51. Charlotte

51

CHARLOTTE

C arlo steps around the room, moving with purpose. He takes a tumbler off the bar cart near the corner. When he turns around, I have removed the wig and the glasses and the gun from my coat.

He looks at me like he’s seen a ghost, and in a way he has. “Well, well,” he says. “Look what the cat dragged in. Should I be worried?”

“You were always a coward, Carlo.”

He laughs, a sound too dry, too hollow to be real. “It does not surprise me that you’re alive. But I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“What can I say? I missed you.”

“You’ve got a funny way of saying goodbye,” Carlo continues, his eyes narrowing, though there’s an edge of nervousness creeping in. “But if you’re looking for a fight, Charlotte?—”

“I’m not looking for anything.”

He places the tumbler back on the cart and steps forward, overconfident. “I think you’ve made a mistake coming here.”

“Get on your knees,” I say. My words are sharp, calculated. Cold. It’s the same way I’ve always done this—never hesitating. Never second-guessing.

He doesn’t move. “I’m not dying on my knees, Charlotte. Come on, you know me better than that.”

“In my mind,” I say, “I pictured you on your knees. Indulge me, Carlo. Torture has never really been my thing. But I’m not above it.”

“You’re a funny girl.”

“There is nothing funny about what I’m going to do to you, trust me.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “You think you can just walk away from this life? So you kill me. Then what?”

I step closer, gun still trained on him. “I’m not walking away from anything,” I say. “I’m taking it with me.”

He glares at me, but I can see the cracks beginning to form in his composure. His hands twitch toward his waistband, but I’m faster. The shot rings out before he can react, and his body jerks forward, crashing to the floor with a sickening thud. I put two more bullets in him for good measure, and I don’t look back as I exit the house.

I rework the wig and the glasses and step into the humid darkness once more. The car’s waiting for me, just as I expected.

“Michael,” I say, as I slip into the backseat. My hands tremble slightly from the adrenaline, but I breathe steadily.

He gives me the once-over. “Everything good?”

“It’s perfect.” I remove the wig and shake out my hair. “Not as dramatic as I would have liked, but that’s Carlo.”

“ Was Carlo.” He glances at the driver and then back at me. “What now?”

“I’m hungry. Let’s grab something and go to the beach.”

“Too much sand,” he says, and then, “I’m kidding. Whatever you want.”

I glance out the window as the car pulls away from the curb. The tightness in my chest that feels like it’s been there for months—years, even—releases.

He studies me closely. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Never been better. It’s done.”

As the sprawling estates outside the window grow distant, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s over.

For now.