It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, and I’m more sure than ever that he has to die. I’d be doing the world a favor at this point, but that’s not why I have to do it.

Fuck the world.

This is for my sister.

The club is loud, the music pulsing and pounding. Bodies grind on the dance floor, and the air is thick with the scent of cigar smoke from the smoking lounge and the salty tang of sweaty bodies.

It’s supposed to be a classy place, exclusive. But if you wave enough cash at the door, they’ll let you in, easy.

My pockets are a little lighter from paying to get inside, but it’s worth it.

Because he’s here.

I see him at the bar, laughing at something. His mouth is wide and cruel. Even when he smiles it doesn’t make a difference. I can still see the mockery there, the coldness in his eyes. I still remember the way he laughed when Hannah cried. When he threw her to the floor when he was done with her and then laughed harder when she tried to scramble away from him.

Rage and bitterness rise in my throat, a harsh cocktail that makes me want to throw up a little.

But there’s no time for that.

It has to be tonight.

Lorenzo finishes his drink and puts the glass back down on the bar. He gets up and winks at a passing group of girls, probably college-aged. They keep walking, and he heads for the back of the club.

The sign above the narrow hallway says it’s for the restrooms.

Perfect.

I follow him, letting myself blend in with a couple different groups of people on the dance floor along the way so he won’t notice me.

It’s overkill because he’s barely paying attention to his surroundings anyway. He strides confidently down the hall and disappears into the men’s room, letting the door bang closed behind him.

I wait a few seconds, counting down from ten inside my head before easing the door open and stepping inside. It’s pretty fancy for a men’s room, with urinals on one side and stalls on the other. I can smell air freshener masking the usual bathroom scents, and I can taste my own heartbeat on my tongue. It looks empty except for Lorenzo, but I check all the open stalls just to make sure. Luckily, I’m right.

I’m nervous. Determined, but nervous. My hands shake a little when I pull the doorstop I’ve been carrying out of my bag and jam it under the door. No one’s getting in now. I can’t risk being interrupted.

I can hear Lorenzo humming absently as he goes about his business, and the noise puts that sour taste in my mouth again. Just the sound of his voice makes me want to be fucking sick all over again. That stupid hum, the way he always had to fill the space with his fucking noise. Like anyone wanted to hear it.

He clears his throat, and I make my move.

I kick in the stall door, breaking the lock from the flimsy material. Lorenzo is there, sitting on the toilet with his pants down and his eyes wide. Before he can get a word out or even move, I lift my gun and aim it for his head.

I think about saying something, making sure he knows why he’s dying in a bathroom tonight, but in the end, I decide to just kill him and get it over with. I pull the trigger—

—but nothing happens.

My heart drops into my stomach, ice flooding my veins.

Fuck, the safety is still on.

It’s a stupid, rookie mistake, and I fumble for a second to flick it off before pulling the trigger again to fire for real. The silencer is screwed on, so it barely makes a sound, but that second of hesitation and fuck-up is enough for Lorenzo to react.

As soon as I fire, he ducks and lunges at me, rushing me and throwing off my shot. The bullet hits the back wall instead of his head, breaking off a chunk of the white tile.

There’s anger in Lorenzo’s face, and he grapples with me, trying to get the gun away from me. I don’t know what he’ll do if he gets it. Probably nothing good. Definitely nothing good. Panic and adrenaline are surging through me, making everything bright and sharp. My head is buzzing, and I stop thinking and just start reacting, trying to make it through this. I can’t let him leave this room alive, and I can’t let him kill me.

I have to kill him by whatever means I can.

But he’s not a pushover.