Page 37

Severance.

Y ou can obsess and worry about what’s going to happen tomorrow, the next day or in a year’s time, but the fact is, you can’t fucking change any of it. What’s going to happen will eventually happen.

Does that mean it’s fate?

I find it hard to believe events are predetermined by a supernatural, all-mighty being, but it makes you think. It makes you question if you had done something different, no matter how small the action would have been, would it have altered the outcome?

I’ve lived my life wondering what if?

What if I hadn’t been abandoned by my family?

What if I hadn’t stolen that fucking egg?

What if I hadn’t let her touch me?

What if I hadn’t stepped foot into that fucking alley?

The what-ifs are the biggest killers because they take you from the moment.

The one that matters the most.

You’re in it.

You’re living it.

Why fucking bother wasting your energy, time, and effort on thinking about all the what-ifs that most likely won’t happen?

Humans do it to themselves. They make themselves sick with worry about outcomes that are out of their control, and maybe that was my problem. I won’t do it anymore. I won’t let the venomous thoughts ruin my life anymore.

It’s up to me now to turn it around for all of us. The first action was to bring Santi and Nino home. It paid to keep Tommy alive because he was the key to making sure they were breathing when they arrived. All it took was a phone call from Tommy asking a couple of men to bring them to Falcon’s Keep, and as we held him under pressure, he had no choice but to do it.

The rate at which human flesh rots will always be remarkable to me. When the blood runs through our veins and our hearts pump it through our bodies, it vitalises us, nourishes us, and when it stops flowing, we die. Our skin rots, almost as if the body begins eating itself. The smell doesn’t bother me so much anymore.

Frances’s body is on the silver table in the middle of the morgue, the flesh turning brown at the top of his head, mixing with his dark hair. Throwing on my overalls, I cut through his clothes, removing the arm of his blood-stained suit, his hand now stiff as I hold it down. The machine in my hand whirs as I press it just above his wrist. If he was alive, the fresh blood would have splattered all around me, but the only thing covering my overalls is rotten flesh. I meet some resistance as it hits his radius bone, so I push harder, forcing the chainsaw down until it saws through, cutting into the tendons, then meeting his ulna. Finally severing the last bit of meat, I lift his rigid hand and place the chainsaw on his chest.

The door creaks open as footsteps echo through the concrete space.

“Is that going to be enough?” Nicholas asks, covering his mouth and nose with the crook of his elbow.

I hold up the hand and point to the tattooed crest. “How many people do you think have the same tattoo?”

He gags. “Fuck man, no gloves!?”

“I’m not afraid to stain my hands with my enemy’s blood.”

“Jesus, you and Ezra are so alike, it’s fucked.” He hands me a box and I take it. “We’re waiting in the pit. Let’s finish this so I can get off this sludge-covered island.”

Placing the hand inside the box, I tag it with a note.

The DuPonts will rise again.

Capitalising on the feud between the DuPont and the Lucchese families is the best way to attack this. If we were to attempt to take on the Luccheses alone, we’d be better off digging our own graves.

As I enter the pit, I notice the way Tommy looks around the space, probably afraid of what his end is going to look like. Ezra twiddles his knife, a bored expression on his face, as Nino and Santi take turns laying into Tommy.

“The package is ready.” The box thumps as I drop it on the table by the door. “It’s just missing one more piece.”

“You’re all going to eat your own fucking flesh.” Tommy spits, the sand now red beside his feet. “I’m going to fucking bury you and your beloved fucking island so deep below the surface, you’ll have your own personal hell in the Earth’s core.”

“Hold his arm,” I demand, and Nino and Santi pull his arm taut as I approach with the chainsaw. “This is going to hurt. A lot.” Holding the chainsaw just below his elbow, I press down, forcing it into his skin as his screams tear through the space.

“Fuuuuuck!”

“Hold him still.” Fresh blood splatters onto my hands and face as the chain breaks through his bones, severing his forearm. His head hangs forward, surprisingly still awake and aware of his surroundings.

I throw the forearm with the Lucchese crest to Nicholas and he doesn’t make a move to catch it, the lump now covered in sand.

“Why would you throw it? I’m not fucking picking it up.”

Ezra rolls his eyes and picks it up to inspect it, the blood running down his fingers and arm. “Clean.” He admires the stump, before dusting off the sand and placing it into the box.

“Are we sure this is going to work?” Erhan questions.

“It will, as long as we eliminate our survivors,” Dante says, pulling out his gun and aiming it at Tommy. He fires, the bullet sinking into his temple. It’s a precise shot, ending his life in a second.

The chainsaw remains heavy in my hand and the only thing I want to do is head back to Nera. Handing it to Nino, I head to the exit. “I don’t want to be bothered until it’s done.”

Blood drips from my fingers as I head to the manor, passing the memories we’ve made through the thick trees. It hurts to see her in the exact position I left her in as I walk into her room.

“Come back to me, Principessa ,” I whisper.

Taking a seat beside her, exhausted, I lean back into the chair and watch her chest rise and fall. Minutes pass before my eyes begin to weigh heavy, overtiredness settling in until I let sleep take me in the hopes that I might get to see her…even if it is in my dreams.