Page 62 of Rider Daddies
“Lucia!”
I cock my gun and fire bullets, but Manual is too fast and manages to dodge them all.
“Lucia!” I yell again. “Stop what you’re doing! You’re gonna get…killed.”
Is she sure that she’s a lawyer?
I watch in awe as she thrusts the blade straight into Manual’s chest. When the entire thing is inside him, she takes pleasure in twisting the blade like she’s trying to make several incisions.
Like one isn’t enough.
She’s crazy.
But I’m coming to realize that I love it when my girls are little wack.
The worst part about this is her face. She doesn’t look scared. There’s no hint of regret in her eyes, just gleaming satisfaction. Her face shines with pleasure in the cold moonlight as she faces Manual, watching his dead body slowly drop to the ground.
Her move has everybody starstruck. Even Manual’s men don’t know what to do. They stand like bodies with no brains, confused—the same as Saint, Ash and myself.
I turn back to Lucia, watching her chest rise and fall, like she’s out of breath. Her face remains calm. She’s confident with the choice that she made.
I suppose we should be too.
The blood isn’t on our hands.
It’s on hers.
Venom Vultures might be safe from the cops, but that doesn’t mean Lucia is…
10
LUCIA
Whoops.
It wasn’t exactly on my agenda tonight to kill someone, but that’s life.
To be honest, I didn’t think my life could get much worse after seeing Tristan necking Willow before my wedding, but oh, things are so terrible now that I wouldn’t even use the word “worse” to describe this.
It would beworseif I felt bad for what I did.
But I don’t.
Manual Lombardi was a seasoned pedo.
Three days chained up inside his abandoned motel told me everything I needed to know—that he deserved to be in his grave. Actually, he doesn’t even deserve to be buried. His body should be chopped or burned, or both, for what he’s been doing to girls all of these years.
I stand over him, taking in his disgusting features, and thank the Lord that he’ll never walk the earth again.
Blood and snot ooze out of his nostrils, the same for his mouth. His face is drenched in a victorious red, the pathetic three-piece ruined from the wound in his chest.
The knife is still thrust into him. I should probably take it out, but even when cleaned, I just know the weapon will be tainted with the memory of him. Cold, psychopathic Manual, a man who made bank by selling the bodies of his victims.
“Holy fuck, Lucia.”
Footsteps grow closer.
I want to look away, but also, I’m quite happy drinking in the sight of justice.
