Total pages in book: 260
Estimated words: 245483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1227(@200wpm)___ 982(@250wpm)___ 818(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 245483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1227(@200wpm)___ 982(@250wpm)___ 818(@300wpm)
He raised me to be a killer and to be the fucking best at what I do. From a young age I remember going to shooting ranges, and practicing knife skills. My childhood was almost exclusively learning to fight, learning to stalk, and learning how to kill efficiently and quietly. My father trained me to be a hitman, and I quickly found out that I was damn good at it.
And I like it. I like tracking down my victims and taking their lives. They all deserve it. They have it coming to them. As far as I’m concerned, I’m doing the world a favor. I like the power and respect I get for being a skilled and in-demand assassin. Nobody fucks with me because they know who I am, and what I’m capable of. No one can push me around. They wouldn’t fucking dare.
But I can’t deny that it fucked me up. That it changed me. I can remember the way I was back when I was still a kid, back before killing became my life. The darkness wasn’t there back then. I wasn’t born with it. It was created.
As I pitch the ball across the yard again, I remember the day my father brought me completely into this life and forced me to kill a man for the first time.
* * *
My father stands over me in the cellar. My breath comes in ragged, short gasps.
“Don’t be a pussy,” he says to me, his voice barely above a whisper as he grips my shoulders. “You fucking afraid?”
“No,” I say, but I’m lying. I’m terrified. I’m ten years old and I’ve never seen a man die before. Not in real life.
The old man’s tied to a chair with a gag in his mouth, muffling his screams and pleas. I don’t know him. His eyes are wide and brown. His hair is receding and he’s probably fifty years old, but I didn’t really know that back then. I was just a kid. I didn’t know anything.
“What did he do?” I ask tentatively, and my voice cracks. My heart is beating so loudly I can hardly hear anything else.
My father whirls on me. “You fucking know not to ask questions.” The anger in his voice makes me flinch. Ever since Mom died, it’s been different between us. He takes his rage out on me. It’s my fault.
“I know,” I say, looking away from him. I expect him to hit me, and I wait for it… but he doesn’t. My body is so hot. I feel like I can’t even breathe.
“It doesn’t matter what he did. All that matters is we get paid. These guys, they’re all shit. You have to understand that.” The man screams again behind his gag, but whatever he’s saying is dampened. I wish I knew.
“I understand.” I look at the man as my father walks over to him. He takes the man by what hair he has left and pulls his head back.
“Look at him, Gio,” my father says. “Look at this man. Are you looking?”
“Yes, father,” I say, staring at the man.
“This is our prey. He’s our victim. He’s nothing.” My father releases him. “Are you a fucking pussy?”
“No,” I say and step toward the man. My nerves are shaken, but I have to do this.
“Good. Very good, Gio.”
The man struggles and tries to say something. He’s panicking and trying to move again like he knows it’s his last chance. My father backhands him across the face and his head droops. He’s dazed, but not unconscious.
“What now?” I ask my father. I’ve been training for this since I was very young. I know how to shoot and how to fight and how to hunt, but this is the first time my father is making me watch.
Except watching isn't what he has planned. He holds his gun out to me, grip first. “Take it,” he says.
I stare at him, shocked. “Why?” I ask.
“Do as I say.”
Afraid, I take the gun. I expect him to hit me again for not following orders right away, but he doesn’t. My hands shake.
I know something irreversible is happening. But I don’t understand what, not yet.
“Press it against his head,” my father orders.
I stand so close to the man I can feel the heat and desperation roiling off of him. His eyes are wide and pleading, staring at me, practically looking through me. He squirms against the restraints. I press the gun against his head. My throat is so tight, I can’t swallow. I watch as the man begins to cry, deep heaving sobs. I hold the gun there, the cold steel feeling hotter as my hand starts to sweat, and I look at my father.
“Look back at him,” my father commands. I try to swallow again, but I fail miserably. I stare at the man, but only at his temple where the gun is pointed. I can’t look him in the eyes. “Are you ready, Gio?”