This was for the best.
And if he repeated the words to himself often enough, maybe he would start believing it, too.
A call from security came in soon enough, and he gave them the green light to let Sarica walk free. "Have someone follow her," Giancarlo said curtly. "Discreetly."
He was still in his room when the first report landed in his box.
Subject booked a suite at the Desert Royale under the name of Dauphin Tueur.
The next thing he knew, his hands were bruised, his knuckles bloodied, and there were fist-sized holes in the wall. The last time he had blacked out like this, he had killed a lot of men without remembering anything. Because back then, he believed that vengeance was his, and never God's.
Giancarlo wanted to think tonight was a vast improvement.
Wanted to believe that it was better that he had hurt himself instead of others.
Those were the lies he wanted to believe.
But all he could hear was God's voice as he stared at his bloodied fists.
Hurting yourself hurts Me, too, son.
This is not the way.
This is not My way.
Giancarlo knew what God was asking of Him.
I'm sorry.
But the past sixteen months had changed him.
And it was as if he was back in square one.
Giancarlo was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders again.
And even though he knew this wasn't true—-
The hell he was in felt so damn deep...it just didn't seem possible that even God could save him.
Chapter Eight
EVERY HOUR BROUGHTa new report to Giancarlo's desk.
Guest manifests.
Security footage.
Staff interviews.
Credit card transactions.
Room service orders.
Elevator usage logs.
With Sheif Nassif's royal clearance to back him up, there was nothing Sarica could do that Giancarlo wouldn't know.
But even though he had yet to come across any indication of Sarica being in contact with Dauphin Tueur in any way—-
