There’s no point in trying; there’s only existing, and suffering. Existing isn’t so bad. You get to make money. You get to drink good wine. You get to fuck. The syndicate and I had plans for Coldlake.
But there was no joy anymore. It was all sucked out of me when I laid eyes on Ophelia’s broken body. Her mutilated face. The terror in her dead, staring eyes. I thought I’d seen everything, but who could do something so heinous to another human being?
Then Evelina’s body was found. Then Sienna’s, and finally Amalia’s. The whole of Coldlake should have been screaming for justice, but the city was silent.
That’s when I realized.
Everyone hates us.
Chiara’s eyes were filled with hatred and fear the night of her seventeenth birthday, and by then I was so twisted that I loved it. I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her until I could taste her revulsion.
How fun it was to play with Chiara those early months, toying with her the way a cat toys with a mouse. Mocking her with kisses. Tormenting her with my presence. Goading her into blushes and angry words. This girl was going to hate me more than anyone else in the world.
Only, she didn’t hate me. Chiara’s hatred was for her father and her father alone. Something shifted inside me, and for the first time in eight years, I didn’t feel sorry for myself.
I was sorry for her. I wanted revenge for her.
Then, I just wanted her.
The first time she smiled at me, halfway drunk and sitting on the edge of the fountain where Ophelia had sat all those years earlier, I saw what I’d become. The person everyone believed me to be. A man my sister would have hated.
You’re a criminal, Salvatore, Ophelia once said to me, but that doesn’t mean you have to be a monster like Dad.
From my position behind a broken-down piece of wall, my gaze sweeps over the abandoned building. I flex my hands on the assault rifle I’m holding and notice that my palms are sweating.
I want to end this. I want this over once and for all and to return to the woman I love. My love for Chiara is pure, but if I never get justice for Ophelia, regret will slowly poison me from the inside out and I’ll turn back into the monster I was for eight long years. A man who delights in hate.
I take a deep breath to settle my pounding heart. Vinicius, Cassius, and Lorenzo are all in position, dressed in black and holding guns of their own. We have all four corners of this property pinned down and no one’s getting in or out alive without our say-so. Any minute now, I could be face to face with the man who brutally murdered Ophelia. I want to cut strips of flesh from his body and make him tell us why, but I think I want him dead more than I want to hear vile words spill from his mouth.
There’s a skittering of stones, and adrenaline shoots through me. Someone lurches out of the shadows and toward the building and I take aim with my gun. Their footsteps are uneven and they’re weaving like they’re drunk or drugged. I can barely make them out in the darkness. Mr. De Luca? No, this person is too small to be a man and the wrong shape. It’s a woman.
Someone is creeping along behind the figure, low and stealthy. A wisp of blond hair pokes from underneath his ski mask. Lorenzo. He’s following closely but not attacking, seeming just as puzzled about this person as I am.
As Lorenzo passes a parked van, one of the many vehicles in the lot, the back doors burst open and several figures pounce on him.
A woman screams.
The flurry of movement is so unexpected that it takes me a moment to realize what’s happening. I bring the barrel of my gun around to fire, struggling to make out who’s who in the darkness. I can hear the dull thwack of a rifle butt on flesh and the blond man grunts in pain.
“Lorenzo.” I’ve yelled loudly enough that the other two will hear me, and I raise my weapon.
I’m about to peer down the sights to take aim at one of the figures when a tall, lean man steps slowly out of the van. All the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Whippet thin, he holds himself as still as a stone and radiates cold. I can’t see his eyes as his face is covered, but somehow I know he’s not blinking.
It’s him.
It’s fucking him.
I don’t know how I know, but I feel in my gut and my blood and my bones that I’m looking at the Black Orchid Killer.
Suddenly, the figure sprints forward, grabs Lorenzo along with the other men, and drags him toward the open doors of the van.
Shit, shit, shit.
Lorenzo’s lost his weapon but he fights like he’s possessed, snarling and swearing, punching and kicking when he can. I take aim at one of the figures on the left and shoot, but it’s like the bullets don’t hit. They’re wearing body armor like a SWAT team.
“Salvatore. Trunk of my car, left-hand side,” Lorenzo shouts. He keeps shouting but his voice becomes muffled. “It’s him, Salvatore. Do it. Fucking do—”
The van doors slam closed on him, and the engine roars as it speeds out of the lot. Panic rolls through my body. He’s taken Lorenzo. I heft the gun in my hands and shoot the tires, but I either miss or it doesn’t work.
I run to Lorenzo’s Mercedes and open the back. On the left-hand side is a khaki box, and I flip it open revealing a grenade launcher, a heavy weapon that shoots high-caliber explosive projectiles over long distances.
The van is racing down the road, growing smaller and smaller. I’ve only got a few seconds before it turns a corner and disappears.
My throat burns. Lorenzo’s in that van, the most unexpected friend I ever made. The most unlikely, but also the most loyal. He came from nothing and clawed his way to where he is through sheer force of his titanium will. Coldlake wouldn’t be the same without him. I wouldn’t be the same without him.
But the four of us made a pact a long time ago. If you’ve got the chance to take the killer out, you do it, no hesitating. No matter the consequences.
And here I am, hesitating.
He’d want me to do it. For Sienna. For Ophelia, Amalia and Evelina. I have to do it for Lorenzo, for the torture that awaits him at the hands of this killer if I don’t end this now.
I heft the heavy weapon in my grip, flick off the safety, and peer through the sights. Someone runs to my side. Vinicius. He gives a moan of anguish like an animal in pain, but he doesn’t stop me.
I wish he’d fucking stop me.
I aim at the van’s back doors, my chest so tight that my lungs are burning. I’m a monster again. I’m a fucking monster and I’m going to kill one of my best friends.
My last thought before I squeeze the trigger is… How am I going to tell Chiara?
3
Chiara
The heavy metal door creaks open and a muscular, bearded man with bright blue eyes appears. He glances at me, then looks at Acid and shakes his head.
“Are you sure?” Acid asks.
“One hundred percent.”
I look from one man to the other, trying to discern whether they’re happy about whatever’s happened or not.
Acid gets to his feet. “Let’s roll, your highness.”