Shots. Screams. Blood.
"I swore my loyalty. I won't go down without a fight." My father grits through the pain, teeth soaked in blood.
The barrel sinks deeper into his forehead. The man holding it snarls.
I suck in a horrible gasp.
Father told me to remain quiet. He made me promise I wouldn't make a sound—no matter what happens, no matter what I see.
I almost shattered that promise when a brutal shot pierced the charged air. A bullet buried itself in Mommy's chest. Thick, red blood seeped from the wound.
Her glistening eyes beeline to mine.
She shakes her head—slowly—with the little strength she has left.
Father grunts. Growls.
And before I know it, Mommy's eyes glaze over. Like she's looking at me and at the same time not.
Soulless.
"Without a fight, huh?" the man in the black suit mocks in thick Italian. "You have none to give."
His shoe slams into Father's chest, pinning him to the ground.
"Damn Americans," he spits. The chilling click of the gun echoes.
Goosebumps pebble my skin, but I keep my palms pressed tight against my mouth.
Father tries not to swerve his gaze toward the wardrobe he locked me in.
Through the tiny vertical slit, I watch my whole life end.
The man smirks from the side. "Your stupid actions will lead to the annihilation of your entire bloodline."
Footsteps thump against the floorboards.
Men dressed in black flood the room, weapons lining their arsenal.
"No one, sir," the one who seems to lead them reports, shaking his head.
The man glares at Father. "Where is she?"
Father chuckles through a grunt. It costs him. His mouth curls and he spits in the man's face.
"Somewhere you or your fucked-up Cosa Nostra will never, ever find her."
Metal slaps flesh. Father's head snaps to the side, jaw tightening.
The man turns to his assassins. "Are you sure you scoured the entire area?"
"Yes, boss," they echo.
His eyes lower.
A boy stands among them, leaning against the wall with one leg pressed to it, hands folded. Totally…unbothered. "Yes, Father. The entire house was searched," he says, as if reading the question from his glare.
"Impossible." The man's attention whips back to Father. "So you won't speak?" He angles the gun again.
"Even if you tear me open alive," Father rasps, too weak.
"Fine then." The man smiles—creepily so. "You caused this, Preston."
I brace for the shot.
But he steps back. "Son?"
"Yes, Dad?" Flat, comes his response.
"Remember I promised you your first kill?"
A flicker of light gleams in the green of the boy's eyes. Gone as fast as it came.
"You did."
"Well, this is it." He tips his head. "Come here."
The boy pushes off the wall.
Father's eyes widen. He knows this is the end.
His gaze flicks toward me—hidden in the wardrobe—softening.
But I'm not looking at him.
Horror swells in my lungs when green pupils lock onto the wardrobe.
Dead. Lifeless.
Unlike Mommy's, something still swirls within his.
With the gun now in his grip, he turns back to Father and raises it.
I breathe through the space between my clammy fingers.
How can a boy this age not flinch?
My hope dies when the bang tears through the air.
The bullet lodges in Father's forehead. Blood spurts.
I slam my eyes shut, my body pulled tight as a string, a scream clawing up my throat as I'm dragged from my sanity.