Page 122 of Monster in Disguise

The following day I meet Francesco at the asylum.

As we make our way inside, I turn to him and ask, "And you never knew whom he visited?"

"No," Francesco answers, a hint of regret in his voice. "Valentino was very secretive about this. It's why I was the only man he'd take with him." My suspicions are confirmed. There's no way the famiglia would have turned a blind eye if their beloved patriarch was still alive.

Tino, Tino... it seems you did betray me.

I try to mask my emotions as I fill out the paperwork and provide details about my relationship with the patient. In truth, I am bluffing, as I have yet to confirm his identity. But time will tell if this is the truth or just another lie.

"He's been making great progress," a nurse informs me cheerfully. "He's been eating all his meals without any issues." She continues to chatter away about mundane details that hold no interest for me. Tuning her out, I focus on the man behind the closed doors.

"Here we are. Let me know if he feels unwell or experiences any discomfort."

I nod in response and enter the room, leaving Francesco waiting outside.

As I approach the window, I catch sight of a man in a wheelchair facing away from me. Reluctantly, I step closer and notice that his head is tilted at an odd angle.

Flashbacks of that fateful night come rushing back, but I push them aside and steel myself for what lies ahead.

When I finally stand in front of him, I can hardly believe my eyes. My father, alive and breathing before me. His eyes widen with recognition when I lower myself to his level, but his mouth trembles wordlessly. His hands shake on the armrests as though willing his body to move, but it remains frozen in place.

The doctor in charge had filled me in. Paralysis likely caused by brain injury. It seems I did some damage after all. He'd also told me that although father can't move or communicate, he can understand me.

"So we meet again, father." My voice is full of the hatred I have for the man – hatred that's festered even more in the last ten years.

His pupils move wildly from right to left, knowing this will not be a friendly visit.

"Finally, it's not me who's afraid," I casually comment and lean on the windowsill, blocking the light.

I wonder what it's going to take for him to break free of this ruse. Ineedto know he's definitely incapacitated. Regardless, his fate will be the same.

"How would you feel..." I pause, observing the pulse at the base of his throat. "If I put to work everything you've taught me." The only reaction I'm getting is the quick fluttering of his eyelids and his sudden intake of breath. Nevertheless, it's telling me all I need to know.

"Remember when you suggested I use teeth for the mark of the Chimera? I wonder, will you even feel if I pull your teeth out one at a time?" I remove a pair of pliers from my coat. I'd come prepared.

Drops of liquid hit the floor. I turn my gaze downwards.

"So this is how you react when you're on the receiving end. You piss yourself." I make a tsk sound, opening the pliers and moving them closer to his face.

"Let's see, if this makes you piss yourself, what will it take to cause a heart attack?" He pales even more at my words, and I don't know whether to cry or to laugh at this. I'm finally confronting the man who's made my entire life hell, and I can't even do it properly. What satisfaction will I get from killing a man in a wheelchair? None.

But kill him I must.

Disgusted with the situation, I go outside and signal Francesco.

"It's done," he says. I give him a tight nod, and then I grab onto the wheelchair's handles, leading father out of the room.

While I'd been getting reacquainted with him, Francesco had been settling the paperwork to release father into our care.

We leave as the picture of family happiness, and I instruct Francesco to make a few turns until we are close to a secluded forest.

As we get father out of the car, I'm struck again by a pang of regret at this pity kill. How many times had I imagined paying him back for everything he'd done to me? How many times had I prayed for a chance to put him in his place?

And now, as I look upon his pathetic self, I can't even muster the hate anymore.

One bullet and he's dead. His head shoots back with the velocity of the bullet, and his body spasms once more before his eyes turn blank. This time forever.

With a sigh, I nod to Francesco to get rid of the body and the wheelchair. I return to the car and, putting my head in my palms, I cry.

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