The Night We Burned 2
The Night We Burned 2
VALENTINA
The world narrows to the rim of my binoculars. Isabella moves like a rehearsed melody predictable, soft, trusting and my chest tightens with a pleasure that tastes like something dangerous. I watch her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, watch the way she fusses with the stroller strap as if the buckle were a talisman. Every small motion catalogs itself in my head: the tilt of her shoulder, the laugh that lifts and then settles, the way she hums under her breath when her daughter claps at a pigeon.
My palms are cool against the steering wheel. My pulse thuds in my throat, a steady drum I count in half-breaths: one-and, two-and, one-and. The sound of it becomes a metronome. I feel the skin along my jaw tighten like wire. Adrenaline sits behind my ribs, patient and hungry, making my vision sharper at the edges and duller in the center everything important focused, everything else softened.
Vincent left at dawn with the kind of quick, polite goodbye that seals departures. The passport stamp, the excuses gone. He was the leash that kept me from sinking my teeth into the plan. With him out of the way, the Russo estate is a house with its blinds open. The gate is a breath between me and what I want.
I park three streets away, engine off, the car cooling like a held breath. Through the glass I watch the driveway without blinking. The gate yawns open; four cars slide out like polished beetles. Isabella’s SUV is third, her child’s booster seat a bright, ridiculous constellation of suns and dinosaurs. My throat tightens. The sight of those cartoon stickers is a needle in the place where mercy might have lived.
I breathe slow and controlled. In. Two counts. Out. Four. I let my lungs fill and empty until my hands stop shaking and my legs stop wanting to move on their own. Still, the small hairs along my forearms stand like sentries. A single bead of sweat tracks down the side of my neck and I don’t notice until it tastes like iron on my lip.
The park waits like a stage set left up after the show. Thursday, like clockwork: swings groaning, a vendor selling burnt sugar, the cacophony of other people’s safety. Mothers trade smiles and time; they hand over their small heartbeats and expect them returned. Isabella trusts in that exchange. She believes the world keeps its promises.
I open the trunk with a fingertip, not a click but a whisper. The mechanism slides out smooth and conspiratorial. My palms know the weight of it before I lift it. Everything inside is arranged to make no sound rope wrapped tight, a cloth that won’t snap, movements practiced until muscle memory hums like a second heartbeat. My fingers trace the edge of a plan I’ve memorized in the dark.
Good hunters do not rush. They slow their blood down to match the air. My breathing lengthens; I can feel the oxygen feed the small, precise parts of my body that will do the job. My jaw loosens. The smirk I’ve carried all morning settles into something colder, thinner. Shadows are patient company; they teach you how to wait.
Images slide across my mind Isabella’s hands reaching, fingers fumbling for air; her scream a raw rope tearing through the park; the paradoxical slowness of a child falling, time folding into a terrible, delicate thing. The images make the skin on my arms prickle. My mouth goes dry; I lick my lips and taste nothing but the idea of it.
A bus sighs around the corner, distant laughter, the clack of a bike chain mundane sounds that stitch the scene into ordinary life. Ordinary life makes the deed seem possible. Ordinary life is what gives me this advantage. I fold the plan back into my palms like a secret and close the trunk with the gentleness of someone placing a sleeping child down.
The night swallows the click. The street lamp throws a pool of yellow that my tires roll out of like a ship leaving a harbor. My foot presses the accelerator a fraction, then eases. The muscles along my neck hum. My heartbeat ratchets up another notch anticipation and control braided together.
Everything will end tonight, I tell myself, tasting the thought like sugar and ash. It settles behind my teeth and sits warm. I drive toward the park, toward the small constellation of suns and dinosaurs, and the world narrows again to the sound of my own breathing and the steady, beautiful rhythm of a rope I will pull when the moment comes.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
My dear amazing readers,
First, thank you so much for reading this far your support, your comments, your likes… they mean everything to me. You’re the heartbeat that keeps this story alive. I hope this chapter got your emotions racing just like mine while writing it because, wow, Richard and Diego’s scene broke me a little 😭. And Valentina… well, she’s walking down a very dark path, isn’t she?
Now I really want to hear you!
Do you think Diego deserves a second chance after everything he’s done? Should Richard fight to save him — or let Damian’s wrath fall where it must? And about Valentina… do you think she’ll actually go through with her plan, or will something stop her at the very last moment?
Your thoughts, theories, and feelings make my day, so don’t hold back tell me what you think in the comments below 💬💖
Also, if you’ve been enjoying this journey, please don’t forget to like, vote, and subscribe it helps more people discover the story and keeps me motivated to bring you the next twist even faster!
I appreciate every single one of you. You’ve been reading, reacting, and growing with these characters just like I have, and that’s the most beautiful part of writing this story. So go on, my loves hit that heart, drop your thoughts, and let’s talk about everything that went down in this chapter. I’ll be in the comments waiting to chat with you! 💕