As I pushed open the windows, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, feeling light as a feather.
The day was perfect, with extremely pleasant and mild weather. It wasn't an unpleasant heat, nor was it freezing cold. It was a nice temperature, with an incredible sky, the sun so bright that you could see its outline through the rays of sunlight.
I avoid thinking that I feel this way because of the astonishing and haunting night I had with the sadistic Ângelo, even though I know it was incredibly invigorating for my body to come alive. It's quite a shock to experience that with him. I think I'm becoming a masochist. Because Ângelo is exceptionally aggressive in bed; he doesn't need to explicitly hit me for me to see that. The bastard goes to your limit and goes hard.
I open my eyes to the sun and am amazed that I can stare at it for so long without my eyes burning.
Am I going completely crazy for saying I like the way Ângelo has sex?
It's strange to try to convince myself that I had better nights in that damn brothel before him, but the guys were so weak and lacked any intensity in the act that it puts Ângelo on another level, a much higher one, I'd say. I think deep down, I wasn't born to dominate but to be dominated.
A crazy notion, I know.
Leaving the window open, I turn, walk to the messy bed, and start fixing it, ignoring the spot where I lay open for him to ravage me, ignoring flashes of him sucking my pussy as if I had the best taste in the world.
I didn't see when he left the room; the bastard waited for me to fall asleep to sneak out. He did the right thing; we'd probably wake up breaking each other's faces instead of breaking the bed… we can't stand each other, and it's a shame.
The bizarre thing about all this is that I even like the little pain I feel the next day after a surreal and hot night with that jerk. It feels good to know he lingers in me until the next day.
"Sister? Can I come in?" It was Faruk knocking on the door.
I smile broadly, snapping out of my sinful daydreams. I need to stay lucid.
"Of course! Come in."
Faruk entered in his pajamas with a huge smile on his round face and came running to jump on the bed and hug me, knocking us onto the soft mattress.
I return the hug tightly and bite the cheeks of this little rascal, who'll soon be a young man.
"My God! So much hugging," I tease, tickling his armpits, loving the sound of his laughter and seeing him squirm, begging me to stop. "What are you doing here, you little troublemaker?" I narrow my eyes, suspicious.
"I came to tell you I dreamed about you riding a motorcycle," he revealed.
I pull back, intrigued by the dream. I've always wanted to ride a motorcycle; I feel it delivers so much more freedom, adrenaline, and speed than any convertible car.
Sitting on the comfortable bed, I cross my legs, holding and massaging my feet.
"Tell me about the dream," I ask, very curious.
Faruk laughed excitedly.
"You had passed a secret mission in a warehouse full of bombs, with lots of armed guys chasing you, and you managed to escape with the scroll that had the treasure map you stole from that warehouse…" I smile broadly as he narrates the action, gesturing wildly, enthusiastic. "Then you tucked the scroll into your chest, hiding it, and saw a really big purple motorcycle. You hopped on it automatically, turned the key, and sped off down a flat road. The armed guys started shooting, and you swerved the bike from side to side so much that it almost lay flat on the ground… and the bullets passed over your head like this." He mimicked how the bullets whizzed by me.
I'm stunned, mouth agape.
"Wow!"
"Sister, it was the best dream I've ever had. You were so strong, like you owned the roads, and the motorcycle was like it was a part of you."
"My brother…" He looks at me, happy and content. "What kind of games have you been playing?" I worry.
Shooting.
Theft.
Missions.
Those aren't games for a kid to play.
"Racing games, fighting games, and even cake-baking games those grown men made me play," he made a face. "I'm turning 10 soon, and I already know how to bake a cake, Lavínia."
I burst out laughing, ruffling his hair.
"Have you had breakfast?" I ask. He shakes his head. "Then you don't know who's back?" I hint, acting mysterious to spark his curiosity.
He frowned, confused.
"No. Who's back?" Faruk thought for a moment, then clumsily stood up and jumped on my bed. "Uncle Ângelo…"
"Yours truly, big guy."
With that, I lost the smile that framed my lips from seeing my brother so happy, hearing that husky, masculine voice dominate even the air I breathe. I even gripped the pillow on my lap with my fingers. It was him, once again in my room.
"Uncle Ângelo…" Faruk jumped off the bed in a hurry and ran desperately to Ângelo.
Slowly, heart in hand, I set the pillow aside and turn, getting out of bed and watching them carefully. Ângelo, maddeningly elegant in a dark blue shirt that didn't hide his muscles but highlighted them in the fabric, and black dress pants—he only ever wears black pants—his hair wet and gelled, neatly combed and aligned, as if he'd just gotten out of the shower minutes ago. Imagine the scent on this man… he crouched to look at my brother at eye level and gave him a quick smile.
How is it possible that they've gotten along so well?
"You're short like the ow… your sister," he cleared his throat, correcting himself, and his gaze sought mine. I look away, unsettled by the way Ângelo likes to stare at me. It's impossible to hold the gaze of someone with such dark eyes. Last night, he came with different eyes… son of a bitch, all that to end the night inside me. And I swore he was suffering. How can a bastard like that suffer? This man feels nothing for anyone. "I missed you, Faruk."
For a second, I watched them together and felt jealous of my little brother hugging Ângelo around the neck.
"I missed you too, Uncle Ângelo. I thought you'd abandoned us."
"You're talking nonsense like Lavínia. I wouldn't abandon you guys. Remember when you opened your eyes in the hospital and saw me?" I saw my brother nod as he pulled back. "Didn't I promise you I'd bring your sister back to you?" My brother looked at him and nodded again. "And didn't I bring her to you?"
