and stubby, it was stacked higher than its neighbors, looking to be two and half stories. Haydon was patient, looking up at the vents, rather than around him. He was confident now, and he’d found a home, a place he could make his while the cops searched the area for him and never once thought to look in someone’s nice, safe home.
Vittorio allowed Haydon to climb halfway to the vent before he chose the shadow, thrown by the streetlight, that shot up the side of the house. Haydon thought himself safe, even with the shadows from the trees macabrely swaying, the branches appearing black as they reached out like stick arms searching for victims. One of those shadows had elongated fingers and those fingers touched Haydon as he climbed.
Vittorio rode the shadow thrown by the streetlight and at the last moment, before it abruptly ended, leapt for the one cast by the tree. The wind had risen, shrieking as it did so. The branches knocked together and sawed at the roof of the house. Haydon didn’t see death coming for him. It crept up behind him, swaying to the grim tune the branches played out against the house.
Vittorio had never in his life wanted to be a grim reaper, a man seeking the death of another. He had spent a lifetime pushing down his temper to replace it with balance. Now, unexpectedly, rage welled up. The sight of Grace’s bruised and bloody face with tears tracking down it settled like a cancer in his gut. His mother’s broken body, crumpled there on the ground, rose up to really push him over the edge.
He’d been taught not to make anything personal. How could it not be personal? But that wasn’t their way. That wasn’t his way. Haydon Phillips was an anomaly, a man either born or shaped into a killer and he was being served justice. It had to be that way or everything Vittorio was would be compromised.
Vittorio took a breath, pushing down all personal emotions. He couldn’t think about the havoc this man had created, how many people he had tortured and killed. He couldn’t think about how he had terrorized Grace.
Grace. His beloved woman. Vittorio loved her with everything in him. He pulled up that feeling, surrounding himself with her. The scent of her. The sound of her laughter, that unexpected gift that brought him happiness. He breathed away all anger, all emotions, cloaking himself with Grace, and everything in him settled, once more allowing complete control.
Hands came out of the shadows, reaching for Haydon Phillips in the way the branches reached across the side of the house. There was a heartbeat of time. Haydon reached for the next crack, settling his fingertips in it. The shadows moved all around him and with the branch came the shadow of a man—the reaper. Haydon shivered and paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from his forehead on his sleeve.
His head was caught in an unbreakable hold. It felt as if he’d suddenly been squeezed in an unrelenting vise. Instinctively, he threw himself backward, kicking out and away from the house. The vise tightened, the two arms like steel wrapped around his head. There was a terrible wrench, a flash of agony and then it was all gone.
Vittorio let the body fall away from him as he landed on his feet in a crouch. He stood for a moment looking down at the man who had destroyed so many lives. He looked small and pitiful as he lay beside the dead body of the dog. Vittorio didn’t feel pity. He felt weary. He just wanted to get back to Grace. And to his family.
“Justice is served,” he said softly, and stepped into a long shadow.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Vittorio stood for a long time looking down at the woman who had completely changed his life. She slept curled up in the middle of the bed, that heart-wrenching position that made her smaller and less of a target. She’d been a target too many times and he was determined to change that. In her childhood, Owen and Becca Mueller had abused and beaten her. Haydon had completed the job by terrorizing her for years.
Vittorio pulled back the sheet to examine her body. The bruises were fading. Before, they’d stood out stark and vicious on her pale skin. Now they looked like smudges. Time had taken care of the physical evidence. He was determined that he would take care of the emotional toll on her.