Page 105 of Letters From Victor

I glanced toward the living room. Barbara’s eyes locked on mine—hollow, desperate. She shook her head ever so slightly, pleading for me not to give in. But what choice did I have?

“Vic-tor,” Kowalski singsonged, drawing out each syllable, his tone dangerously patient. “We’re waiting.”

I put the pen to the paper and paused, letting the moment stretch like taffy. “I didn’t realize we were on first-name terms,Henry.”

Kowalski’s jaw twitched, just a flicker, but enough to know I’d struck a nerve. “You’re about to be on dead-man terms if you don’t sign the damn papers already.”

A deep indigo inkblot bloomed where the pen’s nib connected with the page. I squeezed the pen tighter, its weight crushing my hand with the burden of what I was about to do.

“If I sign these, it means nothing without a notary. They’re just pieces of paper.”

“That ain’t your problem, sweetheart. I’ve got people for the formalities.” He leaned in, his breath a mix of cigar smoke and rancid meat. “Less talking, more signing.” He tilted the revolver toward Barbara. “Before I lose my patience.”

I scrawled the first letters of my name—Victor Car—then hesitated. Just long enough to make them watch. Then, I deliberately botched the rest, twisting the ink into a jagged mess of lines that spelled “Cardeyo.” I signed each document with the same subtle error, banking on the slim chance that Kowalski wouldn’t notice. I set the pen down gently, like it was a loaded weapon.

“There, it’s done.”

Kowalski snatched the papers, eyes gleaming like a kid with his first nickel at the candy counter. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” He stacked them together, tapping the edges straight against the table. “Maybe you are smarter than you look.”

I exhaled and slumped in my seat in feigned defeat, masking my relief. The documents were worthless as they stood, but Kowalski’s ego was too big for him to suspect a trick. He thought he’d already won. We weren’t safe, not by a long shot, but I’d bought some time.

“Hey, doll face,” Kowalski called to Barbara. “Make yourself useful and fix us a drink. We’ve got some celebrating to do.”

I tensed, waiting for Barbara to resist, to say something that would set him off. Instead, she rose slowly and walked to the liquor cabinet, her movements fluid but subdued, like a cat conserving its energy.

Kowalski turned back to me, smirking. “Don’t get comfortable. You’re still a dead man.” His voice dripped with condescension. “But since you were so cooperative, I’ll let you choose how it goes down.”

“Let her go, Kowalski. She’s got nothing to do with this.”

He shrugged, light as a card trick. “Wish I could. But she’s a witness now. You get it.” His grin stretched, lazy and cruel. “Now, what’s your poison? A bullet? Cement shoes? Or maybe you’d rather swing like a Christmas ornament—just like your pal.”

Ice water poured down my spine as my mind shot back to Phil—hooked like butcher’s meat, his skin in ribbons.

Kowalski snapped his head toward Barbara. “Where’s my drink?” he barked.

Gino nudged Barbara with his elbow. She reluctantly reached up to the top shelf of the liquor cabinet for a glass. My heart pounded in my ears, drowning out rational thought.

“Let her go, and I’ll come quietly.” My voice cracked. “I’m begging you.”

Kowalski let out a dry chuckle. “Begging doesn’t suit you, Victor. I’m starting to lose respect.”

I forced a nervous laugh. “Respect is the least of my worries.” I was out of options and out of time.

Barbara’s hand flicked up to the top of the liquor cabinet. For a split second, it looked like she was reaching for another glass. Then her fingers closed around the snub-nose pistol I’d stashed there. My mind screamed at her to stop, to wait—but it was too late. In a single, fluid motion, she wheeled around and fired.

The pistol cracked, splitting the air like lightning.

Gino staggered back, clutching his shoulder, his face a mask of shock and pain. Blood bloomed through his fingers, dark and spreading—like the ink I’d let bleed on the page.

That’s my girl.

“Jesus Christ!” Kowalski spun, his eyes wide, disbelief plastered across his face.

He barely had time to process before I slammed into him, clawing for the revolver. He staggered back, his body a dense, unyielding mass. But I didn’t stop.

“You son of a bitch!” he roared, voice cracking with fury and fear. He swung at my head, wild and desperate. His stout fist clipped my cheekbone—a white-hot jolt to my skull—but I held on.

With a desperate twist, I wrenched the revolver from his grip. It burned hot in my hand, alive with the tension of the moment. Kowalski’s eyes locked on mine, surprise and realization dawning in their beady depths.

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