Page 117 of Velvet Cruelty

Another feminine scream. “Adriano! Help me!”

I see January in her tiny pink dress, sitting next to her Zia Teresa. I remember the feel of her under me. I should have fucked her. Why didn’t I fuck her?

“Hello, Rossi.”

It’s funny how little Parker’s changed in twenty years. His face is unlined, his round blue eyes still flicking around for more money, more pussy, more power, more pills. An empty void swirling around nothing. I cough, spraying more blood up and back over my own face.

Parker laughs. “I’m going to kill you, Rossi.”

He’s going for Morelli’s light confidence, but his voice is shaking.

“So, fucking do it.”

Parker licks his pink lips. “You and January checked in as father and daughter. Was that a joke or have you violated my fiancée?”

I laugh. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Parker’s gaze goes black. “Shut up.”

“I had her on my face an hour ago, naked and begging me to—”

Parker’s not strong, but a boot in the ribs is still a boot in the ribs. I feel another dull crack and my breathing twists off like a rusty tap.

“You’ve grown a tongue, bootlicker. What happened to letting your friends do the talking?”

I laugh even though it makes my insides scream. “You’re fucked, asshole. You kill me, there’s three more coming.”

Parker pulls a Beretta from somewhere and hovers it over my face. “Time to die, huh?”

I don’t speak. Better men than Parker have held a gun to my head. I wouldn’t insult them by begging for my life. Death was always a possibility, and this is my fuck up. I deserve it. All I can hope is that the others find January. That Morelli marries her and lets Doc and Bobby fuck her whenever they want. And they have dinners like the one we had.

I look into the barrel of the gun. “Hurt January and the others will make you pay.”

Parker bares his teeth, and the world goes black.

***

Red light through paper cracks.

Slow, seeping heat.

A man screaming. That horrible insect whine.

Sirens.

“Mr. Mills?”

A woman in white is pressing something to my head, saying something I can’t hear. I blink. White walls with a leaf border. Mica flecked floor. I’m still in St. John’s hospital. I try to push myself up and collapse, blood streaming into my mouth like poison. I press my hand to the bullet wound and go again, staggering to my feet. The pain is there but a street or two away. Someone else’s problem. They must have given me drugs.

A girl behind me screams and the doctor says something else. I ignore them and stagger forward. Zia Teresa’s door is open, the cards and flowers and candy exactly where it was. The old woman is still in bed and for a second, I think it’s okay. Then I see her blank brown eyes.

She’s dead and January is gone.

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