Page 19 of The Beautiful Dead

His last act of defiance came in the form of a broken, bloody smile. “Fuck… you.”

I answered with a punch to the ribs, my knuckles connecting with the already-shattered bone. He gasped, his body spasming from the pain.

It was clear to see now—the shift in his eyes. The realization. The fear. I dragged him down to the ground, straddling him, knees pinning his legs. Blood slicked my hands as I wrapped them around his throat. The red was beautiful against his pale, clammy skin.

His nails raked at my arms, a frantic, useless effort of a man who knew he was about to die. I didn’t feel it. I only felt his pulse. The desperate flutter beneath my fingers. He gasped. Kicked. Choked. The scent of death filled the air.

I leaned in, voice a whisper. “This is what dying feels like.”

Panic burst across his face. Pure. Unfiltered. Tears spilled from bloodshot eyes, capillaries bursting from the pressure. His lips tinged blue as his legs jerked in one final, useless struggle.

“Who sent you?”

His pulse stuttered. Weak. Fading.

“Who?”

Lips parted. A wet, gurgled breath. I loosened my grip. Just enough. His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth as he fought to form words.

“Who sent you to follow me?”

“D-D…” Blood bubbled past his lips.

“Say it.” My voice dropped to a lethal growl.

A shuddering breath. “D…Diego.”

Diego. Interesting. I’d expected the order to come from Enzo.

His pulse gave one final, weak flutter. One more squeeze—and it stopped.

Lifeless eyes stared up at the blackened sky. My face was the last thing he ever saw.

For a moment, I held on, fingers still pressed to his throat. I wanted to feel it. The slow, inevitable ebb of life. The moment power shifted.

Electric. Absolute.

Then, with a breath, I released him. I pushed to my feet, rolling my shoulders, blood dripping from my fingers. Another nameless body at my feet. I adjusted my jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles. With slow, deliberate care, I wiped my hands clean on his hoodie, then stepped over the corpse.

I turned, scanning the alley for my blade and his discarded gun—and froze.

Halfway down the alley, he stood. Ice-blue eyes. The guy from Denny’s. He watched me, gaze unreadable, his pupils blown wide. But there was no fear.

Not a trace.

His breathing was steady. Even. He had just witnessed everything, watched me kill someone with my bare hands—and he was still standing there.

Watching. Unmoved by the brutality of the killing, but his eyes seemed slightly glazed like he was hypnotized as they stared at the body.

He moved toward me, fluid as liquid, his steps measured, deliberate. His gaze swept the ground, and for a moment, I thought he was avoiding my eyes.

Then I realized what he was looking for.

He stopped just shy of three feet from me, reaching down to pluck my switchblade from beneath a split garbage bag. With an unsettling ease, he turned it over in his fingers, testing the weight, the balance—like he’d done it before.

Like he knew what he was doing.

Maybe he did.

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