His lips barely press. He turns his head, staring up at the ceiling again.
"Lay down," he mumbles.
"I'm not sleepy."
"I don't care if you are or not. You just tried to kill me. You’re lucky I haven’t already killed you with that knife for pulling such a stupid move. Now lay down before I change my mind, Gianna." I scowl at him a few seconds longer. Finally, when he doesn't say anything else, I huff and slouch back, but I keep the knife, gripping the handle in hand.
He's quiet for a long time. Almost too long. To the point that I think he's fallen asleep again, or was he ever asleep to begin with?
He’s a sneaky one. I’ll give him that.
When he finally speaks up, I am shocked by what he says.
"I had Toni killed because I saw him murder my father."
I gasp aloud, whipping my head over to look at him. "What?" I ask, but my throat is so dry and thick that I can barely understand myself.
"I was seventeen,” he continues, like I didn’t just say anything. “We were in the United States, just me and my father. It happened two nights before we were supposed to fly home . . . here, to Mexico. He told me that night that he had one more important stop to make. It was late so I honestly didn't care. He had other meetings held at later times than this. Normally, I would have joined him, but this time I sat it out and waited in the car for him because I was tired.
“He pulled up to some old restaurant in the heart of New Jersey. It wasn't too far from our hotel. I could tell it was family owned—probably by Toni's sorry ass or someone he knew that would never snitch on him." I hear the anger in his voice when he says Toni's name.
"My father told me he would be back in no time. Before he got out, he told me that I'd been good and that he could tell I was learning a lot. I was learning a lot about the business aspect of it. He told me he was proud of me—glad that I was taking this seriously. He finally went into the restaurant and I turned up the music to try and wake myself up. It didn’t work, so after ten minutes passed, I got out of the car to walk around. It was starting to drizzle, but I didn't mind it. I needed something to happen to keep me awake. My father was relying on me for a lot during that trip, and I couldn't let him down by falling asleep. I didn't want to disappoint him.
"I paced the sidewalk, but more and more time passed and I became impatient. So I got nosy and walked over to the window to take a look inside." He swallows painfully, as if he has a rock lodged in his throat. "I saw my father sitting down at a single table with his hands in his pockets, his gun on the table, and a smirk on his lips. At the counter was some other man I had never seen before. He looked like an amateur, without a doubt, and couldn't have been much older than me. My dad was talking to him—I don't know what he was telling him—but with each sentence I could see the other man's shoulders hiking up and getting tense. He was getting angrier and angrier by the second, like my father was rubbing something in his face that he didn’t want to hear. The man spun around and I could finally see his face. I could see all of him from that dim light. I will never forget his face or what he was wearing—a black leather jacket, a white T-shirt, and black jeans. I will never forget the crazy look in his eyes. That smug look he wore, as he stepped closer and then, out of nowhere, yanked out his gun and stormed to my father. My father wasn’t quick enough to grab his, and I assumed he either underestimated this man or he didn't think he had a gun on him to shoot with. My father always told me to be smart and to think ahead, but in that moment, he wasn't thinking. He was too slow. And because of it, he was shot right through the forehead."
Draco flinches, and I realize his eyes are squeezed tight, as if he’s reliving the nightmare all over again.
"He shot him through the skull. Twice. There was a silencer on the gun so it couldn’t be heard but it fuck sure could be felt. Each bullet through his head was one through my heart. I panicked. I was young so the first thing that came to mind was to run. So I ran. I ran for my life. I ran away from my father instead of going in and helping him. The wind burned my cheeks and the rain was coming down harder on me, but I didn't care. By the time I got to the pay phone I could hardly breathe. I had two options: call the cops, or call the only other number I knew by heart while I was there. I went with my gut. I called the other number."