“You’re going to hear it anyway,” I tell him. “Helena Selznick. She was held down and raped while her daughter was forced to watch.”
His eyes dart around wildly, but I know he’s listening to me.
“Corinne watched as your men took Helena again and again and again. At some point, she passed out. She couldn’t take it anymore. And when she woke up, Helena was dead. She’d had her throat slit.” I put my boot on Giorgio’s stomach and lean in a little. “Do you remember the warehouse raid now?”
He’s spluttering tears and snot and blood. Every twitch draws my knife a little farther down his throat. The stream of red blood trickling into his collarbone grows thicker and thicker.
“I’ve ordered many raids,” he gasps. “I don’t remember them. It’s just business!”
“Interesting.” I shrug. “I would have thought you’d remember this one.”
I redouble my grip on the knife and adjust the weight of my knee on Giorgio’s chest. He wheezes in desperation. His breath is harder and harder to come by.
Only a little longer left, my friend.
“You see, Aisling told me that the man who ordered her mother to be raped had a whale tattoo on his neck,” I inform him. “In fact, she remembers that very, very clearly. Not such a common thing, is it?
His eyes widen. This is it. This is the end for him.
“No!” he screams. “Don’t—!”
I drag my knife across his throat and end his pitiful fucking life.
* * *
“Boss?”
I get to my feet and wipe my blade against the seat of my trousers. “Yes?”
“What should we do about that one?”
Rhys gestures towards the entrance of the mansion. I look up to see a young girl, standing at the threshold, her little hands clinging hard to the doorframe. She’s wearing an ivory frock with a pink sash around the waist. Blood is splashed across her clothes like gruesome abstract art.
“A kid?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“Lombardi’s daughter,” Rhys informs me. “The son wasn’t on the property when we did our initial sweep.”
“She wasn’t supposed to be here, either,” I grimace quietly.
I walk forward slowly. I expect her to try running. But the girl just stands her ground and stares. Even when I squat down in front of her, she doesn’t so much as flinch.
There’s a crescent moon scar on her right cheek. It’s fresh. She must’ve caught a ricochet or hurt herself trying to flee in the chaos. I tear away a piece of the sleeve from my shirt and use it to dab off the small droplets of blood on her face.
She doesn’t move. Not even once.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell her.
I don’t expect a reply, which is why I’m mildly surprised when she speaks. “You killed my papa.”
There’s no accusation in her tone. No blame. Just the desperate curiosity of a child who wants to understand. She can’t be older than seven. Five, six at the most.
There’s no point in hiding from what I’ve done. “Yes,” I say solemnly. “I did.”
“Why?”
I’ll always be the villain in her memories. There is no fighting it. My name will haunt her forever. But maybe I can leave her with something that will make her think back on this moment with new clarity when she’s older.
“Sometimes, even decent men must do terrible things for the greater good.”