EARLY THE NEXT MORNING
Ican feel my father’s ghost frowning down at me as I hold the swollen, bloodied, and pleading gaze of a man whose name I’m told is ‘Derek’, bound and gagged before me. Two of Astor’s other men hold him in place where he kneels as Astor looms behind me like the devil on my shoulder.
Is this what my father did?
Is this who he was when he wasn’t at home?
The thought makes my stomach churn, and it takes everything in me for my hand not to tremble as I raise my gun to the man’s forehead.
Astor’s hand is a paternal reassurance on my shoulder.
“I know it’s hard the first time. Better to make it quick. You’re only prolonging the agony for both of you.”
When I continue to hesitate, Astor sighs.
“You fear he does not deserve death?”
At my silence, he continues, hand sliding off my shoulder to turn away. I hear the soft click and scrape of his Ferragamo Gancini loafers against the wet cement floor.
“The fact that you do not findbetrayalto be punishable by death is concerning, but I understand you are young. You will soon learn that there is no greater sin than that of betrayal. In allits forms... But if I tell you precisely how this man has betrayed me, I’m fairly certain it will pacify your conscience.”
Derek’s eyes flare wider with, somehow, even greater fear; muffled words made unintelligible by the cloth and tape stuffing his mouth. My eyes lift to the men holding him in place. Their faces wear twin expressions of indifference. If you were to guess what they were doing by their faces alone, one might think they were standing in line at the DMV.
Astor returns to my side.
“He’s been moonlighting with a rival gang that doesn’t seem to share my same predilections towards integrity. And he’s been syphoningmyfucking clients—more specifically the women and their daughters—and selling them into sexual slavery. I take it you understand what this means?”
Derek shouts and cries through his gag. Astor silences him with nothing more than a look. His resonant voice is deceptively calm.
“If you don’t stop screaming, I willpersonallytorture you to death. Do you understand?”
Derek’s eyes squeeze shut as he whimpers and nods, trembling.
“Did you violate them, too?”
Derek shakes his head fervently, but even my eighteen-year-old self can tell he’s lying. As morally black as my employer may be, I’ve witnessed the code of conduct that he abides by—which includes not killing on a whim or withoutmoral imperative.
Astor’s gaze gradually returns to mine. He doesn’t need to ask if this revelation has inspired a change of heart.
Derek recognizes the moment my indecision comes to an end because he begins to scream and panic in earnest, fighting against the grip of the men towering over him.
Clickgoes the hammer of the gun despite my stubborn, illogical conscience and the electricity coursing through me that makes me want to vomit.
How many men did my father kill?
At my side, Astor inserts the fancy-looking noise-cancelling earplugs that perpetually dangle around his neck.
BANG.
My ears ring in protest as I stare into the neat little hole at the center of Derek’s forehead, courtesy of the petite nine millimeter bullet. Only the slightest amount of brain matter gores the delicate edges. His body hits the cement with a heavy wet smack to reveal the wall of the warehouse behind him.
Bile roars up my gut, driving me to the nearest vertical column where my stomach can purge. Hunched over with one hand planted on the beam for support, Astor’s loafers appear in my peripheral vision, followed by one of the dark silk handkerchiefs he keeps neatly folded in the front pocket of his finely tailored suits.
He pats my back as I imagine my father would have as I wipe my mouth.
“I’m proud of you.”
Those words strike a disharmonious chord inside of me.