𝐑𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

33 || His Eyes Only

Song: Shakira ft Maluma -  Cantaje (slowed)

𝔚𝔚𝔚
Nico

This shit sucked.

It really fucking sucked.

First it was the weird pressure in my chest, the type that sparked a surge of self loathing, then there was the shit I couldn't explain.

It wasn't pity, disgust or even empathy. It was worse, much, much worse.

It was contrite.

"A very sorry or guilty feeling about something bad you have done."

Yeah, I fucking googled that shit to finally put a name to the emotion I'd been feeling.

The feeling was practically an illness, a disease. One I hadn't caught since I'd escaped and come to America, only to learn of mamá's death.

It was the first time I'd ever been plagued by the illness and what I'd now learned was called contrite or guilt.

Only back then, I'd had an - arguably healthy, way of dealing with it.

I'd constructed a little black book with the names of every person who'd ever wronged mamá and I. And I grieved her death in the only way I knew how to. By hunting down every name on that list.

I'd make their deaths painful, I'd show no mercy. And I'd enjoy the euphoria that came in the moments of silence after the kill. I still had a long list of names to get through, but each kill brought me one step closer to paradise.

Now, though, I didn't know how to fix the situation I'd gotten myself into.

Killing wouldn't make things better, Bambi didn't strike me as the violent vengeful type. She was stubborn as hell and far too emotionally driven.

It was funny how things worked. Our mere beings contradicted, She was far too in tune with her emotions and I was far too disconnected. A good man would do the right thing, but I was far too selfish.

Bambi was stuck with me, even if she didn't know it yet.

Glass cracks under the soles of my shoes as I step through what's left of the building before me. The smell of burned tar fills my senses as I take in what's left of my warehouse full of product.

Gun shipments from both the Italians and the Egyptians, Ammo from the Colombians and three million worth of clean bills, all gone. The only thing of value that wasn't kept in the warehouse were my narcotics, I produced and distributed that shit locally.

"Who'd be dumb enough to pull this shit here?" I hear one of the clean up guys mutter from somewhere behind me. We were in upstate New York, a fucking ghost town. The nearest form of human life was an old gas station 20 miles down the road, his question was valid.

I feel Sammy's weary gaze directed at the side of my head but I squat down and inspect the bits and pieces of metal covered in gun powder. "Wasn't Danny's specialty arson?"

"Mhm." I hum, straightening out to my full height and glancing towards the forest that surrounds the perimeter of the property.