The Devil Inside (20 page)

As I speed up, the car starts to wobble. The passenger side window is smashed from where I’ve rammed into Lucini’s SUV, sending it careening off the freeway.
 

It happened quickly, Manzoni and the driver bursting out of the vehicle in outrage, guns drawn.
 

I shot them both in the head, but not before Manzoni managed to get off a shot at me, catching me in the leg.
 

At least the bleeding’s stopped.

It’s an occupational hazard.

I regulate my speed, glancing in the rearview mirror now and then, on the lookout for lone cops or Lucini’s people. I overtake only a few cars. No-one follows.
 

I’ll need to ditch this car soon.
 

The pain in my thigh has become a dull ache. I focus on the road, as the desert turns into urban sprawl.
 

I’ve taken out the two most important figures in the Lucini crime family.

Erika and Kenichi Goto will be pleased. They’ve thrown one of Kuroda’s main rivals into total chaos.

So where does that leave me?

Am I now their favorite hired killer in Los Angeles?

Am I back to this shit again?

For the past two weeks I’ve been staking out my targets, a familiar coldness settling over me. My work has been methodical and precise.

But there have been slip ups, times when I found myself drifting, my thoughts filled with memories of Adele, of the feel of her smooth, creamy skin against mine, of her warmth and her intoxicating vanilla scent.

I was a brute to her.

That’s the viciousness in me that comes out now and again; the savage, uncontrollable need to take what’s mine.
 

I thought she was lost to me. I thought I could forget.

Then, yesterday, a strange piece of mail appears, messing me up all over again.

I reach over to my bloody jacket, which is lying on the passenger seat. Inside the pocket is the envelope.
 

The invitation.
 

It has
her
writing on it. When I touch the delicate, textured paper to my nose I can almost catch
her
scent. I imagine her touching it with those elegant, slender fingers, sliding it into the envelope.
 

And I can’t help but feel turned on.

Driving down the empty highway, in the early hours of the morning, with a bullet wound in my leg, I somehow still manage to feel aroused just at the thought of her.

This is becoming fucking ridiculous.
 

I’ve just killed three men. I’ve been sucked back deep into the undertow and Adele and I should never meet again. But I’m drawn to her, driven by a force I can’t really explain.

Her openness, her innocence, the way she accepts me without judgement; we’re like day and night.

We can’t be together.

I feel warm wetness on my thigh. The wound’s opened up again. Setting the cruise control, I balance the wheel with one knee and press my suit jacket against the wound, applying pressure.
 

My face is clammy with sweat. But my vision is clear.

I regain the wheel and drive, not entirely sure of my direction.
 

I’m back in this life and now I know for sure that I don’t want it.

I follow my instincts as I drive, my thoughts becoming increasingly scattered. I’ve never been erratic like this before. What the hell is wrong with me?
 

Anger.

Frustration.

Longing.

Calm yourself, idiot
.

I need to forget all this sentimental bullshit and stop being an emotional wreck. It’s going to get me killed. But I just want one last glimpse, to satisfy my curiosity, my craving for even the smallest piece of her.
 

A small part of me wanted my reality to be different. But no-one cuts ties with the Kuroda Group and walks away unscathed.

And now, the one, tiny chance I had at redemption has slipped away from me.
 

Kaito

I dump the car in a dead end street with the keys in the ignition. I call Masa and tell him to send someone to dispose of it. He murmurs in agreement, still half asleep.

I walk two blocks, limping, one hand pressed against my thigh. The bleeding’s stopped again. But it still hurts like hell.

It’s not a life threatening wound. It can be dealt with later.

I feel empty inside, and somehow, it hurts.

I need something; I’m searching for something right now. This can’t wait. I may never get another chance. I could be dead soon, or in jail. I’ve just killed the head of an old mafia family.

I reach a dark shopfront in an old, converted warehouse. Sleek glass and metal windows contrast with weathered brown brick walls.

