Page 61 of The Silent Princess

For her, I would. For her, I would rather burn the world down than live with the fact that I did not prevent them from hurting her.

“Anything else you would like to add?” My voice shifts, unrecognizable, low, so low I barely recognize it.

“Cole sends his greetings.”

“Wonderful,” I say flatly, standing and grabbing the screwdriver. “I would have made it quicker if you had cooperated, but you had to choose this road, so…” I shrug, crack my neck, and murmur in his ear, “Keep a warm seat in hell for me, huh? I’ll send you Cole in a few days.” And myself too, when my day comes, for this is now the day I break the vow I made to myself.

I will do better tomorrow.

I am so sorry, Ella.

I wish it were all sunshine and rainbows. I wish I never had to do this, but sometimes we have to do the right thing even when it is wrong. Then, without letting him answer, I pierce the side of his throat with the metallic tool, blood jutting everywhere, making sounds only butchers know the melody of. Nonsensical syllables jerk out of him, his body spasming as his carotid frees his blood to meet the cold concrete. Would Ella approve? I would rather not even think about that.

She told me she would rather not know, as long as I keep her safe, so I guess not.

Exiting, I do not look back, as if death were a disease I could catch with one glance. Standing with one foot on the wall, Paxos, dressed in full black and owning the kind of face that only promises trouble, aquiline nose, hands in his pockets, asks, “Did he talk?” I shake my head, my shirt covered in blood, my hands dripping wet and red, so red.

“We’ll need others. As many men as you can find. Sooner or later, one of them will break.”

“What happens next, then?” Ignoring his question, I drift away, wiping my hands as if it could wash the blood away.

“Do you play chess?”

“Nope. Why, boss?”

“When a man thinks he’s setting a trap,” I explain, “he starts seeing the board the way he wants it to be. Every move confirms it. Every piece falls into place exactly how he planned. It’s called a confirmation bias."

Paxos frowns as the combination of moves plays in my head on an invisible chessboard, life-size. Cole is waiting. He is waiting for a mistake, a misstep, a moment of vulnerability, an action pointing at my Achilles’ heel.

My family and Ella.

The first is more guarded than a fortress.

The second is vulnerable, a target easy to spot and steal.

Sweat gathers on my nape as I see Ella folded into a corner of Cole’s basement, clothes torn. Never mind the ball. It is a luxury we cannot longer afford.

Ella needs to stay locked into her usual schedule, or risks being noticed by her stepmother and used as a pawn against me. Six a.m. She must be still sleeping in the exact position I left her, quietly breathing under her sheet, her perfume permeating the air, holding me hostage to her spell. I hope she will understand and forgive me for going back on my promise of giving her a night she dreamed of. There will be many more, and I will make sure to show her everything she has ever dreamed of.

I rush into the darkness of the hallway, leaving Paxos there to deal with the remnants of my wrath. My lungs close on me, and I tug at the collar of my shirt. Why is it so hard to breathe? Killing for the first time, although easy, will always be, I am afraid, unnatural to me. Ella’s face burns behind my pupils, and I blink her away.

I need to add security, men on her street making sure no one follows her or tries to break in. Right. That is the right thing to do. I press my eyelids with my fingers, pain whispering behind my brows. Sleep. I need to sleep, an ice pack over my forehead and tomorrow, tomorrow I will make a new plan. No one can stand between her and me, and I will make sure of it. A shadow of threats falls above her without her knowing, and I stand as the sole responsible for all those arrows pointed at her. It is my duty to protect her from my enemies, to keep her safe.

But I cannot stop a voice from murmuring to me.

What if I fail to do so?

Ella

Unfolding my hands, tulips expand in the vases; the crystal is too high, made for Mara’s large and grandiose bouquets. These ones were cut from the garden, since I have neither money nor the opportunity to find a florist. Besides, Dad never really cared for flowers. It was Mom’s thing. She would make the most beautiful bouquets with flowers from the supermarket, display them on the kitchen counter, and make up a bouquet of her own, like a painter.

“Ella,” Dad’s faint voice calls for me, and I turn, his index finger pointing at the TV.

Oh, right. I forgot to turn it off when I walked in.

“Are you sure? It’s your favorite,” I sign, knowing this Latin soap opera is a highlight of his day. It is eight a.m. I came in after breakfast, just before starting on my chores.

“You’re the best part of my…day, honey, please,” he says, but his voice cracks, and I cannot help but notice the pale shade of his skin. Turning off the TV, I sit next to him, the window above the tulips casting light on our tragedy as if we were the protagonists of the TV show, playing a heartfelt scene. If only.