Page 104 of Damaged Beast
CHAPTER 37
PRIME
Augustus Fontana’s house looms in the evening beyond his high walls. I pause on the sidewalk across the street and marvel at the roofline and wonder if he’s feeling the squeeze the way everyone else in his world must be. And I smile, because I know he’s watching the last of his power evaporate like water in the desert, sucked into the earth, gone in an instant.
I land hard on his grass and amble through the manicured trees and bushes. It’s exactly the way I remember it from my last visit. Fucking Fontana—years ago, when he was at his strongest, he never would’ve let someone like me anywhere near this place.
But he got desperate. He wanted to flex and lord over me and prove to himself that he’s still on top.
He should’ve stayed hidden.
The tank at my hip sloshes and bumps with each step. It’s heavy, but worth the extra weight. I wonder if there are any guards waiting, any eyes watching from the shadows, anyone monitoring the multiple cameras and motion sensors I notice all over the property.
If anyone cares that I’m here, they’re not doing anything about it.
I walk on, thinking about Shawn, about how he befriended me when I was nothing and needed him the most, about how he gasped and looked so scared as he bled out in my arms. About running away, leaving him there, hating myself for it. How that hate only got worse over the years and thickened into a hideous scab over my heart.
Until Deanna came along and ripped it away.
The front door’s locked. I sigh, put the tank down, and knock. Part of me wants to break it down, but it looks like sturdy wood and likely has a solid deadbolt, so why bother wasting the effort? After a short wait, there’s a thud, and it croaks inward.
“Hello? Ah, Mr. Spadaro, are you here?—“
I kick hard. The door slams open, throwing Fontana’s wife backwards in a sprawl. She stares at me guppy-mouthed, dressed for bed in sweats, her hair in curlers. I step onto the threshold and breathe deep the smell of their house: burned candle wax, drywall dust, an undernote of rot.
“What—what—what are you doing?!” She tries to scramble backwards but stops when I raise a gun and aim it at her chest.
“Where’s your husband?”
“He’s—he’s not—what is?—“
I cock back the hammer. “Where is he?”
“Upstairs! In his room!”
I release the hammer and lower the weapon. She begins edging away, mewling in fear, as I uncap the gas can and beginsplashing liquid across the entry rug. There’s an ugly painting hanging on the wall, two lions fighting in a forest, and I make sure that gets a good soaking too.
“What are you doing, Prime?!”
“You’d better leave if you want to survive tonight.”
“But my husband?—“
I glance at her. “Your husband is dead, Mrs. Fontana. I assume you don’t know much about his business?”
Her face pales. “I know… some things…”
“Does the name Shawn mean anything to you?”
“No? Why would it?”
“You should go.” I stalk to the stairs, pouring more gas down the hall toward the kitchen. “This won’t take long.”
“What are you?—“
I flick open a lighter, hold it up, and smile to myself. I’ve always been fond of fire. Scares the shit out of people and smoke makes it impossible for them to stick around. Want to clear a room? Burn it to ashes.
I toss the lighter on the trail of gasoline. It erupts with a whoosh, flames spreading fast. The stupid lion painting curls and hisses as the oil melts. It was probably worth a small fortune.
