That damned son of a bitch said there was no one else, probably just to screw me.
Furious, I fill my glass with more whiskey.
— Hey, can we stop getting plastered and pay attention to the shit that's going on, Lavínia? _Killer 27 grabbed my wrist and pulled my glass away, setting it far from me and staring at me as I sat in that bastard Ângelo's armchair.
I breathe, irritated, and nod. He was right; I got myself into this mess, and I needed to do my part, to become, at the very least, a good leader.
— You three are going to help me with the clan, right? There's no way you're going to leave me on my own.
— Of course we're going to help you, Lavínia. You're one of us. _Killer 1 warned, leaning against the table.
I grip the arm of the armchair tightly.
— Is it okay for killers to migrate from clan to clan? _I'm curious to know if my idea is going to be a good deal or not. Ângelo seemed to approve. That scoundrel!
— It's never happened before. But since the three of us haven't been getting our hands dirty, I think it'll be great to keep our minds occupied. _Killer 2 responded nonchalantly.
— Why were you three away from the killing? _I ask, curious.
Killer 27, the blond who loved to get on my nerves, sat on the couch, unbuttoning his suit jacket.
— Ângelo was punishing us. _He confessed.
I frown.
— Why?
— The three of us were investigating his father behind his back. We wanted to take down the biggest drug trafficker in Italy and kill him. _Killer 2 revealed, and I found myself stunned.
— Ângelo's father is a drug trafficker? _I'm genuinely shocked. I wasn't prepared for this.
— He's not just any drug trafficker. The old man is the most powerful of them all. The bastard supplies drugs to every mafia in the world. He's powerful as hell. _Killer 1 explained. — Ângelo found out we were trying to kill him and punished us, kicking us out of our respective clans. We belong to the founding clan, Ângelo's first clan, the one that originated in Italy.
— Why were you after the old man? _I ask, dazed. How are we going to kill this bastard with so much power? The guy has mafias at his disposal.
— Mr. Fontana found out his son's whereabouts, and since he had this urge to cut him down and torture him, he got information about what Ângelo had become over time. So the bastard was competing with his son. He wanted to show in every way that Ângelo would never be better than him and that whenever he wanted, he could torture him, since he was Ângelo's demon. And you know how it is—when the demon marks you, you're his.
I blink.
— The old man doesn't let go? Damn! _I explode, hating this whole shitty story. — When is this bastard going to leave Ângelo alone? What a hellish life! _Standing up, I shove the armchair.
The killers look at me, somewhat startled by my palpable irritation.
— Has Ângelo ever talked about the cat-and-mouse chase? _I hear Killer 2, and with my hand on my hip, I turn and face him.
— Once. When he took me to see the madam eat her own son's juicy flesh. Why? _I question.
— It's in the modus operandi book that the old man gave Ângelo to let him know he knew what Ângelo was—a hired killer. The book is how Ângelo and his father operate, one running from the other, or one chasing the other. A damned game of tag. _I saw Killer 2 slide a finger across the desk to the right. — Sometimes Ângelo is the mouse… _My gaze follows as he slides the same fingers to the left. — Sometimes he becomes the cat… it depends on the circumstances.
---
— Holy shit! Why does the old man hate Ângelo so much? _I ask, shaking my head, and I notice the three of them exchange glances. They're not going to say anything. I throw out another question. — Why didn't Ângelo let you sneak up on the old man and kill him?
— Ângelo put his entire life into the first clan, ours, the one in Italy. Finding out that the three of us were meddling in a story that could destroy his business was reason enough for him to remove us from our posts within the clan. As I said, his father is powerful; killing the old man would mean war between mafias, gangsters, and a small clan still on the rise. Ângelo wanted to establish his name and not lose the little he was starting to build. _Killer 27 confided, and I saw him breathe; he seemed to hate the old man too. Everyone there seemed to hate him, since they wanted to kill him. — Ângelo took us off the streets. The three of us were trained and taught by him. Ângelo fights like no one else; everything he knows, he learned the hard way from the tough life he had at 7 when he ran away from his father and lived on the streets.