The front door is secured with a deadbolt, so I limp around the back. There’s a staff entrance. I smash the glass pane in the door with the butt of my Glock, wrapped in my jacket, and let myself in.
 

This is the address written on the invitation.

It’s an art gallery, apparently.
 

And it seems Adele has done her best to return the twenty grand I paid her.
 

It’s dark inside. But I prefer to keep the lights off. I don’t want to draw attention. Anyway, dawn is creeping up on me, thinning the darkness. I can see enough to get around. Soon, it’ll be light enough for me to view the exhibition.

The gallery’s a cavernous space. I can see dark outlines of pictures and prints on the walls, but it’s still too dim to make out the detail.
 

I find a chair and take a seat in the centre of the room. With a sigh, I lean back, closing my eyes.

I’ve been up all night.

I’m tired.
 

The dull throb in my leg is almost a welcome companion, reminding me that I’m still rooted in reality. The pain anchors me and takes my mind off everything else.

I can’t process emotions. Never been good at that shit.
 

Physical pain, now that’s easy to handle.
 

I drift, taking comfort in the silence and darkness.
 

Dawn light bleeds through high windows, revealing slivers of detail. Lines and shapes and fragments of color start to appear, slowly forming an image.

As I realize what’s appearing before me, I’m floored. That woman has spared no detail.
 

I’m staring at a likeness of myself, painted against a dark background. She’s captured me in impossible detail. In the painting, I’m standing with my head lowered, shadows obscuring my face.
 

Thank fuck for that.

Adele must have a photographic memory or something, because she’s painted the tattoos on my arms almost exactly as they appear, right down to the coloring.
 

And in the picture, standing behind me, is a woman. Her arms are around me, her head resting on my shoulder. Her hair is white, ethereal, surrounding her pale face like a halo.
 

I can’t tell her age. She’s not old or young. She’s ageless, and her black eyes stare out of the canvas like twin, burning embers.
 

I feel like that woman, whoever she is, is staring right into my soul.

I can almost feel her arms around me, her small hands tracing over my bare chest.

And somehow, there’s sorrow and pain and hell all tied up in that black gaze.

How the fuck has Adele done this?

She never told me she was out-of-this-world talented.

For some reason, I think of my mother and my last memory of her, lying in a hospital bed, wasted away from the disease that slowly drained the life out of her.
 

I think of my mother and the few times she held me when I was a kid, her musky perfume surrounding me, familiar and comforting.
 

I think of the soft embrace of the woman I shut out of my life, of her warm eyes and teasing voice and I realize that I definitely don’t deserve her.
 

I must have lost more blood than I thought, because I’m feeling strange in the chest, like that woman’s stare is throwing little hooks in me, where my heart is, and fuck that feeling, because I’ve never felt it before in my life.
 

I must be going insane.

It’s light enough now to make out the title of the painting.

Forgiveness.

I’m completely undone.
 

Adele

It’s a humid, overcast morning. Watery, grey morning light filters through the cloud cover. I hold my coffee in one hand while I fumble for the keys to the gallery. I’ve been amazingly lucky. The place is owned by Dio’s brother Manny, and somehow, he’s managed to generate enough interest in my work to hold an exhibition.

I’m nervous.
 

The works hanging in that place reveal a lot about me. I’ve drawn hostesses and gangsters, policemen and pimps. There’s a picture of a drunk salaryman, his tie loose, face flushed. There’s a half finished drawing of a hard working waitress, messy strands of hair falling around her face. It’s half finished on purpose. There’s a bottle of golden tinted sake, with gold flakes swirling through it, drawn in hyperrealism. I called that one
Ethereal.

I’ve mixed too many different styles and techniques for my art to fit any one category.

I don’t care. I’ve never been a big fan of labels.

