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One of my earliest memories is stabbing a cousin with a butter knife at Sunday lunch, and I can’t even remember which one because I’ve tried to kill them all at some point.
GABE STOP 😂
Because that’s the thing about feeding your addictions: the high is only ever temporary.
Love hurts. And in this moment, I know with every fiber of my being, it’s worth the pain.
I’ve saved everything for it. Every first, from my first date to my first kiss, and beyond, for it. I can’t simply date—there’s no maybe-so’s, no settling, and definitely no friends with benefits.
“What, you wanna be kidnapped? Raped? Murdered?” he carries on, voice growing darker by the syllable. “You’re a walking target. A sitting duck. And what the fuck were you thinking, putting your location on Instagram?” My spine straightens, and I come to an abrupt stop. Curiosity and surprise spin me around. “You looked at my Instagram?”
“Good. If you’re being kidnapped, you’re not meant to be happy.” He raps the trunk lid with his fist. “Now, hurry up. I’ve got puppies to slaughter.”
I’d fired the first shot because the thought of another man seeing what I was seeing made me feel violent. The second shot was at the light because I wasn’t worthy of seeing it myself.
I breathe out so hard the room spins. “Oh, my God. You really do have a crush on me.” His eyes narrow. “What?” “Gabriel Visconti,” I announce, loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear. “You have a crush on me.” He barks out a laugh laced with unease. “You’re out of your fucking mind.” But it’s too late; the realization has seeded in my bones and is growing roots.
It’s not like I’ve never seen a man die before. Besides, his name is David. And David is the king of boring anecdotes.
Gabriel Visconti has just poisoned a man for me. Me. A river of calm trickles through me. I wouldn’t cave for love or money. It’s not what I was born to do.
