The man on the floor babbles when he sees me, pleas for mercy in a mixture of Italian and English. I clasp my hands to my stomach, afraid
I’m going to wretch on the floor. I saw him through the window, but what I hadn’t known about was the smell. The tang of metal saturates the air. God.
“Let me go,” I whisper. Maybe it’s cowardly not to want to watch a man die, but I’m not sure I’ll survive. Especially if Giovanni is the one pulling the trigger. “Let him go too,” I beg softly. “Just stop this.”
“There’s only one way to stop this, Clara.”
“Giovanni, please.”
His eyes have that flat, dead look again. “He’s already dying. He’s almost dead.”
“Oh God. I’m going to be sick.”
Giovanni looks at me, a brutal challenge in his eyes. Then he holds out the gun.
I stare at it, disbelieving. “No. I can’t. I could never.”
“You’d be taking mercy on him. He’s in pain.”
“You’re a monster,” I breathe. For doing this to him, for doing it to me. I don’t care what excuse he has. I don’t even care if the man really did come for me. This is wrong. It has to be wrong, because I don’t know how to reconcile this—and I’m terrified that this place has changed me too.
That I’m a monster, too.
He presses the gun into my hand, almost tender, sympathy a hard light in his eyes. “Do it, bella. Put him out of his misery.”
The man collapses into a moaning heap, perhaps finally understanding that he’s fucked no matter what choice I make. The sounds coming from him aren’t even human really. Pure animal instinct.
There’s no help for him.
I point the gun at his head. It would be a mercy; I know that. He’s going to die fast or die slow. That’s the choice you face when you are born into the life. I should pull the trigger.
My hands shake so hard I can see the gun moving. There’s no way I’ll hit anything.
Reaching deep inside myself, I find some untapped strength. With a fresh surge of rebellion I swing the gun to point at Giovanni. My hands still shake, tears blurring my vision.
“That’s right,” he says, his voice rich with approval. “Pull the trigger. Stop me, bella.”
I have this sick feeling that he actually wants me to, that some part of him loves me enough to want himself stopped—while the other part is evil enough to keep going. “I’ll do it,” I warn. “I’ll kill every one of you.”
“You might be able to do it,” he says, musing and casual. “Take the west gate. There are keys in Alfredo’s pocket. Head to Tanglewood and don’t look back.”
He really does want me to, I realize numbly. But I can’t. I’m more terrified of being a monster than I am of dying. Let him hurt me. Let him kill me. My hands fall to my side.
With a low murmur in Italian, he comes to me.
His hands are gentle as he takes the gun. With his other hand, he draws me close to him. I bury my face in his rumpled tux, hurting enough to take comfort wherever I can find it. And God, his broad chest, his warmth, the spice of him piercing the blood in the air—it does comfort me. He holds me tight, as if he can ward away any demons, even himself.
I feel the slight sway of his body as his hand rises. Then the crack of a gunshot.
The moaning stops.
I press my face deeper into him. I don’t want to look. Can’t.
He was the one to show mercy after all.
Chapter Eighteen
I wake as if from a nightmare, my blood still racing from the fear, dark images flashing through my mind. Except it isn’t a dream. The blood and grass staining my gold glitter dress prove that. That had really happened last night. And this morning…