6

There’s no air conditioning. Behind the counter sits a man without pride. His tank top is stained with sweat and food. He watches T.V. while scratching his stomach, but what’s behind him captures my attention.

I take off my sunglasses, tuck them into my pocket and ring the bell but it doesn’t make a sound. I grit my teeth.

Even the fucking bell doesn’t work and this asshole is only looking at the T.V.

My way it is.

Unbuttoning my blazer, I pull my Desert Eagle with an extra-long barrel from the holster and aim it right beside his head. Gianni screws the silencer on the end of the barrel, and I nod in thanks.

I shoot, the bullet splicing the air before slamming into the wall and leaving a hole in the concrete.

The guy jerks and tilts back in his chair before falling back and hitting the floor. When he sees me, fear whitens his face, and the front of his pants darken with piss.

“Do I have your attention now?” I ask, sounding bored, but really, I’m having a great time.

He nods, not getting up, but continues to tremble in his own urine.

“I have two questions.” I reach for the logbook recording where all the guests stay. “May I?”

He whimpers in agreement.

“Thank you. See, this wasn’t so hard.” I run my eyes down the page until I find the room I’m looking for. Only people on the run, who aren’t used to being on the run, use fake names like John Smith.

“What’s the number there?” I point with my gun. “What does three-hundred-and forty mean?”

“Pe…people who…who…who…have…died here,” he stutters.

“You keep track of deaths?” my brows raise.

“I have to…to…get my kicks where I can.”

“Well,” I smile. “I must say, you are an honest man.” I lift my gun and aim it at his head. “This motel is mine now. I’ll make sure to change the count to three-hundred-and-forty-one.” I pull the trigger, and the bullet pierces his chest.

Not saying a word to Gianni, I push by him and head down the sidewalk, passing a few doors before I get to one at the end.

I tuck my gun away and lift my leg, kicking the door in and ripping it right from the hinges.

Her father rolls from the bed, phone in his hand, tears streaming down his face.

“Kill me,” he says, taking me by surprise. “I know you have her. I’ve been calling, and she won’t answer. Don’t kill her. She didn’t do anything wrong. She’s my daughter. Please.” He falls to his knees to beg. “Kill me.”

“I’m not here to kill you, Mr. Reynolds. I’m here to warn you and tell you how brave your daughter is.” I step over the broken, cheap door and look around the room. “I hate she let this place touch her,” I say, quietly. No one else can hear.

Taking my gun out again, I place it against his head and cock it, loving the sound of the bullet sliding into place. “Do you feel the heat of the gun? Is it hot? Does it burn?”

“Y…yes.”

“That’s because it’s just been used. This motel is mine now, Mr. Reynolds. You rent from me. Make one wrong move from here on out, and the agreement your daughter and I made is void. Do you understand?”

“Agreement? She went to you? Stupid girl.”

“Impressive girl.” I correct him. “She is strong, and I’m here to tell you if you try to take her from me, if you try to interfere, if you try to warn her away from me, I’ll kill you. And wouldn’t that be a shame after she made a deal to save your life.”

“No, no, no.” He begins to cry, loud, obnoxious sobs that shake his shoulders as he rocks back and forth. “She deserves more—”

I grip him by the oil-slickened hair and yank his head back, shoving my gun between his lips. “I will give her everything you could never dream of giving her,” I sneer. “She is no longer your daughter. She is mine. She belongs to me now. Your home is yours. Your shop is yours. Your debt is clear. But I am not a man who forgets, Mr. Reynolds. Make the same mistake twice, and you will never see her again. Do you understand?”

He stares up at me through wet lashes. “I understand,” he relents, and I push him away.

“We’re done here.” I step over the disaster of the door and head outside, the air rotten with trash.

“Mr. Milazzo?”

I stop when I hear her father call me, but I don’t turn around.

“She’s a good girl. Don’t hurt her, please,” he begs. “She’s too good for this world.”

Which means she’s too good for me.

“You have my word; she’ll never experience a second of pain for the rest of her life,” I vow.

If she does, I’ll torture the world and everyone it, bring them to their knees so she can take her revenge.

Why? I ask myself.

Because Delilah and I have a deal.

And what I want from our agreement deserves to be protected at all costs.