and briefly it crossed my mind whether or not I was looking at the man or the assassin.
It was obvious.
He wasn't Carlo.
He was Hunter. And not my Hunter.
He was ready to kill the two men standing in front of us. He'd probably do it with a single shot, too.
“Let's not be hasty?” I questioned Enzio. “Are you forgetting that you already tried to have me killed more than once?”
“Semantics, Adriana. Although I was sorry to hear about your mother.”
“Sorry the cancer beat you to it, you mean.”
He slowly smiled, but there was no light to it. “Perhaps.”
“You're a sick son of a bitch,” I whispered.
“Now, now, that's not a nice way to talk about your grandmother, is it?” He tilted his head to the side.
“She isn't my grandmother,” I snapped. Not that I'd ever met my father's mother. “Anyone whose blood bleeds the same as yours is no family of mine, Enzio. I'd disown myself if I could. You're sure as fuck not my father. You're nothing to me.”
I felt lighter for even just saying it out loud.
I guessed that was what happened when you kept such severe hatred locked inside your body for so long. Eventually, it ate at you.
His lips twitched.
He was evil to the core.
He slowly faced Hunter. “You should have killed her.”
“I should have killed you,” he corrected him. “And that piece of shit standing behind you.”
Enzio grinned, and Isaiah did, too. Darkness hung about them like they were the physical embodiments of death. Which was wrong, because I knew the man standing across from them, tired and covered in blood, was that.
Hunter was the angel of death.
But despite everything, the pain and the past, he was my angel of death.
The bullet sliced through the air before I knew it was happening.
Enzio's face morphed into sheer rage as he moved out of the way of Hunter's shot.
He squeezed his finger on the trigger, but not before another bullet came flying at him.
His bullet left his gun.
Hunter's hit its target.
So did Enzio's.
My father dropped to the ground with a devastating thud, but my eyes snapped to Hunter. He went down in slow motion, his face contorting in pain, and I felt the physical ache of the scream that ripped itself free from my lungs.
Isaiah lunged for me, but adrenaline surged, and I twisted. I shot him at almost point-blank range, and I watched with a sick thrill as whatever life was left inside him drained from his eyes.
Gaige and Angelo came running down the hall, both scruffed, bloodied and beaten, but I was focused on the way my father was slowly reaching for the gun he'd dropped, even as blood poured out of his shoulder and pooled onto the floor.
I stared at him, seeing the man I remembered opposed to the man he was. I saw the man who pushed me too high on the swings, teased me about the monsters beneath my bed, and hid plastic spiders under my pillow. Who taught me to ride a bike, and tie a secure knot, and shoot a gun.
A gun like the one that was burning into my palm.
A tiny piece of me mourned the man he used to be. Mourned who he was now.
Mourning wouldn't get me anywhere, though.
Enzio turned to face me, moving his gun in the direction of Hunter on the floor, and I snapped.
“I hate you,” I whispered, right before I pulled the trigger.
The bullet entered his skull close to his temple, and he stilled.
Emotion welled in my stomach as someone coughed. Someone—Hunter. It was Hunter coughing.
I ran across the room, ignoring Gaige and Angelo as I did, and dropped to the ground next to him. He was halfway to sitting up against the wall, so I put down my gun to help him up. He staggered forward, his hair brushing my cheek, and Gaige knelt down to help me.
Hunter lamely reassured him he was okay once he was sitting up and looked at me. His eyes were a dull gray, nothing like the startling silver I was so accustomed to, and my heart clenched painfully inside my chest.
“Go,” he whispered, wincing. “You need to...” He coughed again.
I shook my head fiercely. “I'm not going anywhere, Hunt—oh God.” I lost my trail of thought as I saw the blood that coated the hand he had pressed against his side. “Gaige, Angelo, quick. I need something to stop the—oh God.”
“Here.” Angelo pulled off his sweater and handed it to me. “Calling nine-one-one.”
My hands shook as I