ALESSANDRO
It’s not enough.
Not the killing.
Not the torture.
Not the lead that I’m following to bring out the person who gave that information to the Albanians.
Nothing is enough.
Especially not the fucking torture.
I’d planned to keep Ilir alive for eternity as I tortured him to my heart’s content, but I made a mistake, and he died on me only two weeks after only two weeks of torture.
My feet are heavy as I take the stairs to the my room. A jacket is slung over my shoulder, and my eyes are blurry with tears and remnants of the fool’s blood.
A gasp reaches my ear before I look up to see Zia running down the stairs, a hand muffling her mouth.
Unlike her usual dresses are gone as she joins me to mourn Lorena, she’s now in unflattering black pants and a channel shirt. Her hair is gathered in a messy bun, and her face is makeup-free with a scarf tied on her head.