CHAPTER FIFTY
Sergio
A WEEK WENT BY AND THEN TWO, followed by three.
I counted them; it made me feel less like I was going insane and more like I was developing a serious case of OCD.
Everyone left a week after the funeral.
I was alone in my house again.
And it felt lonely — damn, did it feel lonely. I hadn't been able to focus on anything except actually making it through the day, eating three square meals and exercising to take my mind off the emotional pain that sliced through my chest every single time I went into the bedroom I'd shared with my wife.
Finally, during the third week…
I woke up.
And felt different.
I wasn't better, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I felt… okay, like the world wasn't crashing down around me. Like I could breathe, maybe, just a little bit deeper.
After breakfast I walked by my study and paused. The door, the door I'd always had shut from the world, was ajar.
I scratched my head.
The last time I'd been in there had been months before. The guys knew not to go in on account that I was a private man, and there was a certain amount of respect between all of us and our offices; it was our domain, where we did the ugly, the dark… where we sat and contemplated our sins and begged for forgiveness.
Curious, I stepped inside.
Nothing looked out of place.
Except the black folder.
I'd placed it on the farthest side of my desk.
But now? It was propped up against the lamp — the only light flickering in the room.
Was Frank behind this?
His final way to get me to read it?
I walked closer.
There was a small pink sticky note attached to the bottom. I picked it up and smirked. "Read me or perish —Andi."
I burst out laughing. Of course she would. Threatening me even in her death, bloodthirsty Russian.
The folder had no power over me, I knew that, but I also knew I wouldn't like what was inside. It was the equivalent of seeing all the horrible sins you'd committed in black and white.
Impossible to erase.
Impossible to forget.
Slowly, I pulled out my chair; it rolled against the wood floor. The sound may as well have been a gun going off.
I was doing this.
Because Andi had left me a note.
And I could deny that girl nothing.
The folder was heavy — it would be, knowing what I'd done, the things I'd experienced in my short life.
With shaking fingers, I opened the first page.
A small rubber bracelet was taped to the inside with another pink sticky note attached. "Wear me."
What was this? Alice in Wonderland?
The bracelet was one of those LiveStrong ones, the ones that high-schoolers wore like crack on their wrists. I lifted it into the light and smirked.
From Russia With Love.
On the other side, it said...
Best Friends Forever.
My laugh soon turned into a silent sob as I put the bracelet on my right hand. It felt like she was there — in that room with me. Tears dripped down onto the pages of the black folder, staining them, making them appear less terrifying and more breakable, like I didn't have to let them define me.
Andi wouldn't have wanted that.
Hell, I didn't want that.
I closed my eyes and for a brief moment remembered her bright smile, her big brown eyes, and constant sarcasm. If she could see me crying, she'd kick my ass. I laughed at the idea of her scolding me.
I could do this. I took a deep breath and looked down at the next page. It was filled with everything I assumed it would be filled with.
Facts about me.
My age.
My birthday.
My social security number.
Known aliases.
The date of my first kill.
The person's name and organization.
Like I needed to be reminded of any of those things.
I turned the page and paused. A piece of notebook paper was taped to the inside. My name was scribbled across it.
Frowning, I peeled it from the page and opened the note.
Italy,
I'm only going to say this once. Stop crying, or so help me God, I'm going to rise from the ashes and haunt you for the rest of your life. I'm sure right now you're thinking that would be better than nothing. But believe me, nothing cool about being haunted. Imagine me hitting a pan with my baseball bat every hour of the day. You'd go crazy, and nobody wants to see you lose your shit.
You may be wondering why I wrote you a letter.
I was watching you sleep.
Ha, creepy, am I right?
I snorted back a laugh and wiped at the tears on my face and kept reading.
Did you know you have a scar on the back of your ear, left side. It's hardly noticeable, unless you have superhuman vision like yours truly, compliments of my Russian heritage.
I rolled my eyes.
Stop rolling your eyes, Italy.
I smiled.