CASSIAN
What made my line of work easy was living without guilt.
It killed the darkness that came with seeing red on my fingers.
It made everything easy.
But the moment I stepped inside my office, door shut behind me—or behind Nico, who was directly behind me—I wanted to shoot at something.
Maybe at the strange feeling in my blood; only if I could.
I wanted to shoot at the fucking lights for being too bright.
Or maybe the cleaner for the spot on my table.
Or maybe I needed a smoke.
Or fire.
Or blackness.
Not this fucking thing eating me up.
Being a Mafia Don had taught me guilt made men hesitant.
And hesitation was what fucking killed many men.
Silence, heavy, probably Ayla's, hung stiffly in the air.
Fuck!
I was getting fucking weak.
Just a simple you're fired made my insides twist with so much revulsion.
For chrissake, I'd fucking murdered men who as much as looked at me disrespectfully, and I'd slept peacefully with no regret.
"You're fired."
