Page 113 of Sinners Atone
David gurgles again. My body twitches on instinct, a plea on my tongue. All the good in me wants to help—knows I should help—but something low and ugly and stubborn inside of me slithers up from where I buried it years ago and stitches my arms to my side.
It’s not like I’ve never seen a man die before.
Besides, his name is David.
And David is the king of boring anecdotes.
Gabriel and I stare at each other as though we’re the only ones in the restaurant. His gaze is inflamed, but he sits as still as stone, watching my every blink.
I’m sick in mind, body, and spirit.
My date is dying, and I’m too ugly to care. Too distracted, toocaptivatedby the monster beside him. His attention is addicting. It burns through my veins, settles in cells of my DNA, and brings the world to rights.
Gabriel Visconti has just poisoned a man for me.
Me.
A river of calm trickles through me.
I wouldn’t cave for love or money.
It’s not what I was born to do.
David lets out a final breath, slow and stuttered.
I flash Gabriel a halfhearted smile. “Oops.”
His gaze mars with uncertainty. He opens his mouth, but another voice from the shadows cuts him off.
“Um, Boss?”
He turns his eyes to the ceiling and runs a hand down his throat, then swallows.
Seconds etch by before he barks out a curse. Then he reaches for the syringe on the table, and with one swift, reluctant motion, he stabs it into David’s neck.
His eyes spark to mine, all the hatred in the world fanning the flames. “Happy?”
I hitch a shoulder. “Indifferent.”
We both look down at David’s lifeless body. A beat passes. Then another. Then suddenly, he inhales a violent breath. His chest jerks and a cough rips from his throat, messy and wet.
The restaurant leaps into action. Chairs scrape, suits appear. Large hands fist fabric.
Every head in the restaurant turns to watch David’s withering body as two men drag him through the maze of tables and toward the kitchen.
I hear the hum of murmurs like they’re coming from another room. See hands clamp over mouths and rest over hearts but only in my peripheral.
A roomful of Good Samaritans. None of them are me.
With my spine rigid and too few breaths, I slowly drag my napkin from my lap and lay it gently on the table.
I stare down at the candlelight dancing on the walls of David’s empty glass. “I guess it’s time to call it a night.”
The words trickle from my lips, void of feeling. They sound as empty as I am.
Carefully, I rise from the table, pushing back my chair with more steadiness than I feel.
I don’t say another word. Neither does he, but it doesn’t matter. Because I notice the tight jaw and the sharp lines of his shoulders. I see the tremble in his palms spread flat against the table. I feel his gaze, murderously cold, follow me across the restaurant and out of the door.
