The Donafrio Donor (18+ Only) [COMPLETED]

6: In Which She Sees Dead People

6: In Which She Sees Dead People

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“Dani, is this a bullet hole?” Jules burst out, picking up my toaster and whirling around to shove it under my nose.

“What? Of course not. It’s a drilling hole. I was starting the...redesigning. It was an accident,” I explained quickly, snatching the toaster from her and ushering her back to her seat at my kitchen table. “Tea, right? No milk, one sugar.”

Jules’ eyes narrowed. “I’m not an idiot, Danielle Clarke.”

“I didn’t –”

“Do you honestly expect me to believe that you’d been saving up for all of this?” She gestured at my new and improved kitchen. It was something straight out of a magazine. “How stupid do you think I am?”

“Well, you haven’t said a word about it for three weeks,” I muttered feebly, averting my eyes.

Three weeks.

It was hard to believe that my kitchen and living room had been turned into Swiss cheese exactly three weeks ago; three weeks since I’d seen my first dead body.

Carlo had been standing over the man – whose brains had been so artfully spattered against my television and carpet – and he raised his head to look at me, his gun still in his hand. Splotches of blood were on his chest that were evidence of a close-range shot. He’d obviously had the chance to get up close to whoever the man was and point his gun at his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” Carlo had said quietly.

Just like that. “I’m sorry”.

“Sorry for what?” I’d felt like screaming. “For sleeping over? For trying to make me breakfast? For attracting random gun-toting men to my house and gunning one down in my fucking lounge?”

But no.

I wished I could say that I’d asked that sort of questions, instead of doing what I did, which was launching myself at Carlo like a rabid Rottweiler and giving him all the venom in my fists. Where was the logic in punching someone for killing someone else in your home? Carlo had barely flinched, just stood there, letting me call him every name in the dictionary while I’d wondered how long it would be until the nosy old hag next door would call the police to report hearing gunshots from my house.

Finally, when I’d lost my energy and acquired some sense of dignity, I crumpled to the floor beside the body and just cried. Crying wasn’t something I did often. It was saved for Titanic or The Notebook- moments, or when I got frustrated because I couldn’t shut Mickey up.

I’d never had an I’ve-got-a-corpse-in-my-house-and-I-don’t-know-what-to-do cry. Hell, I’d never even seen a corpse before, especially one with half its head missing.

“Dani,” Carlo had said soothingly. “Dani, stop crying.” He’d knelt before me and pulled me into an embrace. “They were after me, not you.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” I’d sobbed, which was a huge mistake because I got blood from his chest onto my lips, instantly tasting copper and coughing.

“Mark my words, I will find out who sent this man,” he’d said sharply, “but you can’t stay here any longer, cara. For Mickey’s sake.”

I’d pulled away from him, the tears instantly evaporating. “If this was some sick ploy you concocted with that twat of a cousin of yours to scare me, you can both go fúck yourselves.”