 
The centerpiece has been hung in the middle of the gallery. It’s a picture of Kaito, but no-one’s going to know that, unless they’ve seen him naked. I’ve painted his tattoos, but hidden his face. And then there’s the lady who’s put her arms around him. It’s not meant to represent me. No way. I only meant to paint a benevolent spirit, of sorts.
 

Someone who could fill the void I sense has been there his entire life.
 

That’s a bit presumptuous of me.
 

But I did it on purpose. Because I’m longing for Kaito, but at the same time, I’m angry with him. Some perverse part finds satisfaction in the thought of hanging him out for everyone to see.
 

It’s the ultimate message, and the greatest revenge. He doesn’t want to see me? Fine. I’ll communicate with him by doing what I do best.

I wonder if he got the invite.

I don’t really expect him to show.
 

I enter the gallery, passing through a small shop area. I’ve come in early to make sure everything’s right. That the paintings are in the correct order, that they’re labelled right.
 

I’m more than nervous; I’m freaking out.
 

I flip on the lights as I step into the giant space. I stop dead in my tracks.

It’s him.
 

The man who’s driven me to all this.

He’s sitting on a chair, his head back, eyes closed. He’s wearing his usual sharply tailored suit. His crisp white shirt is slightly open at the neck, and his black jacket is draped over one knee.
 

Is this even real? My heart hammers in my chest as I approach, studying his features. In the morning light, he looks peaceful, all traces of hardness gone from his face.
 

Beautiful.
 

He looks almost innocent, a version of the man I might find if the harsh reality of life hadn’t shaped him.
 

But he’s pale, and as I get closer, I notice something staining the lower part of his crisp, white shirt. Is that blood?

Something’s wrong. I rush over, dropping my bag, placing my coffee on the floor. “Kaito,” I murmur, gently shaking his shoulder.
 

His eyes snap open and he grabs my wrist in a viselike grip. Suddenly, there’s something hard pressing into my stomach. Oh God, is that a gun?

I freeze, trying to slow my racing heart.

“Or are you just happy to see me?” I say slowly, fighting to keep my voice low and even. Fear races through me and I push it down. Now is not the time to freak out.

“Adele.” His voice is deceptively smooth, undermining the dangerousness of the situation. I stare back into black, depthless eyes that hold a strange, swirling storm of fury and awe. “Don’t ever sneak up on me like that.”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” I snap, relief coursing through me. Kaito lowers the gun, releasing me. His fingers are red, covered in blood. “You’re bleeding.”

“Not much,” he replies, as if it’s an everyday thing.
 

“What the hell are you doing here? What happened to you?”

“I got your invitation,” he says dryly, raising an eyebrow. His eyes are ringed with dark circles. He looks exhausted. He stares past me, at the painting of himself. “I don’t know what you were trying to say with that portrait.”

“It’s open to interpretation.” I glance down at his hand and the black jacket draped over his leg. “You’re hurt. You need a hospital. What happened, Kaito?”

He closes his eyes again, taking a deep breath. When he opens them again, his expression softens. “A few hours ago, I killed three men, Adele.” He gestures with the gun, spreading his fingers. “This is the real me. This is what I do.”

Then, that momentary softness is gone, replaced with coldness. The barriers are up, as if he’s anticipating my reaction.
 

I fight to stay calm. I’d suspected he was more than just an accountant from the start, but to hear him admit it shakes me to the core. Somehow, my voice is even and my hands don’t shake as I pull the jacket away from where it’s hiding his leg.
 

His pants are wet with blood. There’s a wound in his thigh.

“You’re hurt,” I gasp. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

Kaito holds up a hand, silencing me. “No hospitals. I know a guy who can fix this. You should go. I was just enjoying the peace and quiet here. I’ll be gone, soon.”

“Idiot. I’m not going anywhere.”

“What did you say?”

With careful hands, I take the gun away from Kaito, laying it on the wooden floor. He allows me to take it without protest, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards in amusement. “You know what I am now. Why do you persist?”