CHAPTER 13

We walk on the gravel path, hands up. All the three of us, side by side, in silence. Machine guns aimed at our back, their barrels pressing between our shoulder blades.

Dante keeps his eyes on the path right before him and I feel really scared for my life for the very first time since this story started. Scared for my life and for Carmen’s. Dante is cold. Detached. I don’t know if he is deranged, somehow, I hope not. I hope he is in complete control, I hope he’s reasoning like a cop would do and bail us all out.

As our steps stomp rhythmically towards the front door like we are on the march, I cannot stop thinking that all of this is my fault and nobody else’s. All of this. Tasha and Alice, trapped somewhere inside that house. Cassandra and her baby, missing. Marshall, dead, assassinated, tortured. Carmen, still the victim, always the victim. Dante, paying a high price for his help. All of this is my fault and nobody else’s. And as soon as I realize that, my fear is overwhelmed by guilt and I would like to be dead.

We walk through the front door, the three armed muscle men right behind us, Francois leading the way. A red carpet covering the whole hallway, oil lamps dangling everywhere, their reddish light painting frightening shadows on the wall.

The whole house seems silent, but I can hear somebody walking quietly in what I suppose is the living room. We walk through a wide glass door and there they are.

Alice, Tasha and Cassandra are sitting on a red velvet sofa, side by side. Their wrists are handcuffed and resting in their laps. Tasha’s left eyebrow is encrusted with blood and she looks exhausted and beaten. Alice’s eyes are wide open and scared, terrified. Her mascara has left dark trails all along her cheeks. Cassandra looks calm, but shocked. She looks up as we enter the room and her eyes immediately dart to Dante. He doesn’t show any emotions, and even when Cass’ eyes fill up with uncried tears, he doesn’t say anything.

Inside the room, the fireplace is lit up and half-carbonized pieces of wood crackle through the flames. The whole scene could look warm and friendly, but it’s not. It’s a feast of death and we’re the main course.