Chapter 4

Corrin

On the fifth day of working in this restaurant I’m restless. Sevina and I clean the tables and then she heads off somewhere back into the kitchen. I linger, slow with my cleaning so to gather as much intel as possible, because no matter how hard I try to find something, anything… there’s no evidence these people are bad. In fact, for as long as I observe them, they are… trusting and normal. What on earth could they’ve done to book a ticket to the execution platform?

On the second day I even snuck into Mrs. Brice’s study on the second floor. With my hands gloved in latex gloves I found by the sink I searched the study. Her computer wasn’t locked, but the only useful information I discovered were work contracts and staff’s home addresses. Racketeering, money laundering or anything my father would order me to kill them for wasn’t there. Mrs. Brice wouldn’t keep her secret transactions on an unlocked computer, would she? But I didn’t even know what I was looking for. I opened a couple desk drawers and noticed they kept their papers out in the open. I had to leave them though, for fear there wouldn’t be enough time to stack them as they were.

As my week draws to its end so does my patience to blindly pull the trigger. The five days were the most stressful days in my life and I never found my life hard. It had some ups and downs, but it was viewed from the mundane scrutiny of a kid curious about the world. I thought I had problems when I received a bad grade or was worried if I would graduate with enough honors to make Father happy.

Now I have to kill to make him happy.

Kill for nothing.

But most of our members have killed if not all of them. How difficult is it to pull the trigger? I never thought about it. Countless men with a similar life have managed to kill someone, and often. Do they feel remorse? Guilt?

“Finish up and clock out.” Rovy’s words draw me from my thoughts. He and Sevina pass me and head out the door. I watch them go. I observed Sevina too at the corner of my eye as I worked. Her head always remained low, hunched shoulders conveyed nothing but foreboding timidity. Workers passed her by like a bump on the road. The longer I hung around her the more pitiful I felt. But I kept trying because Rovan and she have some sort of a connection. He encouraged everyone, but her, he gave a little more attention. Yet, every time I tried talking to her it left me frustrated with my inability to relate to her. Does she even know how to communicate with people? I haven’t caught her talking with any of our co-workers yet. But here she is, heading out with Rovan as if on a date. It’s a good thing I noted the staff’s addresses on my phone and, just in case, I should take a note on Sevina’s. Whatever the case for her withdrawal I hope she won’t sabotage my trial in any way.

Sevina and I cross our eyes and I look down, my breath catching in my throat. She is rather creepy, with her yellow eyes, piercing through me in a splinter of a second as if they see my entire essence. Or maybe I’m paranoid, knowing I have to take her friend’s life.

Sevina stops by the door briefly, but then steps out, Rovy behind her.

“Hey, dear,” I jump at Mrs. Brice’s voice. She lifts her palms. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No problem, ma’am.”

Mrs. Brice watches Rovy and Sevina go and her eyes soften. With this thought I recall that I have to kill this woman in front of me. This human being of whom I know nothing about.

Her deep parental gaze disturbs me so much I don’t notice myself pinching at my elbow.

“They seem to be good friends,” I imply.

“They are. I’m so glad.” Mrs. Brice helps me out as she lowers the blinds. “They both lived through some tough times.”

“Tough times?” I pivot to her.

“Sevina’s an orphan, and Rovy’s lost his father,” she sighs. “Rovy’s got better, but we’re not getting anywhere with Sevina’s behavior.” Mrs. Brice runs her fingers over her forehead, concerned. “She’s very secretive.”

“Not to be too bold, but what is it with her? She stares at the floor all the time and barely does any work.”

The woman takes off her glasses. “She often gets stuck in her head. We think she might have a mental condition, poor child.” She wipes them with her sleeve. “She’s an orphan and she loves us, you see. And she’s precious to us. To me.” To me…

I gulp. “If she’s orphaned, why can’t you take her in?”

“We may be close, but she keeps her distance. I think she believes she owes us from the day we found her hurt.”

“Hurt?” I furrow my brows with puzzlement. It grows as Mrs. Brice reveals me Sevina’s story. How they found her beaten by the restaurant.

“Don’t tell her I told you, all right?” She says after she finishes. “Perhaps, you’ll be the first person, or second, she’ll open to. I see you’ve been helping her a lot. No one here is kind to her. They even asked me to fire her once, but I couldn’t. Thank God, Rovan helps her.” Why is she telling me this? How can she trust me with this intel if she’s the bad guy? How can she have a death sentence when she concerns herself so much with a simple worker? And I’m supposed to erase her based on orders? She must be lying, covering something malicious with her mellow words of concern. But if she is would it make sense for her to run a public restaurant anyone can stroll into? If these people had any clue they were being hunted, why not lay low?

