The Heir

Chapter 57

I wake up in the middle of the night sweating. Visions of the dirty warehouse flash around in my head. The sinister smile. The rattle of the chains. The sharp sting of a knife.

My breathing is no more than shallow gasps as I frantically look around the room. Crystal chandelier, gold plated mirror, thick pink curtains. My breath steadies out as I remember I'm at the compound.

I climb out of bed and grab my robe, tying it as I walk. I open my door a crack only to come face to face with Nacho. He looks down at me with worry clear on his face.

"Stai bene?" he asks.
(You okay?)

"Yeah," I nod as is step into the hallway. "Just wanted some water."

"I can get it for you," he moves to block my path.

But I duck out of his way, "sto bene."
(I'm fine)

Soldiers line the hallways as I navigate the building; no more than four feet apart. It's a sign that shit is really, really bad. The only sound in the echoing halls are my slippers shuffling against the marble.

I go right to the kitchen to get some water. It's weird, being rattled like this. Having a man dictate my very dreams. If this fear from something that's already been solved is eating at me, maybe I'm not cut out for the life like I thought I was.

There's a shadowy figure leaning out the window above the sink. I watch as they bring a lit cigarette to their lips before blowing the smoke outside. My brother.

"Ciao," I say quietly.

Enzo jumps and turns to face me, "ciao."

I grab a glass and lean over him to turn on the water, "è una cattiva abitudine."
(That's a bad habit.)

"I know," he mutters, taking another drag.

"If Mom and Dad find out you're going to get in trouble," I remind him.

He rolls his eyes, "lo so."
(I know)

"What are you doing up?" I curiously ask.

"Bad dream," he murmurs. "You?"

"Anche io," I admit before taking a drink.
(Me too)

"I don't know how you do this," he shakes his head. "How do you just- how do you kill someone and move on?"

"He deserved it," I state. "That's what makes it okay."

"It took me nearly an hour to get all of the blood and brain matter out of my hair," he continues. "How can you be okay with something like that?"

"When the blood goes down the drain, let your guilt join it," I say. It's the way I cope with killing people at least. "Once the evidence is gone, so are your feelings on the matter."

"I can't do that," he insists. "I'm not like you. I can't just turn off my emotions."

"È un'abilità che impari," I shrug. "But you shouldn't. Learn to do that I mean."
(It's a skill you learn)

"Wouldn't it make this easier?" Enzo asks, putting out his cigarette.

"Enzo, you have no business being involved in the life," I tell him truthfully. "You're better than this; better than me. You're going to do amazing things but being a killer isn't one of them."

"I just-" he shakes his head.

"What?" I take a tentative step closer.

"Sono debole," he whispers. "I'm the only son. I'm supposed to be stronger than this. But I'm weak."
(I'm weak)