My arms and brain hurt.
It’s been a day, and I’m officially exhausted.
“I need to leave,”Emilio says, coming into the bedroom when we’re back home. “For the love of God, please keep your ass in this house.”
I’m spread across the bed, and I hold up the book I’m reading in response. My eyes feel so heavy that I doubt I’ll be able to make it through the second chapter—I read the first one on the drive back—let alone create and execute an escape plan.
“If she has enough books, she’ll behave,” he mutters, as if preaching to himself.
Or maybe she won’t kill you, is what I think in my head.
24
When I’ma mile away from the estate, I pull to the side of the road, open the glove compartment, and grab the burner inside.
I input the code and go straight to the only saved number. Hannah’s.
It rings repeatedly before going to voicemail.
I hang up, curse, and toss the phone back into the glove compartment in frustration.
Chicago is so far away, but I need to make the drive soon.
I just need to find a babysitter for my wife first.
I didn’t choosethis lifestyle.
It was chosen for me by blood.
I held my first loaded gun at five.
It upset my mother, and she complained. In return, my father threatened to have me use it on her, even putting his hand over mine and forcing me to aim at her head.
This lifestyle instilled an addiction to violence toward those who’d wronged us.
Therapy was never an option.
Neither was forgetting nor forgiveness.
It’s alwaysvengeance.
I cut off my headlights and turn into a back alley behind a dark warehouse.
“I don’t trust this motherfucker,” Julian says from my passenger seat.
I almost punched him in the face when he got in thirty minutes ago. His cologne was too fucking strong and taking over the smell of Liliya’s perfume that still lingered there.
“Me neither,” I tell him.
“At least the warehouse won’t trace back to us.” He takes off his baseball hat and rubs the back of his arm over his forehead.
We park across from a black sedan. As soon as we step out of the vehicle, the driver’s door opens. A tall man gets out, walks our way, and greets us in a thick Russian accent.
“Do you have him?” I ask, cutting straight to the point.
He nods and pops the trunk.
A light turns on, putting the man inside the trunk on display.
