Page 58

My mouth waters.

There’s a strange, pulling sensation in my gums, a sharp pain, and then?—

Darkness.

I waketo copper and salt.

For a moment, I can’t remember where I am, my head pounding with the worst hangover of my life. I’m on my knees on a hardwood floor, the world spinning around me. When I try to push myself up, my hands slip on something wet and warm.

Blood. So much blood.

It’s everywhere—pooled on the floor, splattered on the walls, soaking my clothes. The metallic smell of it fills my nostrils, so strong I can taste it at the back of my throat.

That’s when I see Marco.

What’s left of him.

He’s sprawled on his back, throat torn open, chest a mess of deep lacerations. One arm is extended, wrist slashed open to the bone. His eyes stare at the ceiling, frozen in terror.

I scramble backward until my back hits the wall, a sound escaping me that’s half sob, half retch.

What happened? Who did this?

Fragments of memory flash through my mind—following Marco to his house, confronting him, my hands around his throat. But after that, nothing. Just a blank space where minutes—maybe hours—should be.

Did I do this?

CouldI have done this?

My stomach heaves, and I vomit onto the floor. Blood. I’m throwing up blood. Am I injured? I frantically check myself for wounds, but find nothing except bruised knuckles from our earlier fight. Unless I’m bleeding internally, which I ain’t ruling out, the blood isn’t mine.

It’s Marco’s.

Oh god. What have I done?

I stagger to my feet, room spinning as I try to piece together what happened. I remember rage—a rage unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I remember wanting to hurt him, to punish him for touching Lena, for threatening her.

But this? This ravenous butchery?

A noise from outside snaps me back to the present—a car passing on the road below. Reality crashes down on me. I’m standing in a murdered man’s study, covered in his blood, with no memory of killing him.

And not just killing him—mauling him.

Like an animal.

I have to clean this up. Have to think.

My gun is still in its holster, unused. The murder weapon—if there was one—is nowhere to be seen. Did I use a knife? My bare hands? I look down at them, trembling and caked with drying blood. They don’t seem capable of tearing a man’s throat open.

Yet here we are.

I force myself to think, to push aside the horror and shock. Marco worked for Mickey Cohen. His absence will be noticed quickly. I need to make it look like he disappeared, left town, anything but this slaughterhouse.

First, I need to dispose of the body.

Fighting waves of nausea, I search the house until I find a tarp in a utility room. I spread it on the floor next to Marco’s remains, then, steeling myself, roll his body onto it. The weight of him, the limpness, the still-warm touch of his skin—it all feels surreal, like something from my nightmares.

I’ve killed men in the war but I’ve never had to do this,I think as I wrap the tarp around him, securing it with rope from the same utility room.