Page 63 of Spice and Revenge

My gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the worn-out surroundings. The paint peeling in uneven patches on the wall, the dim, flickering lights hanging from the ceiling, and the worn carpet beneath my feet. I silently hope I don’t have to use the bathroom throughout my stay here. I don’t want to know what that looks like.

The furniture, too, bears the marks of wear and tear, its surface marred with scratches and stains. The bed, with its tired mattress and thin sheets, seems to sag beneath the weight of years.

I glance toward the small window, its glass smudged and streaked, offering a view of an alley filled with debris. Streaks of sunlight filter into the room, bathing the space in a warm light. I swallow the disgust rising up in my throat. I’d only lodged in this rundown facility because it was the closest hotel to Uncle Pedro’s house in New York. By closest, I mean a twenty-minute drive away.

Shaking my head, I walk further into the room. The bed creaks as I dump my travel bag on it. Unzipping the bag, I reveal myweapons: pistols, knives and daggers. I’d purchased them from small weapons store I came across before coming here.

I haven’t had to use my fighting skills in a long time, but I’ve never had to. I never wanted to. Fleeing to Sicily separated me from that life. Uncle Pedro found me and the first thing he wants is for me to kill someone for him. How typical. And when I don’t, he murders my best friend.

So now, I will use the skills and techniques he taught me all those years to protect myself. I don’t know if I want to kill him yet, but if I have to, I will.

As dusk descends, I prepare for the task that lies ahead. In the dimly lit room of the rundown motel, I meticulously gather my gear. I screw my silencer to the barrel of my gun and slide it into the waistband of my garter, alongside two daggers and a spare gun for backup.

I check my reflection in the cracked mirror, taking in the brown and plain maxi dress draped over my body. It is the perfect dress. It makes me appear unsuspecting, and it is loose-fitting, enough to allow for ease of movement while hiding the weapons beneath. My hair is worn into a bun, I’m wearing minimal makeup, and I have a casual side bag with me. I stare at my empty yet deep eyes in the mirror, tinged with a hint of determination and apprehension.

With my heart pounding, I step out of my motel room and into the night. The chill of the air sends a shiver down my spine. I walk to the end of the shabby street and hail a cab.

Hip-hop music envelopes me as I slip into the backseat of the car. The driver in the front looks in his late fifties or early sixties.I would have commented on his choice of music. Instead, I give him the address and glance outside the window.

We navigate the familiar streets, my mind recalling every turn and street sign, evoking memories of the time I was kidnapped. As the car continues to move, the shabby, rundown neighborhood morphs into the deserted and dusty roads leading to the outskirts of the city.

“I wonder what a pretty girl like you is looking for in this risky part of town,” the driver drawls.

Looking at me through the rearview mirror, he snorts.

“You don’t look like a hooker or a slut. Or maybe you’re one of those ones who pretend to be innocent, eh?”

He licks his lips, taking in as much of my body as he can through the mirror. My dagger digs into my waist, and I resist the urge to dive it into the side of his neck.

The car slows down as we arrive, and we drive past the towering fence of Uncle Pedro’s compound. He stops before the gate, and I flick him a couple of dollar bills before stepping down from the car. The gate looms before me, and I inhale a shaky breath before walking towards it.

Suspicion and shock roll through me when I approach the gate and see that it is free of any security guards. When I push against the thick metal, it easily creaks open. My heart hammers in my rib cage as I step into the compound.

The grounds are cloaked in darkness, the moon casting faint shadows across the manicured lawn. I move silently, my stepscareful and calculated. I quickly hide behind a shrub when the bright beam from the security light approaches my direction. After some seconds, the light moves behind the compound, and that is when I see the bodies spread across the back of the compound.

I swallow my shocked gasp as I stare at all the dead bodies sprawled in different positions and directions on the floor. Most of them are dressed in a familiar uniform. Uncle Pedro’s men.

As I continue my walk to the house, I see more bodies. Amongst the bodies dressed in the Cuban mafia mob gear, I spot some dead bodies dressed in all-black.

My mind screams for me to go back to the motel and run away, to somewhere no one would find me, but I keep moving forward. I’m here already, and I didn’t come this far just to back out.

In the cover of the night, I make my way to the entrance of the building, my senses heightened as I anticipate any sign of trouble. For a brief moment, I wonder if Uncle Pedro is dead. I will be glad, although disappointed. I want to confront him. I want to look him in the face while I demand why he treated me as a mere weapon for years. I want to look him in the face while I demand to know why he killed Maximo when he could have just come for me.

Then, I want to watch his eyes lose their life as I kill him.

I push the door, and it opens with a quiet creak, revealing a dimly lit hallway that stretches into the depths of the house. I slip inside, blending with the shadows as I move further into the house.

The lights are off, but I hear muffled voices echoing from a distant room. My footsteps are quiet and silent as I move, and I feel the chill of the walls against the bare skin of my arms.

Just then, I hear the sounds of heavy footsteps approaching. Two male voices bounce through the air, coming closer and closer. I quickly take cover in a narrow corner. My fingers tremble as they close around the handle of my dagger. I rest my back against the wall behind me, taking shallow breaths, waiting.

The footsteps stop, and I remain in position for a few seconds before stretching my head out to peer across the hallway. One of the figures appears through the darkness, illuminated by the faint light of his cell phone's flashlight. The other man follows closely behind, distracted by whatever he’s looking at on his phone.

I wait patiently as they step closer, and closer until the guy in front is just a few inches away from my hiding corner. Just as his head comes in range of my face, I lunge forward, plunging into his neck with all of my might.

His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and it’s only when he groans that the second guy notices my presence.

He draws out his gun, but I’m already upon him. With my right hand still holding the dagger in the first man’s neck, I stretch my right hand forward and pull the trigger, the bullet piercing into the second guy’s forehead. The silent sounds of the bullets entering flesh zap through the air. His body hits the ground, his eyes wide open, staring up at nothing.

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