Page 100 of The Bonventi Hitman
I sink to the floor, my legs no longer able to support me. The sound of the door slamming breaks something inside me. Tears stream down my face as I cry harder than I ever have in my life. As I gasp for air, I wrap my arms around my stomach, cradling the life growing within me.
"What have I done?" I whisper to the empty room. "What have I done?"
GABRIEL - 37
Islam the door behind me, my blood boiling as I storm down the hallway. My fists clench and unclench at my sides, itching to punch something, to unleash this fury burning inside me.
"Fuck!" I roar, my voice echoing down the hall.
I replay Anna's words over and over in my mind.
FBI agent.
Pregnant.
Love.
Each revelation is like a knife twisting in my gut.
I come into the kitchen area so fast Lydia jumps, startled by my sudden entrance. She's standing at the counter, a knife in her hand, chopping vegetables.
"Sir?" she asks, her eyes wide with concern. "Is... is everything alright?"
I ignore her question and reach to find my keys. My hands are shaking when I grab them.
I'm not in the right headspace to drive.
Throwing the keys down, I turn to see Lydia again.
"Sir?" Lydia's voice is softer now, worry taking hold. "I thought I heard gunshots."
"The shots went into the ground," I bark and turn away from her. "She's fine."
"Oh, thank God," Lydia breathes, relief evident in her voice. "I was so?—"
"She's been lying to me this whole time," I cut her off. "Playing me like a goddamn fool. And now she's carrying my..."
I stop myself. I need to think, to be alone.
"I'm going into the billiard room. No one, and I mean no one, is to disturb me," I demand and leave without waiting for a reply.
I walk so fast toward the room, I'm practically jogging. As I enter, I slam the heavy oak doors behind me.
I lock it with such force I'm surprised it doesn't break.
Staring at the door, I feel the separation of the world out there versus my world in here. I take a few breaths to calm myself, but it hardly works.
I turn, and my eyes sweep over the room with the dark mahogany pool table dominating the center. Ornate brass light fixtures illuminate the shelves lined with books, pictures, and objects from around the world.
In the corner is my temporary salvation. I walk across the room to the bar and reach for a glass and a crystal decanter holding the brown liquid that I hope will allow me to think.
I pour a generous serving, and the amber liquid burns as I down it in one swift motion, barely tasting it. I immediately pour another, my hand surprisingly steady despite the storm of emotions threatening to tear me apart.
A damn FBI agent?
I slam my fist on the bar so hard it hurts and sends a shooting pain up my right arm.
Love? What the fuck does she know about love? She's been playing me this entire time, manipulating her way into my life, into my heart.
