Page 116 of His Pretty Little Duet

And what better way to initiate me, to test my utter loyalty to the Family, than by having me kill a helpless child for him. A child who was involved in things her naïve mind could never understand. And yet, she saw too much, knows too much—that is the bottom line.

Do I understand it?

Yes.

They don’t need to tell me what she knows. It doesn't matter. The ‘bottom line’is my loyalty to them and my faith in Jimmy despite her potential innocence.

The girl doesn’t move. The clock ticks. The machine reminds me she has a heartbeat, and I grit my teeth. Lifting the pillow, I place it over the sleeping girl's face, pressing lightly at first, feeling my heart spike as I try to stop hers.

I press down harder, my mind retracting absently to keep myself?—

She responds.

Christ.My arms nearly buckle as ice moves through my veins becauseitis awake—sheis awake.

Alive.

Alive, Clay.

I fist the pillow, my fingers rushing with acid, the hot rage and guilt moving down the length of each digit. Rage for the fucked-up hand she was dealt that led her to be below the weightof mine. I press harder, and her shoulders start to lift off the mattress.

She moans.

She is alive.

Her arms fly up and swing, slicing through the air, frantic in their attempt to fend me off, but they are so small and weak, flailing around a faceless girl below a white pillow. And although I can't see her expression or whether her eyes are open or shut, I remember her face.

Without removing the killer weight of my hand, I lean back, then to the side, narrowly avoiding the swinging limbs as they convulse with desperation.

She is alive.

Her hand is suddenly behind her head, below the pillow, and for a moment, I think she is trying to yank the lower pillow away to give her space to escape, but her hand comes back clasping something shiny and solid.

She slashes at me with the object.

Roaring through my head, my brain barks, 'It's her or them.' The words drilled into me since before I could understand the weight of them."You're above them all."

"You protect your own."

"This is your legacy."

"Your birthright."

The chanting continues while my heart races with every bullshit emotion I wish didn't dwell inside me. Didn’t feed off the last slithers of my soul. My innocence.

This is the beginning of my legacy. Cold. Controlled. Unemotional. The catalyst that will keep me locked and theirs —theCosa Nostra’s—forever.

"Hurry up!"

Sweat slides down my face.

No. Not sweat.

Fucking tears.

I lose sight as they flood my vision, the room quickly blurring, just as something sharp drags along my collarbone. She got me. The seeping of blood wets my shoulder, reminding me how little time we have. The blood will drop to the sheets. I'll leave evidence?—

I lunge forward into her face, so close now I can smell her shampoo and the sheets. So close I can hear her dying whimpers. So close I can feel the heat from her body.

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