Page 8 of The Colour of Revenge
Carina
My hands tremble as I slide into my car—a pink Fiat 500. Of course.
I just killed someone.
Not just anyone.Him.
I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white, but my mind still. I've never taken a life before. I've fantasised about it—countless times. Planned it down to the last detail.
Well. Except for the cleanup.
But until now, it was just that: a fantasy. A dark dream waiting to be realised.
Now, it’s real.
Despite the tremors wracking my body, I feel calm. Centred.
Blood soaks my dress, the fabric sticking to my skin, warm and wet—a vivid reminder of what I've done. I'll have to burn it, of course. A shame. I liked this dress.
Though, to be fair, I bought it for this purpose.
Maybe pink wasn't the most practical choice for murder. But pink makes me feel alive. It'smine.
After I started therapy, I dyed my hair pink. Doctor Morgan called it reclaiming my identity, taking back control in a world that had stolen everything from me. It stuck. Pink became a part of me—bright, unapologetic.
If she could see me now... God. I don't know if she'd be proud or horrified. Probably horrified.
Then again, she might still dance on his grave.
But Enzo?
He'd be proud.
Enzo taught me how to grip a knife with purpose and trust again—not in a romantic or even a brotherly way, but something deeper.
Loyalty. A bond forged in blood but stronger than it.
After I escaped the men who owned me—body, mind, and soul—I fled to Italy. I had no plan. No real sense of survival. I just knew one thing: I had to disappear. Not just hide. Erase every remnant of the girl they broke.
At first, I was terrified, alone in a foreign country with nothing but stolen cash and a hunger for revenge. But money only gets you so far when your name is still out there, when your past lingers like a shadow waiting to yank you back.
It started with whispers. Back-alley conversations, hushed exchanges in crowded markets.
A name came up more than once.
Russo.
A man who could make problems vanish. Not just hide them. Erase them.
I started asking quiet questions, always careful not to draw too much attention. Of course, this was dangerous. Anyone powerful enough to erase a person was steeped in blood and crime.
But what choice did I have?
Eventually, my questions led me to him.
Enzo Russo.
The first time I saw him, he sat like a king on a throne, surrounded by men who would kill for him without a second thought. This kind of loyalty isn't asked for but earned in blood.
