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My heart paddles hard, like hail hitting the pavement. We both stroll in carefully.
I cock the gun at a black leather chair facing a large acrylic picture of the symbol. Large in red and black, two hands open, the palms facing up with a centipede crawling over the hands.Hideous.
It’s a chair at the end of a large circular table made to fit the number of people we just killed.
“Show yourself!” I shout, my nerves spiraling out of control, sending a tremor to shake my grip on the gun.
“I see you’ve finally found me. Took you long enough.” The voice is deep and gravelly, similar in accent, it's just thicker, less clear in English. My stomach plummets to the floor, my grip on reality losing its touch. My breath catches deep in my throat.
No fucking no, no, no, no fucking no, NO.PLEASE, no.
I breathe deeply, forcing to control my anger until I see his fucking face.
“Turn the fuck around.” I bark louder than a lion roaring.
From the side of my eye view, I can see Anita looking at me. I don’t even want to see her expression. I’ll fucking break down.
He spins in the seat, finally facing me. The face of the man with obsidian eyes that have penetrated into my soul, lines from older age crease his forehead and surround his eyes. But he sits there sharp as always with a healthy build, a salt and pepper beard, and an expensive, dark brown suit. I hate his fucking face. His eyes are void of emotion; his hands laid on his lap. And that pendant shining on his collar.
“It was you,” I whisper in agony, my hands grip tight on the gun, hovering over the trigger as I look the man in the face who raised me, then tried to kill me more than once.
My father.
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To be continued