Now that the trial has been put to rest, Rueben believes that life is on an upward trend. It's not long before he understands he is sadly mistaken.
Around every corner lies a new demon lurking with the desire to rip the rug out from under him. He m...
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𝗘nzo laid straight up on his bed, back at the cabin. After that pointless meeting that got them nowhere with the twins, he retreated to his fake home. He knew he was going to get an earful of shit from his bosses whenever they finished; he was just waiting for the next call.
But he couldn't lie – he felt no remorse.
The moment his fingers squeezed the trigger, euphoria ignited in his veins. He felt himself come back together as one. He watched silently as his memories passed through his eyes each time he fired another bullet; memories he had forgotten about due to being so young.
Memories of Nadine throwing him up in the air and catching him – memories of her tickling him and smearing flour on his cheeks as they baked together. And then the memories of Carson throwing him into that boys home on the day she died. Memories of being replaced by his twin siblings.
For a while, he blamed them for what happened to him in that home for years – it was the main reason why he placed Matteo in his care so long ago, but now, the longer he thought about it, the more confused he made himself. He knew exactly why too.
It was exactly what Carson accused him of doing.
Caring.
Goddamn little sister.
Her thoughts and ideals and motives slipped their way into his head in only two meetups. The way she was curious about everything, but was still so guarded that it wasn't necessarily done out of being naïve, intrigued him. She was everything neither he, nor Matteo, could touch.
A remarkable Miller.
Enzo rolled his eyes at his thoughts and reached over to his nightstand. He popped open the top drawer and pulled out his favorite switchblade. It was silver and neon green – depending on how you held it in the light. Its blade was sharp, slick, and smooth. Entering it into the skin, no matter what angle, was as easy as pressing a dull knife through a piece of soft butter.
He grabbed his silver cleaner and unscrewed the cap, dipping two fingers inside and scoping out an adequate amount. He rubbed it on the blade before grabbing his handkerchief and resting back against the pillow. He worked diligently, but slowly.
His blade had to be perfect for this act.
After all, it would be the last time he'd use it.
With his muse finally dead, he no longer had to seek men out that looked like him – he no longer needed that temporary, short – lasting boost of power. The pleasure from being the one to pull the trigger – twelve times – was enough that he decided he had no reason to kill anymore. Carson's death put him back together like pieces of a puzzle.
Though, it did make him feel like his plans were done. That he had no cause now.