I stifle a strained smile, say my goodbyes and leave. Yet an unpleasant sensation stays with me for the rest of the day. Two days left and it all will be over. I’ll come back home and with father’s approval will be given an order to execute. I’ll do it and be sent out into the streets.

I barely close my eyes at night, my mind racing, searching for any possibility. Then, at dawn, I voluntary spend a couple hours thumping the boxing bag with my bare fists, clearing my thoughts. Dan laughs as soon as he sees me.

“That bad, huh?” He leans on the door frame of the gym room. It’s located in the far north wing of our mansion, right beside the indoor pool.

I don’t bother tossing him a look. “What are you doing here?”

“I still have to pretend I’m taking you to practice.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets.

“Right, I can drive myself.” Usually, I’m not allowed to wander off alone without Dan or a bodyguard.

“Father’s boys will beat you up if you take one of their cars,” Dan says, nonchalant.

“Whatever.”

He strides closer to me. “What’s the complication in your scout mission?” He whispers. I land one last punch into the bag and stop, breathing ragged breaths.

“It’s the... the emotional attachment thing, was it a problem?” I don’t even know if attachment is the problem as much as the reason to kill them. There’s no reason! No reason that I was given.

“That was fast.” Dan laughs my concern away, again, then his sneer disappears. “Look, I did not disclose your targets to you so you’d care for whatever sweet talk they give you. I did it so you’d know the place, know the patterns your targets live by.”

“I know,” I utter.

“If you’re going to allow yourself to care, you won’t survive long. In fact, business will suffer from it. Remember what I told you. You can’t be weak.”

“What about Father?” I ask. “He got attached to Mom.”

“Does he allow it to get in the line of work?” Dan retorts. “No.”

I exhale, resting my forehead against the bag, practically hugging it. Not once did Father visit her in the hospital. But what kind of love is that?

…

My hand swipes over the information and faces on the digital tablet. I lift my eyes to my father. His lips form a sharp smile and for the first time his wide palm meets my shoulder with a strong pat of endorsement. “Good luck, Corrin.”

I straighten, inhaling and give him a firm nod.

He nods back, his eyes set on mine, and my stomach flutters at his acknowledgment.

It’s not until I slide the heavy door of his study closed that my chin falls to my chest. The weight of my trial thwacks me hard.

I can't kill them.

Good luck, Corrin, repeats in my head. Three words before he sends his son to his glory. Maybe Father knows Dan had explained almost everything to me. Is he worried? I’m his family. Shouldn’t that count for something?

Nevertheless, I cannot disappoint my family.

“Big day tomorrow night, huh?” Dan is by the door as usual.

“Yeah...”

“Oh, come on, man.” He throws his arm around my shoulders. “First kill, always fun, right?”

“Right. It’s just I don’t know what I’m killing them for. It’s not like they killed somebody of ours, or have they?” I’m desperate for answers.

“Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. It’s not relevant.”

“It is relevant.” I squirm from underneath his arm. “We’ll have to question each detail when we’re running the family business. We’ll have to think for ourselves.”

“You’ll never run the family business if you’re not capable of following orders, dumbass,” Dan says. “First you follow, then you make your own orders, understand that.”

For a hundredth time I tell myself he has a point. You have to observe and learn from the wiser ones and only with experience can you make your own decisions. My father is providing my first experience, and I dare to question him? What a dumbass indeed.

But I’m not. It doesn’t feel right.

Yet this is what I was born to do, and I have to fight the trial and fight my weakness as Dan says. Father isn’t even worried about me; he gave me a pat on the back. He’s never done that before. He knows I can do it.

“All right.” I delete the file from the tablet with a resolute tap. “Wish me luck?”

“Now that’s what I want to hear,” Dan’s voice jumps. “Finally, you don’t sound like a whiny, little chicken.” He clasps his palms together, excited. “Shall we choose a weapon for you?”

“A weapon?”

“Or will you strangle them to death?” He jokes, but I can’t force myself to form a fitting response.

We do keep guns in the mansions shooting range in the basement, but Dan’s all-time favorite is where Father’s men keep their whole arsenal—the arms locker in the personnel’s house. I don’t descend there often, and training sessions in the shooting range don’t offer a vast choice of guns.

But this time I can choose on my own. The weapon has to mean something, doesn’t it?

