Page 8 of The Colour of Revenge

Carina

My hands tremble as I slide into my car—a pink Fiat 500. Of course.

I just killed someone.

Not just anyone.Him.

I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white, but my mind still. I've never taken a life before. I've fantasised about it—countless times. Planned it down to the last detail.

Well. Except for the cleanup.

But until now, it was just that: a fantasy. A dark dream waiting to be realised.

Now, it’s real.

Despite the tremors wracking my body, I feel calm. Centred.

Blood soaks my dress, the fabric sticking to my skin, warm and wet—a vivid reminder of what I've done. I'll have to burn it, of course. A shame. I liked this dress.

Though, to be fair, I bought it for this purpose.

Maybe pink wasn't the most practical choice for murder. But pink makes me feel alive. It'smine.

After I started therapy, I dyed my hair pink. Doctor Morgan called it reclaiming my identity, taking back control in a world that had stolen everything from me. It stuck. Pink became a part of me—bright, unapologetic.

If she could see me now... God. I don't know if she'd be proud or horrified. Probably horrified.

Then again, she might still dance on his grave.

But Enzo?

He'd be proud.

Enzo taught me how to grip a knife with purpose and trust again—not in a romantic or even a brotherly way, but something deeper.

Loyalty. A bond forged in blood but stronger than it.

After I escaped the men who owned me—body, mind, and soul—I fled to Italy. I had no plan. No real sense of survival. I just knew one thing: I had to disappear. Not just hide. Erase every remnant of the girl they broke.

At first, I was terrified, alone in a foreign country with nothing but stolen cash and a hunger for revenge. But money only gets you so far when your name is still out there, when your past lingers like a shadow waiting to yank you back.

It started with whispers. Back-alley conversations, hushed exchanges in crowded markets.

A name came up more than once.

Russo.

A man who could make problems vanish. Not just hide them. Erase them.

I started asking quiet questions, always careful not to draw too much attention. Of course, this was dangerous. Anyone powerful enough to erase a person was steeped in blood and crime.

But what choice did I have?

Eventually, my questions led me to him.

Enzo Russo.

The first time I saw him, he sat like a king on a throne, surrounded by men who would kill for him without a second thought. This kind of loyalty isn't asked for but earned in blood.