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“Vengeance isn’t a race. It’s a slow stride toward salvation.” Greg doesn’t respond to that. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand and spits the rest of the blood in his mouth on the floor. “There’s no need to make a mess.” The Bolt Bastard, whatever that means, releases an annoyed sigh and begins the trek across the room toward where Greg sits slumped against the wall. He leans down and grabs him by the collar, whispering something into his ear that I can’t make out. Gregory kicks out his legs, but it’s no use.
The peachy yellow walls of the room press in. The numerous posters, with happy animals and smiling owners, mock me from every angle. Every patch of skin underneath my worn scrubs is covered in a thick layer of sweat, as if I’ve been standing in a steam room for far too long.
I predicted he was athletic, and he proves his form now as he drags Greg across the floor. He lifts him up in front of me and gives Greg a few mocking taps to the face. Greg snarls.
“Get out. Both of you. Just leave,” I beg, though my voice is barely a whisper.
“Not yet. I haven’t introduced you to your father,” Bolt says. “Harriet, meet your biological father, Gregory Lombardo. Gregory met thedaughter that was taken from you—and for good measure—Harriet Lewis.”
I gasp.
My vision turns hazy around the edges. My legs buckle just the slightest bit causing me to have to lean on the reception desk and place some of my weight on Juniper.
What is he talking about?
“No.” Greg looks me up and down, honing in on my eyes last. That’s the one thing I remembered about him between visits. How similar they are to mine. Maybe a shade lighter. Piercing and cold. But I never ever thought it would be because we were blood related.
Greg confirms what I am thinking. “It’s not her.”
I’m not his daughter. My father is dead.
“Oh, it is. You’d be proud, Gregory. She’s following in your footsteps. Drug trafficking and money laundering. What a small world.”
My heart stops beating.
He can’t know that.
There’s no way.
Gregory tries to wrestle out of Bolt’s hold, clawing at the fingers bunched around his collar. Even I can tell it’s no use. He gives up after a few seconds and asks, “What do you want?”
The entire building seems hollow, void of sound. The dogs kept out the back aren’t barking; the cats aren’t meowing. The life in this place has been snuffed out within seconds, replaced by a severe, deadly chill.
Bolt leans in close to his victim’s face. “I want your business. Your legacy. I want to burn it all to the ground. I want you dead.” The depth of his voice makes me swallow. “Oh, and I’m taking your daughter, too.”
“What?”
“Times up,” Bolt announces and drops Gregory without a care. And then Bolt does something I truly could never have predicted.
He pulls out a gun.
My gasp is so loud it could shatter the windows.
Both men ignore me.
Gregory tries to stand, puffing out his chest and lifting his blood smeared chin. He’s trying to be defiant, but even I can tell he’s been beaten brutally and hanging on by sheer force of will.
Bolt raises his gun a little higher, pointing it at the old man’s chest. “Hey, Gregory?” he mocks. Gregory’s eyes are twin pools of fury as he pulls the safety back.
No. No. No.
Don’t do it.
Don’t do it.
“You’re a piece of shit,” Bolt spits.
He does it.
