Monica

I sit across from the desk my boss bled on only three days ago. My hand is sweating against the grip of my Beretta, twitching with a nervous energy I can’t suppress. Monica doesn't look like a grieving daughter; she looks like a vulture in black silk. The room smells of funeral lilies and her expensive perfume, a suffocating mix that makes my throat dry. She doesn't reach for a weapon, she doesn't even stand up. She just watches me with those flat, dark eyes that see right through the lie I’ve been rehearsing. "My father called you a brother, Silverio," she says, her voice as smooth and cold as a razor blade...