Page 3 of Isaia

These two, they don’t fit.

He’s a middle-class Joe, and this little girl’s appearance is screaming poverty louder than a gunshot.

My gut tightens. Something’s off.

The man tries to play it cool, all casual and calm. Too calm.

His hair is graying at the temples, eyes quick and calculating behind round glasses. He seems harmless enough, but danger doesn't always come with a warning label.

His gaze lands on Lionel’s bloody face, then lifts to meet mine. “Gentlemen, we don’t want any trouble. My daughter and I?—”

“Daughter? She’s your daughter?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What’s her name?” I inch closer, studying him.

“Uh…Jane.”

I glance down at the girl. “Jane? Is that your name?”

“Yes,” the man snaps. “I told you her name.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.” I kneel, bringing myself to the girl’s level. “Sweetheart, do you know this man?”

She shakes her head, her lip quivering. “No,” she whispers, looking down at her shoes. “He said he has a house full of teddy bears…”

The man’s calm cracks. “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

I gesture for Maximo to take the girl. “I got this.”

He nods then lifts the girl into his arms. “Let’s go find your parents, kiddo.”

The man locks eyes with me, his face a mask of panic behind a thin veneer of composure. “Wait, you don't understand,” he pleads. “She was in danger. I was just?—“

“Saving her? From who? You?” My words carry a quiet threat, filled with the promise of pain.

His lips move, but before he can say another word, I bury my fist in his gut. He doubles over, gasping for air.

“Now it’s my turn to save her,” I growl in his ear, drawing my gun.

His eyes widen in terror as he realizes what’s coming. “No, no?—”

“There’s a special kind of hell for motherfuckers like you.” I pull the trigger. One shot, and it’s done.

He crumples to the ground, a pool of blood spreading beneath him, painting the alley in a darker shade of red. There's a sick thrill coursing through me, a satisfaction ground deep into my bones.

I just rid this world of one less nasty pervert motherfucker who deserves to have his dick hacked off.

Lionel’s cursing behind me, and I’m pretty sure he just pissed himself again because, goddamn, that rancid stench is wafting up strong.

“You…you just…” Lionel stammers. “Jesus Christ.”

“Lionel?” I sigh then turn and aim the gun at his face. “Fuck off before I shoot you.”

Lionel doesn't need to be told twice.

He scrambles to his feet, eyes wide with fear, then bolts down the alleyway like his pants are on fire.

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