The arms locker is in a two-story personnel’s house to the left of the mansion and past the garages. Even if aged, with its walls covered in vines enclosing the decorated windows, its architecture fits the mansion appropriately. Interior, however, is far from the lavishness of the main building— from the dull kitchen to the even duller laundry rooms. Compared to the wooden brown and red marble decor of the main house I find it almost hostile.

“Good morning, Fellas.” Dan raises his hand at four men, seated around the oval table right of the entry door. At least seven men (out of fifteen, who Dan says, are father’s close security) are always present on the compound. And three of them generally patrol the perimeter. Even this far off the city Father keeps his security tight. He’s a little too paranoid if you ask me.

Dan and I make our way to the end of the corridor and to the basement.

Once, right before Dan’s trial, we stole some guns from the shooting range. Dan, naturally, was the grand master to the plan. He must’ve wanted to impress me with his ability to hunt. Given I still hated the hunting, after we had spent the whole day shooting birds in the forest, I began to look up to him. He was different back then.

For once in our lives it was Dan who got the blame when we were discovered, which earned him eight hours of chores. He had to clean all the guns and wash five cars, then he left with Father somewhere for a few days. Once they returned Dan slunk into his room and sat there for days. I snuck around the mansion from room to room, trying to figure out what’s going on, until, through a door crack to Father’s study, I stumbled upon my mom, jabbing her finger at Father.

“I have a job! To raise a child. Not destroy him! And I’m doing it!” She hollered at him, moments before they noticed me. “The child you gave me to raise!”

It was one of the rare times I saw Father concede. Now I think the argument was whether I should’ve been punished for the guns Dan and I stole. I’m thankfull mom defended me as I was only eight. And if anything the punishment was effective. Dan never told me what happened, but he didn’t glance at the weapons without an order since.

Dan strides past a few doors until he’s in front of the last one, and puts his palm against its lock panel. No one can access the room without Dan, Father, or Marty present.

Bright, white light flicks on when Dan shoulders the door wide open. Weapon stalls line each wall and a metal table stands right in the middle. As my eyes slide across the shining, black metals of all sorts and varieties pegged on the walls like trophies I can’t help but smile. As far as I know Father has never been a weapons fanatic, and we rarely have guests to show off to. This makes me think the room is a decoration with occasional need for use. Still, it’s not like we murder people every day. At least, I assume it’s not the case.

Two polished black guns, hanging on the front wall, grab my attention.

“Blasters?” I lift my finger at the weapons and look at Dan. For a moment, I’m a schoolboy who adores new tech and wants nothing but to play with expensive toys. I tilt my head up, scrutinizing a slick construction of burning firepower the size of a medium handgun. “Aren’t those supposed to be illegal for civilians to carry?”

Dan snickers and I assume my question was stupid. Blasters are allowed only in the military, as well as hover choppers, and hovercrafts, and force fields and all manner of other extraordinary technological creations.

“So what would you choose?” Dan asks and I recall why I’m here.

Shifting uneasily in place I scan the firearms again. “I would need something small and silent.” Despite my pride craving the heavy-duty artillery I walk to the line of small bullet handguns.

“I’d suggest this one.” Dan points at the first one in the line.

I take it. It’s small and black, not to mention boring compared to the blasters. Even the shooting range had nicer ones.

“And this.” Dan hands me a silencer. “Perfect for domestic kills. Silent, easy to conceal.”

“Are you certain no one will hear the shot?” I ask.

“They might, but this is as quiet as it’ll be. And if you ram it deep enough into their flesh it’ll be silent.” Dan pushes his fingers into my side so it hurts. “Like this.”

“It might backfire,” I murmur and stand aside. Dan gives an unconcerned one shoulder shrug. “This baby won’t. Besides, it’s Coats. No one cares about any shots.”

I mount the silencer on the barrel and grip it. It’s so light.

…

I stand in a dirty alleyway, leading to the back door of the restaurant from the opposite street. I absently thumb a game on my cellphone, waiting for the darkness to settle over Havason City and trying not to think about anything else but the colors I see on the screen.

I lose and I try again. And I lose.

I hide my cell in my pocket and instead focus on the dreaded task. How should I do this? Why haven’t I planned it out a while ago? I should’ve decided what turns to take like any other rational criminal. Sure, I know the layout of the entire restaurant, and I blended in with the staff well, but is that enough? Where is my actual plan? Instead of planning I kept busy by making friends and helping out; a mistake I only now grasp. Maybe the fact that I’ve enjoyed myself while I worked messed with my reasoning? If it wasn’t for my trial, I could’ve chatted with them for hours. The cook offered to show me his recipes and one of the girls asked me to hang out… only with her. It sounded like a date and I would’ve accepted under different circumstances.

