Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I creep past and into the living room.
Normally, I’m not so gentle. My tastes trend in a rough direction. I like control and viciousness because that’s all I’ve ever deserved. But with Dasha, it's different. I was like a different man.
One I don’t recognize.
Surely not the same man I am right now as I creep up the stairs.
This is what I know. This right here, in this stranger’s house, this is the monster I’ve always been. Excited elation rolls down my spine as I reach the landing and pause. Another family photo on a small end table outside the bathroom.
I tilt it down, hiding their smiling faces. Am I going to have a photo like that with my wife and our child?
Not if she moves back to Philly after she gives birth.
Why does that even matter to me? I’m doing this for the Brotherhood and nothing more. Whether she stays or goes is irrelevant, so long as we’ve got the child to bind our two organizations together.
Frustrated with myself, I enter the door on the right and step into the master bedroom.
All is quiet and dark. Time to focus. There’s soft snoring from the bed. They have a nice place, well-furnished and neat. I bet they’re a happy little family. I bet they have plans for the future. Weddings, vacations, all those joyful moments still to come.
I draw my knife and hesitate.
The image of Dasha’s sleeping body comes to me. I don’t even know why. I can’t keep thinking about her, not right now. But I see her anyway: mouth hanging open, a little drool stain on the pillow, so small and vulnerable and beautiful. Her smell all over my clothes.
I fell asleep in her bed, holding her body against mine, and only just barely woke up in time to go on this mission. If it weren’t for my watch vibrating, I would’ve stayed in bed with Dasha until morning.
What the hell is wrong with me?
That’s not who I am.
I don’t cuddle with my wife. I don’t hold her against me and feel fucking safe.
No, that isn’t me.
This, right here, sneaking into a stranger’s house with murder in my heart.
This is who I am. This is all I can ever be.
I walk to the bed and crawl into it, moving slowly, making sure I don’t wake either of the two sleeping people until I’m straddling my target.
“Good evening, Donnie,” I whisper as his eyes flutter open.
At first, he doesn’t understand what’s happening. His doughy face is pinched in confusion. I like this moment. The confusion as he parses what’s dream and what’s reality. As he realizes the extent of his nightmare. It’s a glorious second of reality suspended, a moment of transition. From sleep to waking. From life to death.
I grab his hair, grinning like a madman, joy singing in my guts, and press the edge of my blade to his throat.
“Oh, fuck,” Donnie grunts, going extremely still.
That’s putting it mildly. But people react in strange ways when a monster from their nightmares appears in their bed with a knife.
“What’s going on?” his wife murmurs. She stirs, looks over, sitting up on one elbow and rubbing her sleepy face. Pretty, almost, but not my type. Big forehead, round eyes. Dark hair.
Not like my Dasha.
Get her out of your head, idiot.
“Move and I cut your husband’s throat,” I tell the wife.
Donnie is fully with me now. Fear is etched on his face, and his body is completely stiff. I can smell his breath. It stinks like he forgot to brush his teeth.
“Listen to him, Jenny,” Donnie says to his wife. His voice shakes with terror. “Just stay calm.”
“Who—what—how—” She’s stuttering, panicking, shoving herself back against the headboard and curling into a tight little ball like a prey animal playing dead.
“I’m here for one thing,” I say, leaning down into Donnie’s face, ignoring the wife. “Who planted the bomb?”
Donnie’s lips twitch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I press the edge of the knife tighter and cut a neat little line under his chin. He groans as blood trickles. It’s not deep enough to kill, but he understands now.
I’m not here to play games.
Jenny’s breathing fast, a pillow held to her face like she’s trying to wake herself up.
Or trying to smother herself.
“Try again,” I tell poor fucking Donnie. “You’re Seamus McGrath’s top lieutenant. He’s the second most important man in the whole goddamn McGrath clan. There’s no way in hell you don’t know who planted a bomb in my car. Tell me who did it.”
Donnie’s jaw works. He knows how fucked he is right now. If he didn’t recognize me at first, he knows who I am now.
Tigran Sarkissian. Killer and butcher. Brother of the patron.
Cutthroat gunman with no moral compass and no compassion.
I know all the rumors swirling in his head. Mostly because half are true and the other half I started.