friends. The gunshots. Hitting the pavement. Waking up confused in a strange place with unfamiliar faces and then passing out again almost immediately. Drifting in and out of consciousness, never quite sure what was real and what was drugged confusion. And then darkness until now.
I turned my head carefully—even that small movement sent pain shooting through my skull—and found Dez asleep in the chair beside my bed.
He looked terrible. Dark circles under his eyes, hair disheveled, wearing clothes that didn't quite fit him properly. His hand was wrapped around mine even in sleep, like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.
"Dez?" My voice came out as a croak.
His eyes snapped open immediately, going from sleep to full alertness in a heartbeat.
"Angelina." He was on his feet, leaning over me, his hands cupping my face with infinite gentleness. "How do you feel? Does anything hurt? Do you need anything? Let me get the doctor." He hit a button on my bedside, I guessed to signal the medical team.
"Water," I managed. "Please."
He grabbed a cup with a straw and held it to my lips. The cold water was heaven against my parched throat.
"How long have I been here?" I asked once I could speak properly.
"About five days. You were unconscious for it all." He sat on the edge of the bed, still holding my hand like it was a lifeline. "Do you remember what happened?"
"Some of it. The shooting. Falling. Then... pieces. People talking about me but not to me. Being moved. A doctor checking my pupils." I pressed my free hand to my temple, feeling the bandage there. "It's all fuzzy."
