This is why I hate coming home. This is why I stay away.
Because the second I’m on this property, it’s all about them, and what I can do forthem.
I wrap my arms around myself. Everything will be okay.
It has to be.
27
Lorenzo
The Danforth estate looks smaller. Not physically.
Physically, it's still a monstrosity of money and arrogance. But emotionally? This place used to feel like a prison. A gilded cage I didn’t have the keys to. Now it feels like the beginning of a horror movie, told from the villain's point of view.
The beautiful part of my plan, though, isn’t the kill . . .
It’s how long I’m going to drag it out.
Torture them.
The gravel crunches under my boots as I walk up the drive. My steps are slow and deliberate.
I savor every step. This is my moment.
A full circle.
I died here, yet was born here too.
The house looms ahead, and while I was intimidated the first time I saw it, now it does nothing of the sort.
How could it?
I’ve gutted men.
Watched them gurgle on their own blood.
This shit is child’s play.
As I make my way up to the front door, I wipe my boots on their pristine marble step just to be petty.
A second later, a butler who looks like he’s two missed paychecks away from selling his organs opens the door. His eyes drag over me, hesitant, confused, and then terrified.
Does he recognize me?
“Mr. Amante.” He steps back quickly, spine snapping straight.
He knows who I am and is afraid. Terrified really. Good. Fear makes people polite.
I step inside.
The smell hits me first. I’m instantly transported to when I worked here, to the smell of old wood polish and expensive scotch.
Just the thought of working for these assholes has me wanting to rip out their skulls.
Okay, Lorenzo, there will be none of that.
Carving a hole in their head won’t give me the revenge I want.
