Page 73 of Tank
I lose it. “YOU SON OF A BITCH!”
My voice cracks under the weight of rage and horror. Vanessa is crying, the sound mingling with moans that come out strangled and broken. Her head rolls side to side in a slow, awful surrender. Saliva dribbles from her mouth, and the shakes take over, forming like a storm in her arms and legs while tears stream down her face. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen. I fight my bonds with everything I have; the rope tearing into flesh, burning into bone, but the futile fucker won’t budge.
“Help! Somebody HELP!” I shout, tears pouring down my cheeks in torrents, a mess of grief and fury and the sheer fucking unfairness of it all.
Victor just stands there, unfazed, watching the desperation take root and spread like a sickness. His eyes are cold and calculating, enjoying every second of this twisted game. “Tick tock, sis. Tick tock.”
Vanessa shudders with violent spasms. Her teeth chatter so loud it sounds like they’re breaking. Her limbs thrash in wild, terrifying jerks as if her body’s being torn apart. My stomach knots so tight it feels like it’ll never come undone. My heart squeezes small and tight, a ball of crippling fear, as I watch her tumble faster and faster toward death.
“No, no, no,” I sob, the words coming out choked, pleading like a prayer I know is already damned. “Please, please, Vanessa — stay with me — stay with me…” Her eyes roll back in her head in a way I wish I’d never seen. Her breathing turns shallow, a flutter of dying hope.
Victor laughs, the sound like a punch, and walks toward the door with a leisurely cruelty that makes me want to murder him with my bare hands. “Let me know when you’ve made up your mind.”
He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even care enough to register Vanessa’s agony, this life-or-death game of chicken he’s orchestrated.
I scream, the sound ripping through me like a knife and echoing in the bleak little room.
I scream so hard that my voice breaks, but Victor just keeps walking, smug and satisfied, shutting the door behind him and leaving us for dead.
I scream, because it’s the only thing I can do.
All I feel is terror.
Terror and helpless rage.
And grief that feels like dying in slow motion.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Tank
Sticky buns sit glistening in the oven, the sweet allure of cinnamon and brown sugar thick in the air. It’s a scent that could soothe the devil himself. If I’m lucky, they’ll work for me. They’re the perfect swirl of butter and flour, and I’m leaning against the counter, a whiskey glass in one hand, watching those little dough bombs rise and expand behind the glass like it’s the only thing in a world gone mad that makes any sense at all. Her words still ring in my head, her tears still burn in my vision, my heart still clenches, holding tight to something that has nothing to do with getting revenge against Victor Moretti and everything to do with what I’ve lost — her. Beside me, Ricky’s dusted in flour, the stuff coating his hair and shirt, making him look like a ghost with an attitude.
“Well, what do you think?” he asks, way too proud of himself for someone with no baking experience.
“Not bad,” I say, and I mean it. He’s been a quick learner.
“Not bad? I’m a pastry genius. Admit it.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re learning quick, but this is still the first batch of anything you’ve made that doesn’t look like it’s been pre-digested.”
“So what’s the real reason you picked this dump? Can’t be the ambiance.”
“It’s one block from Club Sin,” I say, matter-of-fact, like I’m just talking about the weather.
He gives me a look, the kind that says I’m too old to be getting dragged into strip clubs. “You like that sort of ambiance?”
“Only because it’s Victor Moretti’s base of operations.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding like everything crystallized for him. “So it really all is about your blood vendetta. It’s never just about cheap real estate with you guys. I don’t know why I’m surprised.”
I punch him in the shoulder, not too hard but enough to jolt the flour off him in a little cloud. “Don’t get smart.”
He pretends to rub the sore spot but grins through it. “Isn’t that the entire lesson you’ve been trying to beat into me for the last two weeks?”
I chuckle. The kid’s growing on me. “No. The lesson is: don’t be a dumbass.”
The laughter still echoes through the air when I hear it — an unmistakable, sharply percussive sound. A car door slamming. Then another. And another. Like cymbals crashing. Like the dreadful banging of a war drum.