"You did."
"And you still think I'd abandon the little boy I saved?"
"Sorry, sir."
"Call me Uncle Ângelo. I feel better when I hear you call me that. I'll never forget the happiness you gave me when you opened your eyes; you recharged my hopes."
I lower my head, recalling that I thought he felt literally nothing when he saved my brother at the boarding school.
***
I'm dumbfounded as I enter and feel cozy in the library that night; it was so beautiful it felt like a dream.
Walking, amazed by so many details in that room unknown to me until then, I touch the dark brown ivory sofa, the texture so soft under my palm that it brings a smile to my lips. Sliding over the armrest, it felt even more pleasant than suede. Next to the sofa were two armchairs in a slightly lighter brown, stunningly beautiful, matching perfectly with the rough-textured curtains in the same color palette that stretched from ceiling to floor. Observing the three walls my eyes could take in from the center of the library, I saw that each was divided and fully lined with bulletproof glass, so secure that you could perfectly watch thick raindrops on a stormy day beating against the green leaves of trees I didn't know existed in the mansion's backyard. It must be wonderful to read here all day.
Looking at the shelves on the right, I glimpsed a fireplace burning a small pile of thin logs at the bottom, but it wasn't the only source of light illuminating the place—there were also antique lamps scattered across the shelves full of books. I'm in Eden…
Fascinated by the place, I wander to the dark brown wooden shelves and run my hands over the covers of the neatly aligned books, realizing I've found my favorite spot in this house from now on.
Smiling, I see a book that beckons me to come closer on the third shelf to the side. Spotting a small ladder, I pull it over and climb a few steps, reaching for the book and stepping down from the wooden ladder.
"Lavínia?" It was one of the hitmen, number 27; I know it's him because I've memorized each of their voices.
I turn, picking up the only book in that library that caught my attention so intensely, and glance at him briefly.
"Yes?" I start flipping through the hardcover black book and swallow hard, startled to realize the theme had been part of my life at some point. "It's about modus operandi," I whisper softly, caressing the book's pages.
As I read a section, I notice the modus operandi described refers to murders—a unique method a person uses to execute their crimes with total success, never getting caught.
That's why the police said the person who killed my colleague at the brothel would never be found.
There was also one of the clients who had his penis cut off.
Who could be behind these crimes?
"I stopped by your room yesterday."
I hear him.
"I told you I was fine," I say, deeply focused on the book in my hands, slowly wandering to one of the armchairs in the rustic library—a library I didn't know existed until the housekeeper told me it was at the end of the first hallway in the mansion.
I sit in the armchair and read the handwritten dedication, meaning this book was a gift to someone.
"When I used my knife on you at your seven years old and scarred your assassin skin, it brought me such psychological relief and a sick compulsion to keep cutting your skin. I always knew I had to be destroyed. But nature's biggest mistake was you being born. It's as delicious as hell has been taking care of you, as hell made you an assassin too. You think I'm your father, your owner, your God, and I'll be everywhere, and tomorrow, Ângelo, THERE WILL BE MORE CUTS."
With tears in my eyes and horrified, I needed a few minutes to process what I just read.
That knife with a signature that Ângelo used on me. Could it be the knife his father was referring to?
The cuts on Ângelo's abdomen and back…
My God!
Ângelo's demon was his own father.
I close the book and search for Hitman 27 with my eyes; he was serving himself some whiskey with his back to me.
"What's the murder method the clan uses to execute its victims?" I ask, trembling and incredulous that a father could be so sick as to cut and torture a seven-year-old son.
The hitman looked at me and sipped the alcoholic drink.
"The answer is in your hands."
Modus operandi… cuts…
"This was a gift for Ângelo," I say, trying not to lose my mind with this absurd madness. "It's a book that teaches the pleasure behind cutting."
"Ângelo turned that gift into the lucrative business he has today," he revealed.
"I don't understand," I'm confused. Yesterday, he said he had trauma from the cuts when I asked why I couldn't touch him.
"Ângelo's father wanted to scare him. Ângelo turned it into a viscous juice of a bloodbath. If a father is capable of slowly trying to kill his own son, what's wrong with us killing anyone when it's about a lot of euros?"
I stand up, dazed.
"That's why you all have a warped view of reality," thick tears stream down. "Ângelo wants to prove to himself that he's worse than his father," I conclude with a lump in my throat.
"Exactly!" The hitman downed his bitter drink without flinching and slammed the glass on the table, startling me. "And that's why you're here," he strode toward me and stared into my eyes, trying to intimidate me. I face him. "He saved your life, so you owe him a lot."
I don't understand.
"What's the real reason I'm here?" I ask nervously.
"I want you to kill the bastard who scarred my body like I was a piece of paper," I hear and quickly turn my gaze to the door. Ângelo, cold and vengeful like I've never seen him before. "You're the only one who can help me get to him and surprise him."
"How so?"
"Don't worry. First, we'll kill your demons, Lavínia. Your father, the madam, her partner, and anyone else who gets in our way."
"My father?" I blink through tears.
Ângelo laughed with scorn.
"You thought I was the only one with daddy issues?" He pulled a cigarette from his pack and lit it in his mouth, inhaling and blowing out the smoke. "I don't know which damn father is worse. Mine, who made me like him, or yours, who paid me to kill you," he revealed, and the book in my hand fell to the rug beneath my feet, making a detestable hollow sound.