I swallow. I can’t enjoy small talk. It can’t be in a blood of a mobster to enjoy it. Yet I do.

Corrin, imagine how proud Father will be when you succeed.

The alley eases into shadows and shapes of dumpsters and roadside parked cars form in the feeble street lights. People on the street peter out, but I still glance about, even though I’m certain my dark outfit— gray t-shirt, a black thin jacket, and combat pants— blend me with the environment.

I pull out a pair of black gloves I purchased and put them on my trembling hands. The sick, restless sensation I did my best to deal with for the past week seems like a tiny speckle of sand lost in the sea, compared to the disquietude surging through me now. I shut my eyes, for the hundredth time convincing myself I’m doing this for a reason. Father and Dan are right. In every way.

But why do I feel like these people are about to die for nothing?

I lean against the wall with my shoulder and rub my palms, struggling to compose myself.

I want it. I can do it.

I exhale and check the gun in the holster under my jacket, waiting for its defining moment, then stand in thought for another hour, waiting. At last, when the restaurant long since been closed, I compel myself to move.

The alleyway, running through the middle of the block, is lit by sparse streetlights, hanging above the road and shedding strict pools of light onto the paved street. I retrieve my lock picking set from my back pocket and scurry to the back door. Dan had taught me how to pick old locks when we used to rob the factories on Clare’s Island.

The door creaks and I measure each step as I enter. The corridor is empty, but the door to the security room is open, light spilling through and hitting the opposite wall. Rovy has to be there now, setting the alarm.

Cold sweat runs down my back as I creep forward with my back to the wall. I take out my silenced weapon and sweat on my palms dampens my gloves as I wrap my fingers around the gun’s grip, but I hold my attention on the security door.

Tiptoeing against the wall, I reach the door frame to the security room, gun down at forty-five degrees. I sneak a look inside. Empty. The light buzzes above the desk and the computer is off. I release a breath, my heart thudding against my temples. I’m alone, at least in this corridor—

Arms grab me from behind and I yelp, adrenaline hitting my blood. Someone’s grip locks tight around my chest and I notice a flash of silver—

I’m pushed forward. “Corrin? Corrin, what the fuck? God—”

“Don’t move!” I pivot, lifting my weapon.

“I almost cut you...” Rovy trails off at the sight of the gun and lowers his head, dropping the kitchen knife he had in his hand. He must’ve heard me breaking in and hid in the storage room. “What are you doing?” He whispers in an astounded voice.

Every vein under my skin tightens.

Just shoot, you moron!

Before I can stop myself the words spill from my mouth. “Kayne’s family? Do you or your mother know anything about it?”

Rovy gasps, “what are you talking about?”

“Is this business clean?” I hiss. “Do you have anything to do with the mob?”

“Look, take whatever you want. Just-just take it, all right?” His voice hitches. “My father got shot. Do you think we would do anything to put us in danger? Search it all if you need proof.”

We share an equally lost look and I lower my weapon sharply. “Damn it.” It’s enough for Rovy, who, like a moron, leaps forward. “Wait! Rovy—” He grasps my wrist with the gun, lifting it into the air in an effort to overpower me. My training kicks in before my brain catches up to what’s happening. My hand pivots the gun toward his head, defending myself and wanting to hit him on the skull to knock him out, but panicky I fail to work against my reflexes. It’s not the handle of the gun that faces Rovy’s head, and sure enough, it’s not my sane mind that contracts the muscles of my fingers.

A muffled shot rings in my ears and Rovy falls on me. I hit the ground hard with my back and my system shuts off, eyes locking onto the ceiling. My heartbeat stills, but I feel something warm on my neck. I glance down. A hole in Rovy’s head seeps a stream of blood on me.

With a yelp I roll him off. He lies on the ground, mouth and eyes wide open.

All I do is stare at him as an uncontrollable shiver whelms my body. The whole world falls apart in front of my eyes.

I push myself up and step back, stiff like I’ve spent a few months paralyzed, until my lungs convulse and I begin catching air. Rovy’s body, his bleeding head holds my attention as if waiting for a chance to disappear.

Disappear…

But it doesn’t. It lies on the ground, unmoving as I step back and back again.

Something behind me clatters, making me jump.

