Still soft. Still warm, the bullet had entered and exited through the carotid artery. Blood pooled like so much antifreeze spilled from a radiator, already seeping into the venerable hard-wood floors of the room.
Nicholas Santorelli stared down at the .40 caliber handgun, the smell of gunpowder still fresh in his nostrils, the ringing in his ears the tolling church bells of Mass. He gazed now at the lifeless form, the platinum blonde hair stained orange from the blood. Nick never realized her eyes that green, like jewelry store emeralds shown under bright bulbs.
She flailed as she fell. When a .40 caliber bullet smashes into your carotid artery, Nick thought, you’re gonna flail. Then that sound of the coconut bouncing off the cold floor, the patent leather heels scraping and scratching. Screams muffled by the spurts and gurgling of freshly let blood into her throat. All that couture clothing, stained. All those 29 years, including four at Rutgers earning a bachelor’s degree in sociology with a minor in personal communications, turned into twitching muscles and unanswered cries for help – arms reaching out in hope of a savior – gone.
Nick squatted down and pressed pair of fingers against her wrist. Gone. And that made two for the night, including the creep she decided to bed over him. He got three pills instead of her one. And good riddance to those 400 thread-count sheets he died on. The only way those would come clean would be to burn them.
Maybe if she’d know his secret. Maybe if she’d known about the coming up in the organization. Maybe if she’d known about being made. Maybe if she’d known he killed for money, she wouldn’t have cheated on her hitman husband. And with that, Nick raised his eyebrows, wiped the gun down with his handkerchief, tossed it on the bed and walked to the motel doorway.
He peeked back and watched the last of her involuntary muscle spasms stop.
“So long, Candy,” he said and headed for the freeway.
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