Page 116 of The Ripper

His arrogant smirk was back on his face as he seemed unaffected by the things I said to him last night.

“What is all this?”

“This is the team that will help you find your Rapunzel,” he pointed at the boy and himself. “Well, part of it, we’re still waiting for the rest.”

“No shit,” I rolled my eyes. “How is a goth kid supposed to help me? He’s going to teach me how to play the violin with a blade?” I mimicked the act of cutting my wrists.

I was surprised when the guy stood up and I noticed that he was almost as tall as my brother, and Klaus was fucking 6’8”. The kid had some muscle mass, but it was clear that he was still at the beginning of his training, and he looked like a college kid who had a deep-rooted, rather loud passion for nineties grunge.

“Hannibal,” he held his hand out to me.

Fuck. Me.

“Motherfucker,” my eyes widened as I shook his hand. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Well,” Klaus began as he patted Hannibal on the shoulder, then hung his arm around the kid’s neck. “I convinced our little friend here to come out of his basement, because calling him every two seconds isn’t helping anyone.”

I was half shocked, half stunned.

I thought Hannibal was a lanky computer geek who ate junk food all day and drank nothing but energy drinks. I thought he had acne and dark circles under his eyes, but he looked more rested and healthier than most people.

“Who are the others?” I asked, throwing myself onto a chair, frowning at the meticulous monitor setup on the table.

Klaus pushed a coffee mug towards me, and I stared at it like it was a piece of heaven. It was one of hers, and although I had no idea where he got it from, probably my apartment, I was glad he had it. It made me feel closer to her, just like the pink slipper I carried around, like sleeping in the bed she had slept in, and using every excuse I had to smell fucking lemons.

Just as he was about to answer, two cars entered the garage, parking next to Klaus’ van. My father’s shielded Hummer and a flashy Maserati MC20 with tinted windows. Although I couldn’t see the driver, I knew it was Damiano, because everything on that motherfucker was Italian.

I raised an eyebrow in Klaus’ direction, wondering what the hell he was thinking, bringing the man who stabbed him here, but he just rolled his eyes and shrugged.

“I don’t hold grudges, brother,” he said. “You could learn a thing or two from me,” he winked.

~ No shit, Sherlock.

The Italian fucker got out of his car looking like he was ready to walk down a fucking runway with his black leather shoes, pressed pants, and black button-down shirt that was only halfway closed.

~ I’m internally vomiting.

Even his hair was much too styled for the place he came to, and I rolled my eyes when he flashed us an arrogant grin.

~ Klaus does arrogance better.

~ I still think we should have killed him when we had the chance.

~ He’s everywhere.

~ He called me fucking docile.

~ Shut it!

I hit the side of my head, then frantically shook it, trying to shake off the annoying voice.

My father seemed to have given up his suit for the occasion, as he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, revealing his tattooed arms and scars, including the fresh one on his forearm that Arella fixed for him, like she fixed everything for everyone.

I lowered my head when he looked at me, because it was the first time in forever that I felt ashamed of my behavior. The thought that I’d almost thrown punches at my own father made my skin crawl.

The thing inside me seemed to have gone half-dormant since last night, as if it decided it was time to stop the rampage and actually do something to find her.

~ No, but you’re boring me with all this groveling.

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