Page 114 of The Hate We Breathe
Together, he and I shift forward until both of us are alongside the others, our gazes turned to the hole and the man glaring up at us with a bloodied face and broken nose.
“You’re so fucking dead,” he spits, his voice raw, desperate. A cough racks through him, wet and ragged. He turns his head and spits out a fresh wad of blood.
I glance at Nolan and Gio. Their expressions are carved from stone.
Behind us, the radio hums—static breaking into the quiet before a voice breaks through.
“Authorities are currently looking for drug kingpin and gang leader, Darrio Vargas. He’s suspected of several crimes including possession with intent to sell, aggravated assault, and murder.”
Darrio’s expression flickers at the sound of his name. Fury first, then something like fear.
Gio’s mouth lifts, a cruel, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Nolan doesn’t smile, but his eyes—those cold, red-brown eyes—burn with anticipation.
Gio and Nolan both look rather smug as the story continues and I realize this is something they’ve had planned for a long time.
I always wondered why Gio would let his father live if he was so awful. They killed for me, and it was pretty obvious once I got to know them that they killed Nolan’s abusive father.
Now, it makes sense. They’d been waiting. Probably for plausible deniability, but more likely for the right circumstances.
This isn’t chaos.
This isn’t even revenge.
It’s brutal justice and it’s always been inevitable.
The radio voice drones on. “If you cross paths with the individual known as Darrio Vargas or have any information regarding his whereabouts, please contact the Silverwood Police Department immediately. He is considered armed and dangerous?—”
The voice fades under the sound of movement. The boys exchange a glance. Lex’s hand finds mine briefly, his thumb dragging over the back of my knuckles as Gio goes for the duffle bag and pulls out a container of lighter fluid and a gun.
Nolan doesn’t move from his position, remaining vigilant at the edge of the pit and glaring Darrio Vargas down as Gio prepares himself. When he’s back, standing next to us, I scan his face for any sign of regret or fear or dread. There’s none.
Lex releases my hand and I move back as both he and Nolan cup either side of Gio’s shoulders. “Ready, man?” Lex asks quietly.
He nods without speaking.
Darrio starts spitting out curses. “You think you’re a real man, ay, Giovanni?” he bites out. “You think you can kill your old man? Come down here and do it yourself!”
I grind my teeth together as my fingers curl into fists at my sides, the nails digging into my palms as I keep myself from vaulting into the pit and stomping him in the dick.
Seconds ease by, slower and slower with each one. Darrio is obviously getting nervous, his threats growing in both volume and pitch.
“You ain’t gonna do shit!” he screams, panic lacing his voice. “You don’t have the fucking balls!”
I’m not exactly sure who he’s trying to fool—Gio or himself. If he’s trying to convince his son, then I know he’s failing. With each passing remark, Gio only appears more and more resolute.
“I’m your fucking father!” Darrio finally screams. That seems to break the spell of silence over G.
Without blinking, Gio steps as close to the edge as he can without going over. He turns the canister of lighter fluid over, pressing into the bottle with his fingers so that the liquid inside squirts out. It hits Darrio in the face first, splashing into his open, screaming mouth as he coughs and sputters before dripping down his throat and to his pudgy naked body. The harsh-smelling stuff soaks into his hair and slides over his protruding stomach and even into the thatch of dark hair at his groin.
Gio definitely didn’t get his cock from his dad, I think, as Darrio tries and fails to get away from the splashing liquid.
Once the container is empty, Gio tosses it behind him and reaches into his pocket, withdrawing a lighter.
No one speaks. Not me. Not the guys. Not even Darrio.
Every single one of us are locked on Gio’s movements as he twists the silver metal square between his fingers. Over and over again, he flips it from one side of his hand to the other, then back again. He stops and his thumb presses the top, snapping the lighter open and striking the mechanic wheel inside.
Fire bursts to life, a single flame flickering back and forth. Even with the flashlight perched on one of the trees, the light of the fire is the only thing we focus on.