My heart shatters.
— Ângelo lived on the streets at 7? _I shake my head. — How is that possible? You're lying to me, aren't you? _My eyes burn, and I keep denying it.
— Unfortunately, Lavínia. He lived like that for a few years until he killed his first person and made money from it. _Killer 2 said.
My chest aches, and wanting to cry, I turn to the chair and sit down, horrified.
— He told us once that he would lie in the snow and make butterfly wings. He also said that when he was thirsty and no one would give him water, he waited for the snow to melt to drink. _Killer 1 spoke, and the other two remained silent.
My heart shrinks.
— Ângelo is a survivor, Lavínia. _Killer 2 said, and I agreed.
Suddenly, silence fell.
He is a survivor.
With tears in my eyes and that deafening silence reigning in the office, I looked around at everything—the well-decorated room, the desk made of rare wood, the paintings by some renowned artist, Persian rugs everywhere, expensive drinks, luxurious armchairs. How much Ângelo must have suffered to transform from the image of a lost little boy to a man who could now easily rival his father in power.
Ângelo had a stalker-like thirst that controlled victims worldwide.
He had many bunkers, underground shelters across the country where the clans operated to protect their weapon arsenals.
He had the most lucrative business this world had ever seen—his eight clans of killers, each with 27 members, and right now, they were spread across the world, killing.
And considering the files the killers showed me during the week Ângelo traveled, he had new men who could easily form four more clans in England, Brazil, Pakistan, and China. Men who had been trained by other killers for nine months.
Ângelo now had the power to kill his father, and he knew it, but the fear was still inside him.
A man who wasn't afraid of anything was, in reality, a 7-year-old boy afraid of his father.
But they'll pay, Ângelo. I promised you when I saw you in the library having a breakdown because I read those words from that miserable, sick old man.
In this cat-and-mouse chase, I don't mind being the bait for your father's filthy rat, and you, kitty, you'll tear that damn rat son of a bitch apart.
---
The day is coming… the big day.
***
Silently, after seeing my brother sleeping, I opened Ângelo's bedroom door and entered, closing it behind me and turning to walk to his bed, grateful that the curtains were drawn back, letting the light from outside guide me to his bed. I sit carefully beside his body, covered with a white sheet up to his hips, his hands and face resting on the pillow, sleeping peacefully without a shirt.
My eyes focus on the ugly scars on his back, and I can't bear to look at them without crying. Tears blur my vision. All I can think about is what Ângelo went through to become the man he is today.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing a hand hard against my mouth to keep from waking him.
Damned old son of a bitch…
I stare at the ceiling, sobbing and swallowing my tears.
Cursed bastard…
I swear we'll both kill you…
Fearfully, I look at his back again and gently touch him. I shouldn't have done that—Ângelo turned abruptly, startled, and clamped a hand around my neck, squeezing so hard that the metal of the collar twisted against my neck bone.
— Lavínia. _He realized it was me and immediately released my neck. I widened my teary eyes, gasping for air. — Damn it! _He cursed, turning on the lamp and sitting up in bed, pulling me by the nape to hug me. — Don't do that to me, girl. _He said nervously, still disoriented from being woken up by the shock of being touched.
The air returns, and I breathe heavily, holding his strong arms and pushing him away.
— I'm sorry. _I apologize honestly. — I just came to see how you were.
— I'm fine. _He looked at me closely. — Why were you crying? Did someone do something to you? _He threatened to get up, and I stopped him.
— No. No one did anything. I'm crying because I'm so angry, Ângelo. _I start crying again.
— Why?
I look into his eyes, full of darkness, death, and suffering.
— I don't like those scars of yours. I don't like them… I don't like them. _I sob, hugging him around the neck and bathing his back with my tears. — I hate him… I hate your father… that son of a bitch… I hate everything he did to you. _I hold him tightly. — Tell me he doesn't have you in his hands in some way, and that there's no reason we haven't killed him yet? _I hold his face, pressing my forehead to his.
