Page 105 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
“You know that’ll piss him off. I’d disappear now before he realizes you’re gone.”
“Thanks Benny.” I open the door and shoot a grateful smile at my brother. “Enjoy the kill.”
He rubs his hands together. “I’m going to fuckingrevelin it.”
Once outside the warehouse, I sprint to my car, slam myself inside and start the engine. I spin the car around, kicking up a shit ton of dust. As it clears, in my rearview I see Arrow burst out of the same door. I silently apologize to him while ramming my foot on the accelerator. There are some things I need to do on my own, and that includes protectingmy wifefrom a bunch of hired assholes hanging out atmy house.
The streets whizz by in a blur. All I can see is my beautiful wife cowering in a cellar, clutching a pistol she won’t dare to fire. The love I have for her is simply beyond measure. She means more to me than anyone in this world. Even Benito. Even Arrow.
The fact she trusted immediately that those fucking photos are not real, tells me she’s as entwined with my soul as I am with hers. Together we are going to be un-fucking-stoppable. I just need to get into the house, wrap myself around those beautiful limbs and keep her safe.
I thought the hate I had for my father was as bottomlessas it could get, but that was before he tried to trick my wife and threaten to make her a fucking widow. Now, my hate for him goes even deeper than that. If it were not for the fact my wife is my oxygen and I need to get to her ten days ago, I’d be breaking down the door to those underground basements, curling my fingers around his throat and squeezing the last drop of life out of him.
My burner rings and I flick it to speaker. I’m one hand down and I need the good one to drive me home.
“I’m right behind you.”
I glance up and, sure enough, Arrow is fucking nose to tail, his pimped-up yellow Mustang unmistakable in my rearview.
“I need to do this alone. They’re surroundingmy house.”
“That’s fine, A. I’m still going to have your back, whether you like it or not.”
I roll my eyes and cut the call. The avenue is in sight.
Serafina
The air in the gun cellar is unnaturally cold, like the room has never been warmed by a breath. Racks line every wall, gleaming with polished walnut stocks and matte black steel. Glass cases house pistols, revolvers, shotguns, and rifles—everything from what appears to be antique collectibles to brutal military-grade guns.
Beneath the cabinets is a glass drawer lined with what looks like silencers, triggers, extra barrels, and boxes of bullets.
The smell is eerie—gun oil, cold metal, and imminent death. How can a room feel sacred and violent at the same time?
Near the far wall, sleek, long rifles rest in vertical racks, their barrels slender and cold. Above them, antique revolvers hang in a neatrow. They’re ornate—beautiful, even—with curved wooden handles polished to a soft sheen.
On the opposite wall hang more compact, angular firearms—more utilitarian but still lovingly cared for. I don’t feel like I’m standing in a room designed single-mindedly for defense purposes. I feel like I’m standing in a gallery—an art space. The craftsmanship on show in here is mind-blowing.
My mind claws back to Andreas’ words. I’m to pick a gun that isn’t too heavy and one I might actually be able to fire if I need to. My gaze takes in the smaller pistols—the ones I can more comfortably hold in one hand. They’re small, discreet and look easy-ish to handle. But is easy-to-handle going to give these assholes what they deserve?
A burning rage has been circling my insides and it’s now starting to climb. Fury floods my bloodstream, tightening my muscles and stiffening my bones.
Who do these cretins think they are threatening my husband and my home?
They’ve vastly underestimated the power of devotion. I will do anything for my husband and he’ll do the same for me. If justoneof their bullets flies when he gets here, I will mow them to the ground.
Yes, they’ve underestimated our love. But more than that, they’ve underestimatedme.
I walk past the small, compact handguns and lift down the biggest, meanest firearm I can find. I look at the wall plaque behind it. An M27. That means nothing to me but I’m sure it will do the job.
I don’t stay down here like Andreas asked me to. I have no intention of staying in a damn cellar when there are vultures circlingmyhome.
The house feels large as I tiptoe barefoot back through the entrance hall, shadows falling on the hardwood floors with the late afternoon light. The weight in my hands is reassuringly monstrous. In a battle against sniper rifles I don’t doubt its tenacity. The steel is heavy but I don’t let it hold me down. I allow the adrenalin to lift my arms and keep them aloft with anticipation.
I stop by the front door, my heart hammering, my knuckles white on the grip of the gun. I’m no longer shaking. I’m no longer fearful. I’m on the attack. I’m not letting anyone dictate the state or survival of my marriage. Peeking through the spyhole, the front of the house is quiet. The men in camo gear are still laying low, waiting for their prey. Then I hear it.
Crunching gravel and the low hum of an engine I know as well as his voice. I hear a car door close and I unbolt the locks.
I pull the front door in toward me and step out of the house. My husband is striding up the steps, a determined look in his eye. I want to drop the machine gun and run to him but there’s a sinister pulse in the air. I dare not move until my husband is inside and behind closed doors.
