Page 136 of The Darkest Hour

“Tell me about it. Which was your most life-changing kill?”

I let the question linger in the air, pulling at a memory I hadn’t visited in a long time. “It was an opera singer.”

“Very interesting.”

“He had a multi-million dollar gambling debt that he could not pay up.”

“And what made that kill so life-changing?”

“I snuck into his condo in the middle of the night, which was no easy feat, he was on the seventh floor in a highly secure building—”

“Very good.”

“I try, but anyway. . .I woke him up to a gun pointed at his forehead.”

“Why not put the bullet through his skull right there?”

“Too much clean up. I had already spread out plastic in his living room. Next, I planned to have him go there, shoot him, and roll him up.”

“Smart.”

“So. . .I get him to the living room and have him standing over the plastic. He gave no fight or struggle. He knew someone was coming.”

“It’s easier when they know and have accepted their deaths.”

“It is.” I swallowed seeing the opera singer in my mind.

He had been tall and thin, with slicked back black hair and a sharp jawline. His dark eyes held a hint of fear as he stared at the gun pointed his way. Still, he held this regal posture—chest puffed out and hands dramatically placed in front of him as if holding a heavy crown.

“I had him stand right where I wanted. Then, I backed up a good eight feet and raised my gun to his head, but then. . .”

“He begged for his life?”

“No way. It was crazier than that.”

Havoc smirked. “What?”

“He asked me, if I would let him sing his favorite opera song one last time.”

“And? Did you let him?”

“I did.” A smile spread across my face. “I put the gun down, leaned against the wall, and let him sing.”

“What was the song?”

“At the time, I didn’t know. I had never heard it before. It was beautiful. I didn't want to admit it at the time, but it moved me, so much that. . .when he finished I asked him the name and he said, ‘Nessun dorma’ from Turandot.”

“I know that song. It’s famous.”

I remained in that memory. “As he sang, his body swayed with the music. You would have thought he was right on stage, his gestures were fluid and expressive. His eyes were closed, but his face. . .all contorted in emotion. . .and his voice. . .was deep and resonant, filling the room. . .filling my soul.”

I could actually hear him singing in my head as we walked and wished Havoc could hear it too. The sound was so sweet and pure, it was like tasting the most delicious and decadent dessert, every note a delectable treat for the senses that left lingering sensations on the tongue.

Havoc pulled me out of that moment. “And after that?”

“Once he finished, tears left his eyes and he said thank you. . .and then he closed his eyes.” A sad shiver ran through me. “Next, I did what I came to do, raised the gun, shot him in the head and heart. Took a picture for my client. Got rid of his body, but. . .”

“What?”

---