— Lavínia…
I kissed his lips, wetting his face and lips with my salty tears.
— Does he have someone important to you in his hands that he could kill? … Tell me… please! _I close my eyes, anguished, rubbing my forehead against his.
— Believe me, Lavínia. He's loving my endless suffering. The only person he could kill to hurt me, he won't, because for him, it's better to see me suffer every day with the uncertainty of whether there's still life, than to suffer the pain of death. _He answered enigmatically, and I didn't understand a thing.
I hug him again.
Is it that Sofia?
Who is this Sofia?
Is she his lover?
I dig my fingers into his shoulders and cry.
— I heard about your story. _I whisper, closing my eyes. — I knew you were tortured by him at 7, not that you had run away at that age and lived on the streets. _I cry, kissing his shoulders and feeling his heavy breathing on mine. — I'm so sorry, Ângelo… God! You were just a little boy…
---
— It's okay now, pretty little owl… _He held my face and made me look at him. — I got over it. Girl, I'm alive. _He tried to laugh and couldn't, and that hurt my soul, which I suspected I no longer had after they tore it from me in that damned brothel where they sold my body. They'll all die…
The madam…
Her partner… that bastard who also dared to violate my body. That old man from hell.
My father…
Ângelo's monster of a father…
They're all living on borrowed time…
Ângelo kissed my forehead and stepped back, getting out of bed in just black boxer briefs and going to pour a glass from the water pitcher on the bedside table.
He handed me the glass of water. I accept and drink it desperately, looking up at his face and avoiding his abdominal scars to keep from crying.
— Are we going to kill them? _I ask.
Ângelo tucked my hair behind my ear.
— Yes, princess. We're going to ruin all their lives. _He declared confidently, without breaking eye contact, and I believed him blindly. He crouched down and touched my legs. — Calm down. _He asked cautiously, pulling my nightgown to cover my legs. — It's cold. _He warned, gently patting my thighs as I drank water.
I hand him the glass.
— I'll keep training and giving it my all. _I assure him, wiping my tear-streaked face. I'll become unbeatable. I have to…
He set the glass on the table and looked at me.
— Go to sleep. Tomorrow will be a big day.
I nod, standing up and adjusting my nightgown. Ângelo stood up too.
— Good night, Ângelo. _I wish him, sighing. His scent is the best perfume in the world.
— Good early morning, Lavínia. _He replied softly. I nodded and turned my back, heading to the door. — Lavínia? _He called, and I turned around. He was rummaging through the overcoat I saw him wear earlier, and curiously, I watched him pull out a small white jar and come toward me. — This is for you.
Smiling widely, I take the glass jar, lift it to look at the bottom, and shake it, seeing what looked like crushed styrofoam. Clumsily, I open the jar and take a bit of the "styrofoam."
Feeling the texture with my fingertips and blowing it onto Ângelo's face, my eyes filled with tears as I realized what it was.
— He told us once that he would lie in the snow and make butterfly wings. He also said that when he was thirsty and no one would give him water, he waited for the snow to melt to drink.
— It's snow. _I look at the jar full of snow he collected from the street and brought for me.
— It's not just snow. It's hope, Lavínia.
With tears in my eyes and a huge smile, I look at him.
It's hope…
Hope that the snow would turn into water to quench a thirst.
Hope that when it melted, it would be a new day, a new season.
Hope to play in the snow when no one was around to protect him from his father.
Just hope…
I JUST RECEIVED ÂNGELO'S HOPE.
Could this mean I could also be a hope for him?
— I hate you, Ângelo.
— I hate you too, Lavínia.
Ângelo pulled me by the waist and claimed my lips as if they were his, while I cried, feeling something so beautiful in my heart in that moment that was just mine and his. Of the man who should have killed me… but instead, wanted to kill with me.
M