Page 19 of Seven+Four
I type in the security code. “What are you stealing?” I ask, as I go through the retinal scanner before the gates open. This conversation is also me passing time.
“I didn’t steal anything. I just studied…closely a couple of paintings and a few sculptures.”
“Where?” I wait for the garage door to open, staring out over the magnolia trees, the path beyond, and the lake past that.
“The Art Institute. Those Water Lilies… Didn’t know paint strokes could feel so rough under the fingertips.”
I’m not surprised he could enter and walk around a place in Chicago with the most advanced security system in the world. Ramibumpedinto Clover when working on a case, they were both somewhere they shouldn’t have been, so they mutually decided to ignore each other. Rami was impressed by Clover’s Lupin the III thieving skills, so he decided to hire him for the next case. Five years have passed since then.
“Anyway the job is done,” he lets me know. I keep hearing clanking noises through the line. What the fuck is he doing? “I don’t question my clients when given a job…”
I could be charming, smooth-talking, and likable with disingenuous intentions. Sociopathic individuals are better atinfluencing others, at manipulating them. We probably invented it. Nevertheless, today has been a fucking long day, and it’s not over yet.
“So don’t,” I forcibly state, grabbing the phone from the dash.
He huffs, but doesn’t say more about it. “I kept one of the rodents.”
“Why?” I exit my car and stop near it, while opening the bank app on my phone.
“As a pet,” he replies.
I’ve never understood the need to own a pet. I see it more as a burden than a companion. The need to feed it, clean up after it, even cuddle it. Sari got one last month. Dare, one of the triplets, took him to their pet shelter, and when he came back, he had adopted a hairless guinea pig. The animal is all pink with a large black spot on his tailless butt and white, frizzy hair only on its muzzle, feet, and legs. He named him Albert E., since he thinks there’s a resemblance with the German theoretical physicist. I only see a squishy, ugly, biting thing, who’s screaming to be squeezed to death—like a stress ball.
“Need to give him a name, any suggestions?”
“No. I transferred the money with a little extra. Not a word to Rami.”
“Why not? Oh crap, gotta go!” He ends the call, and I pocket my phone and walk out of the garage and into the house. The front wall is all made of glass to enjoy the quiet courtyard. A wooden bench, a small table, and the old pomegranate tree standing in the middle, with its twisted bark and long branches covered in snow.
I have a penthouse in a newly constructed high-rise, and a condo in downtown Chicago, but that tree is one of the main reasons I decided to buy this lake house last year.
I turn left and stride down the corridor, passing the living room and the kitchen to stop at the lab’s threshold. It smells like fresh paint and chemicals. Tomorrow morning, all the equipment and tools I ordered will arrive. I move next door. The soundproofing in the room is almost done, by tomorrow afternoon everything will be ready.
In the meantime, I need to fucking find my moccasins before Raph forces me to kill him. What should I take from him next? One of the blood paintings inside his penthouse? His Ducati? His teeth?
I climb the stairs to the second floor and go check the walk-in-closet they finished today. A soft, red carpet covers the floor, and cabinets and shelves fill the walls. The blue flowers painted along the door panels look as good as the painter showed me on his portfolio. I look at the delicate design, lost in old memories for a moment. The settee in the corner, still wrapped in plastic, needs to be set in front of the shoe shelves, the cream chaise lounge moved near the chest of drawers, all the clothes hung and the accessories placed inside the drawers. I didn’t know renovating a house could be this time-consuming.
The thought of going to Madame Claudette’s crosses my mind for a moment, but I’m not that pent up. Not yet.
I descend the stairs and tread down the hallway which leads back to the garage and the gun room next to it. I let the facial recognition do its job as I stand still. The door opens with a click, and I let it close behind me.
This is the only room in the house that deserves my time. The acrid, smoky scent of the propellants and burned metal hits me first, the scent of the paper targets slowly gets into the mix with the wooden one from the floor.
I slide Leslie out the back of my pants and place it on the long counter in front of the target lines— there are three firing lines, one for each target.I push a button and a large section on the wall flips putting on display a number of heavy firearms: a Swedish K, RPGs, MP5Ks, SIGs—which I love because they don’t have external safety—some hunting rifles, and my Old Betsy, a Browning X Bolt. It helped me hunt and engagetargetswith precise accuracy at extended ranges on many occasions. I usually keep it in the trunk of my car, but it needs some cleaning.
I ponder for a moment if I should unload one of the rifles before moving toward the multiple drawers filling the other side of the wall. They contain smaller guns—a 45, a HK VP9, and a FN 509 Compact. I let my eyes slide over the six calibers, they don’t have much power, but will do the job. Then the revolvers and the semi-autos, like the CZ75B.
My guns are an extension of myself, like an arm or a leg. They follow my lead wherever I take them. They are also receptacles of memories. I give each a name after it fulfills its purpose. And my new customized Staccato 9mm is waiting for one, whether it is Phoenix or the stalker or my biological brother.
The image of ending Phoenix once and for all with a bullet between their eyes turns my dick stiff. Maybe I do need to go to Madame Claudette’s and release some of this restless energy. But the only ass I want to turn apple red and pound over and over is Sari’s sweet, virgin one.
I grit my teeth against the wild desire, needing something else to focus on, something familiar that doesn’t incite my impulsive nature or my tendency to tear everything apart. I reach into the drawer; my fingers wrap around the cool metal of the Staccato. I eject the clip, check it, and pop it back in smoothly.
I take the safety off and point the gun at the silhouette target on the opposite side of the wall. The moonlight glints from the skylights off the top of it as I pull the trigger once, twice, five times—the bullets embed into the beams behind with a thud. The booming sound echoes in my ears even after I’m done. I take in measured breaths, my fingers twitch along the gun. I feel more in control by the second, until a warning shiver rushes down my spine. I spin around and point the muzzle at the figure leaning against the wall in a relaxed position.
His eyes—the exact shape and shade as mine—are looking back at me, studying, scrutinizing. Same plump lips, caramel skin, wide nose, and arched eyebrows. Same face.
I find it fucking annoying to have an identical twin. It means there’s someone with my face out there in the world, doing shit. Even Serena can’t distinguish between us, letting him stroll around everywhere he fucking pleases—unless he decides to wear that damn mask.