Corrin, it’ll grab you… it’ll hurt you for what you’ve done! My mind shrieks. Panicked, I twist, my hands lifting the weapon I didn’t notice I was still in my grip, ready to defend myself. I feel like I’m reliving what just happened, horrified that Rovy is standing there with a knife in his hand.

I don't want to kill.

My finger squeezes the trigger instinctively.

Thud. The figure in front of me falls to the ground. I take a sip of breath and blink, surroundings around me blurring into what they are. Mrs. Brice lies on her back, her breath shallow.

“Oh, God…” The world around me sharpens. I leap to her. “Hang in there.” I throw the gun on the ground and grab her hand, pressing my other against her chest wound, but there are, in fact, two wounds.

Did I shoot twice?

“Hey!” I find the pulse on her neck as if it would help her. She watches me with a pained expression, wheezing through her mouth. Her eyes jerk at Rovy and her lip begins trembling.

I need something for her wounds. Think, Corrin, think!

I jump up and rush to the cabinet where I assume the med kid was, swing open the doors. Damn dishes! I find it in another cabinet and hurry back, falling to my knees next to her. A weak exhale emits from her lips, and her chest falls as her damp eyes twitch at me from under her glasses. They lock onto mine and freeze.

The blood dampens my gloves and my breath catches up to me in rapid bursts of air. I lurch away and force myself to stand, swaying to the kitchen. I stop by the trash bin and linger there for a long while. Bile rises in my throat and maybe I would’ve used the bin if not for the steps, coming from the corridor.

“What a mess.” Dan steps over the bodies.

I lift my head and sway back until I prop against the counter. “Dan? What—”

“I was watching you, in case.” Noticing my drunken expression he approaches me and looks into my eyes. “Corrin!” His palm makes contact with my cheek. “Wake up!”

“I killed them,” I hear myself say.

“Well, half the job done, right?” Dan snaps back. “Where’s your mask, dumbass?”

Mask?

“I don't care,” I say. He slaps me again. Much harder.

“Listen to me. Father will kill me if he learns I helped you, and he will kill you if you don’t finish this shit.”

“Finish it?”

“Yes! You got them, now you need to clean everything up and haul your ass out of here. I’ll erase the camera footage for you.” He looks around. “Why the hell is the Stewmaker not here yet?”

“Stewmaker?”

Dan gapes, disbelief on his face. “Did you even read the briefing? The men who take care of the bodies? The blood? You were supposed to call them before the kill. Do you remember any of that?”

Now I recall it. I read it in the file my father gave me, but amidst everything I… forgot it, and the mask too.

“I’ll call them, I’ll call them now,” I blubber, patting my pockets for my cell. Dan disappears into the security room and before I can remember first five numbers he’s already back.

“Done.” He grips my shoulder, making me pay attention. “I am going now,” he almost spells out into my face. “I’ve helped you enough and if you won’t manage to finish it then you’re truly not made for this life. You still want to finish it?”

“Yes.” I try to sound strong. “I do. I do.”

He nods at me approvingly, steps over the bodies, and leaves.

When I manage to get a grip on myself I’m already outside. I bolt from the place as fast as I can, my feet carrying me down a dark alley. I didn’t call anyone. I just ran.

I ease to a walk and stop, gulping for air. Somewhere in the darkness I find a spot by a dirty building wall and sit. I wrap my arms around myself and let my chin fall to my chest.

Do something. Move.

But it’s as if my brain has turned into mush. I can’t think, can’t do anything but sit here curled in a ball. And I sit still until cold air starts pricking my muscles under my jacket and makes my temples pound again. I jump to my feet with a pathetic desire to laugh at myself, jerk my jacket off my shoulders and wriggle out of the holster. I throw them away into a nearby dumpster and I pull off my gloves before shoving them through the grated sewage bars near the pavement, then I ferret out my cell.

“Stewmaker, Stewmaker. Eight, four... four...” My voice diminishes as I stare at the screen, squinting.

I hide my cell in my pocket and walk until I find myself back at the restaurant. Dan is truly gone now. No one remains but me and two dead people. Two dead friends.

Absently, I wash off the remaining blood from my hands and sit in the corner of the kitchen. My rational mind floats off into a dark abyss, leaving in the place only me and the bodies. They were alive half an hour ago…and now, they aren’t…

With the dawn my perception comes back, allowing me to rationalize. The smell sends me out of the kitchen, gagging. I stop in the doorway to the dining hall.

Corrin, leave. What are you still doing here?

I don’t know why I don’t take my last chance, nor why I take out my cell and dial 911.