“Time to go,” Carter grunts when he enters the room, taking his fist from his towel and letting it drop to his feet.
“Woah,” I exclaim, turning my head and putting up a hand to shield my face. “At least warn me first.”
“No time for games, Honey. We’re leaving,” he replies, his heavy footsteps indicating that he’s going to the dresser. Thank god. He may be handsome as all hell, but seeing him naked is still a shock for me. I wish I wasn’t such a pussy sometimes.
“What’s going on?” I ask, glancing toward Carter. His firm butt graces my vision, causing me to feel an instant rush of heat in my face.
“George is dead, and we need to get out of here,” he says, pulling clothes from the dresser and flinging them to the floor behind him.
Well, that killed the mood. “George, that nice old man that brought me a pizza?” I ask.
“Yes, George, the man that’s been my personal assistant for the past twenty years. They fucking killed him,” Carter says, turning around with a t-shirt clenched in his fist so tight that his fingers might actually tear through the white cotton.
“Why would someone do that?” I ask, feeling my stomach drop with sickening intensity.
“People are demented, Honey. I thought you knew that,” he replies, turning back around and pulling more clothes from the dresser.
They certainly are demented. The men that killed my father were demented. They were so demented that they pretended to be his friend, only to shoot him dead and drag his corpse right out in front of me. They’re bastards, every last one of them, but they’re not the only ones. The world is made of devils and demons, dancing around, arm in arm as they take out the best people with hatred and spite. My father didn’t have to die, and neither did George.
“I’m sorry, if he was close to you, that’s really awful,” I say softly.
“Sorry doesn’t bring people back from the dead,” Carter grumbles, finally beginning to dress himself. I’m relieved, but also a little disappointed that I didn’t get to see more of him. It’s a twisted desire to have at a time like this.
“I suppose I should change back into normal clothes,” I say, feeling useless just standing around.
“No need,” Carter says, pulling a fresh t-shirt over his broad shoulders. “You’re going to bed when we get to the southwest office.”
“What about you?” I ask.
“I don’t have time for such things,” he says, opening another drawer and grabbing a rifle. The barrel of the gun shines in a familiar dark metallic grey. It’s the same kind that I was carrying in the desert.
“Such things?” I ask, bemused that he would wave off sleep as though it were a luxury.
“Yeah, sleep is for the dead and the soon to be dead,” he replies, moving toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“So, where does that put me?” I ask, leaving the comfort of the pizza-laden bedside to join Carter.
“Nobody is going to hurt you, Honey. I promise,” he says, his words thick and confident, but also surprisingly caring for such a gruff man.
His words make me want to believe him, but I’ve seen too many people die already to trust him on his word alone. Actions are the main course in the mafia, and words are just pleasantries sprinkled on top like seasoning.
I follow Carter out of the room and into the hallway, my bare feet sticking to the cold floor as I walk behind him. His frame is so large that I can’t see anything in front of me, but it’s also so thick that even an armor-piercing bullet would be stopped by him. I suppose I’m lucky that I wouldn’t immediately die if we came under fire.
But there are no bullets whizzing through the glass windows as we rush down the spiral staircase to the ground floor. There is only the clink of Carter’s rifle and the creak of his leather shoes. The house itself is silent.
We come out into the ground floor hallway, and I run into Carter’s broad back as he stops suddenly. I bounce off, nearly falling on my ass, but I manage to regain my balance in time to prevent myself from acting the fool.
“Good god, man. I told you to clean this up, didn’t I?” Carter exclaims, sounding as pissed-off as can be.
I crane my neck to look around him, trying to figure out what the hold up is. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. There’s a long smear of bright red blood across the stone floor, as though a body had been dragged across it. In fact, I’m certain that’s exactly what caused it.
“I had to move the body first,” a meager voice replies.
I look further around Carter to see a suited man with blue latex gloves on his hands. The latex is smeared in more blood. Was George strangled to death, or was he shredded with razors until he bled out? I’m betting on the latter with how much blood is at the scene.
“Carry George out, don’t fucking drag him,” Carter bellows.
I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that voice. He sounds like he’s seconds away from snapping this guy’s neck, but I understand his anger. Someone mistreating the body of a loved one is infuriating. I would know. My father was dragged out in front of my eyes through the hot sand, not an ounce of respect given to one of the most powerful mafia bosses in the world.
It makes my blood boil to think about it. I share in Carter’s anger now, letting my heart pound in my chest as his deep voice barks commands at the poor soul that was supposed to clean up the mess George’s murderer left behind. It feels good
