Identities

3: I'mma Killer Too

It has been a few weeks of dating. The couple has gone to art museums, theaters, fine-dinning restaurants and more. Throughout this time however, Fonzo started questioning things. He wished he could find out the code to get into Davina's phone. He thought about asking but knew better, if his suspicions were right. After a week of pondering he decides to be forthright with her.
He takes a slow seat on his bed next to her. His gaze intent with answers,
"can yous be real with me?" his hand is touching hers, she looks away from her book. Her eyes wondering what he is about to say.
"Davina, I've been to prison a number of times. I'm thinking yous knew that already?"
Hesitant at first, she replies, "yeah. I don't care about anything like that." she brings her other hand on top of his.
"I've been plenty of times, but they can never keep me." he lets saliva slide down his throat and counts every second. Waiting for her to respond.
"Because you weren't guilty I figure." she said it so perfectly he couldn't tell if it were a statement or a question.
"Nah. Because I was, but I own everyone there. Yous see, thems try to send me to other places but I make sure it don't happen," his hand tightens a bit around her bottom hand, and his eyes begin to suggest him becoming cold hearted. "and even if it was going to, I own far more places and people than some might think." now he stands at the edge of his bed, leaning forward a bit. "I've had spies sent before Davina. And thems all give off the same sorta vibes." his eyes become more of a squint and he's closer to a dresser on the opposite side of his bedroom. His head facing one of the drawers, his fingers tip tapping one of its handles.
"Yous saying you think I'mma spy?" this time it sounded like a question. All he does now is move his head to stare at her from the dresser mirror. Some scratching of wood can be heard as a drawer slides open. One of his hands reach inside but he never takes his eyes off hers. He can see a drop of sweat slide down her forehead.
"Fine, Fonzo. I didn't want to tell you yet, but now that yous told me what I suspected, I guess I'll tell you now." he watches her eyes as they glide down his arm. His grip tightens in the drawer.
"It wasn't only jail. I've been to prison too." she confesses. His grip loosens and he finally turns toward her.
"How long?"
"About a decade."
"All at once?" wooden scratches can be heard again with a final clunky noise of the drawer closing.
"My longest time yeah, but all together probably about fifteen years." she relaxes her shoulders.
"How many times yous been?" he moves back to her in his bed.
"A couple. Why were yous there?" she asks. He suddenly halts. "I'm not a spy Fonzo. And like yous just said, yous own everyone." her arms raise and her head shakes to the side a bit. He continues to the bed-side.
"I'm sorta a big deal. I'mma drug lord."
"That's not that big of a deal." she brushes.
"Well, I've had people killed. I've killed people."
With sudden urgency, he watches her eyes widen and her breath stiffen. He knows it isn't just because of the thing he just told her. It's probably the pistol touching under her chin. However, this startled reaction only lasts a couple seconds, because now she's smiling. What's so funny about this situation?
As if reading his mind she says, "oh darling. I'mma killer too." he feels a cold metal rubber press against his temple! His brain rushes for what to do, so he...

Splat!
His blood spits out his other side onto the wall and floor. It gushes onto her and the black dress-shirt she's wearing.
"Dammit, I wanted to keep this shirt." she says annoyed, ripping it off. Her Brooklyn accent disappears. She uses the shirt to cover his mangled skull. She notices a bit of blood on her bra. She makes a mental note to rid of this evidence soon. She grabs her bag and gets the hidden gloves inside. Putting them on, she lifts up the gun he had aimed at her. No bullets at all, and it was on safety. She sighs, "oops." I'm never gonna hear the end of it. She takes a long blink before putting his gun inside her bag. She puts her gun of the same model and make, right where his has been.
She knew he was left handed, and had made sure the kill shot would match up if he were to commit suicide with his gun. She always feels anxious about her existence in her victim's lives before they die, but most of the time no one suspects a thing. Not to mention, she knows she's in good hands with her helpers. They know how to get rid of her "characters" for good.
After this usual little bout of anxiety, her brain searches through all the different evidence and how to get rid of it; while her eyes scan the room for anything that might need a touch up.
"Oh," she heads back for her bag. Hoping she wasn't going to see something she didn't want to. Her hand brings out his gun again and she checks for any initials or original markings. Thankfully none. Her gun is still a match to his. Then, she gets rid of any potential evidence pointing back to herself. Well, Davina. She gives one last look at Alfonzo Barnes' corpse. Her eyes gleam with rare joy. Her heart is pumping a little faster than usual and it sends jolts through her body. It gives a feeling of fulfillment and numbing at the same time.
One last thing, she thinks to herself in ever-growing excitement. Her feet glide their way to the body in front of her, then she bends down lifting the black dress-shirt over his face. Shit! Some blood will be missing and smeared. Why did I put this over his head? She almost hits herself in self hatred. Dammit! She almost throws the shirt in anger. Now her excitement boils into anxiety again. Her socks tap-tap-tap the floor as she tries thinking of someway to make this work. She makes sure she hasn't stepped in the blood. She hasn't, thank the Lord. Crossing her arms, she squeezes the shirt. Now taking her anger out on it.
Maybe I put this side of his face on the floor? Might explain the smear? She almost goes through with it but realizes, no the dripped blood on his other side wouldn't make sense. She aggressively sighs. Soon, her eyes gleam with excitement again as she grabs the nearest pillow, he silences his gun with the pillow and it causes the... another aggressive sigh. Well, more of a grunt now. Nope. Where's the bullet hole? If I try to make one, someone might hear two silenced gun shots, on top of there being.. her mind rambles on. She puts the pillow back with force.
She rolls her eyes after seeing how much time has passed, fuck it. She looks into his lifeless eyes, admiring his dead body. Then, she scurries out the door.