Page 50 of Goldflame
Mom moves closer to whisper something but I’ve had enough. I’m not going to watch a woman’s pussy get slit open. I’m on my feet, yanking my gun from its holster.
Mother startles and spins around. The knife falls to the carpet.
I grab my knife quickly then press my gun against Lucy’s temple. “Do you fucking know anything about your husband killing Theodore Martinelli? Yes or no.”
“No,” Lucy sobs. “I swear. I don’t know.”
I holster my gun. “Then we’re finished here,” I tell mother. “We’re fucking leaving.”
She doesn’t look pleased, but she follows me out. I close the front door, thankful I can no longer hear Lucy’s sobs.
When we’re outside, Mom doesn’t sound happy. “Julian?—”
“Go home,” I tell her. There’s enough fire in my eyes that she doesn’t protest and climbs in the SUV. Her driver, who’d been patiently waiting this whole time, starts the car.
Once she’s through the gate, I stumble away from Lucy’s house into some bushes, trying to find some kind of distance between what I’ve done and what I’m still becoming.
The night’s cold air hits me hard, and then nausea pulls me to my knees on the grass. I’m sick, twisted inside as I think about what I just let happen.
How could mother do that?
Since when am I the kind of man to permit it?
This is something Lucian would’ve done in a heartbeat. He would’ve fucked Lucy with that knife until she couldn’t scream anymore. Would’ve grabbed a kid and killed them while their mother bled out on the carpet. All for what? For her not knowing anything?
Then he would’ve gone home and ate dinner, as if returning from some normal, boring office job.
Screams wouldn’t echo in his head. He wouldn’t vomit.
He’d feel nothing.
But me, even though I only watched, I’m feeling all of it.
Lucy didn’t know anything. I could hear the tremor in her voice, the fear. She was telling the truth. Doesn’t know shit, yet I let mother get unhinged and dothat.
I lost complete control of the situation.
The sickness rises up and I puke in the bushes, heaving until there’s nothing left but bile and self-loathing.
Is this what Adrian went through? Being our father’s favorite? It’s clear in my mind now—Adrian coming home after nights spent doing “business” with Lucian. He was often covered in blood and doing his best to hide the trembling. Actual trembling. He’d never tell me what happened on those nights. Was it like this? Watching Lucian do terrible things to innocent people? Forcing Adrian to do it too?
I knew my brother well. He would’ve only done terrible things if forced.
But Adrian is dead.
My father is dead.
So who’s forcing me?
No one.
I did this all myself.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
AURELIA
The ceiling of Adrian’s room has exactly seventy-three dots in the pattern above the bed—I’ve counted them twice today. It’s become a ritual, a pointless task to mark time while I lay on the bed.
