Page 26 of Hostile Secret
Cesar circles my legs, his canine devotion offering camaraderie. Last week, when I’d missed the target completely, Papá had walked out, locked the door, and didn't come back until sunset the following evening.
I’d heard André’s motorcycle engine rumble outside, but he couldn't get in, no matter how many times he tried to batter the steel door down. The exit was impenetrable, and there weren't any windows to climb in or out of.
To pass the time, I’d let off every round of ammunition there was and chatted with Cesar about the girls in school. One of them had actually asked if my twin and I would take her at the same time. When I told André, he just shrugged like he’d comply.
I wasn’t scared of being in the cavernous building overnight. Rather, I grew to appreciate the calmness of being alone with my thoughts––and my big dog who’d curled up beside me.
Solitude felt better than high expectations. It gave me respite from him—my power-hungry father.
Papá clears his throat, bringing me back to the present moment with him. He hands me a fully loaded firearm that's ready for action. When I take it from him, he folds his arms, widens his legs, and stares at the human shaped outline marked with rings on the chest at the far end of the galley.
Truth be told, I love the feeling of sturdy steel and the sensation of power it yields when I pull the trigger. I’ve used every weapon in the gun cabinets and understand how different they all are. There’s something about the mess a machine gun makes that gets my pulse racing. Unfortunately for me, I only have a handgun for target practice and a sense of dread prickling my scalp.
My spine straightens while my shoulders round forward a fraction, so my arms stretch out before me. Once I’m confident my position is solid and the target is locked down, I take a slow breath and squeeze the trigger.
“Jesus fuck, Giovanni.” Papá runs ringed fingers through his groomed hair, plowing the dark lengths to rally a grain of composure, something he has little of these days. “A little bitch could have taken better aim than that.”
I walk forward a few steps and blink in the sight of the bullet hole. It’s a few centimeters to the left of the target and clearly not acceptable.
“I’ll do it again.” I reverse behind the line marked out on the concrete floor and elevate my arms again in preparation.
“This is pathetic, son.” I glance over at him, meeting a calculated gaze of smoky quartz. “Your problem is that you’re too weak. You just don’t have enough hate within you to succeed. And that’s exactly what it will take for you to focus.”
Seconds after he speaks, he reaches behind his lower back, grabs his own revolver, points it at Cesar, and shoots my best friend between the eyes.
I’m sitting at the head of a table in the dining room I never use, waiting for India to join me.
I prefer to eat breakfast in my actual living quarters, in the rear extension where she’d never be permitted to step foot in.
Last night, after my housekeeper had rung for help, I knew I had to silence the dog or none of us would get any sleep.
The wretched sound the animal had made reached right inside my chest and twisted everything up inside.
Afterwards, once I was back in my wing of the house and settled, I contacted a guy I know who’s an efficient hacker, amongst other things. In a matter of minutes, he’d infiltrated India’s cell phone and hijacked her brother's telephone number.
Having that access meant I could delete her social media profiles, add my number to her contact list under the letterGand listen to all the voice messages she’d left Reno.
And there were loads. Each one documented her grief and somehow made me feel closer to her.
I don’t know why breaching her privacy would do that, and I certainly wouldn’t bring it up with her. All I know is I’d easily kill the next fucker who tries to rip her big, beautiful heart out.
One of the lessons Papá had taught me in order to be strong was to pinpoint and eliminate any weaknesses. I guess that applies to recognizing hers too.
The tinkle of metal and a tap of claws tells me my guest and her companion are closing in. I check the iPad set out before me and select a few of the hallway surveillance cameras.
She’s wearing the uniform I’d left out for her while she showered. The very outfit I never expected would test my strict levels of control.
A red tennis skirt skims long lean thighs and a snug white polo top is neatly tucked in, accentuating the curves of her plump tits and narrow waist.
But when she appears in the doorway, moving from eternal darkness into the sunlight pouring in through church-like windows, her stunning features brighten my whole world.
I struggle to stay seated and not slam her hot little body onto the table.
Sunny blonde tendrils bounce freely as she casually enters, her shins wrapped in white knee-length socks that turn her school uniform into an erotic fantasy.
Huge siren eyes pinpoint my seated position, the blue so crystalline they swallow me whole. I glance at my wristwatch. She’s right on time. Tardiness is unacceptable, so this is a good start to the day.
“Gio.” When she addresses me, my scalp tingles.
