10:30 p.m.

    Time up.

    Car tires crunched over asphalt, louder in this part of the city. Agent Nelson pulled over and took a deep breath, the city lights highlighting her face. In the passenger side, Agent Rios watched, keeping track of the time in the back of her head.

    Feet ahead, the Fifth Street building where Celine was stood tall, glowing with its golden lights and sleek, black surface. It practically dissolved in the black of night, looking more like an ill omen than a place of business. With a shaky breath, Agent Nelson clutched the steering wheel and bowed her head, closing her eyes.

    "You alright, Nelson?" asked Rios.

    Amy sucked in a breath, and she glared at the building, tears in her eyes.

    "This was the exact spot Detective Abe and I parked," she breathed, voice shaking. "The night of the opening party."

    "Oh, Agent..." said Rios, feigning empathy. "I'm so sorry."

    Detective Abe's death clearly affected Amy; although it fueled her passion to pursue the case, it impaired her judgment, her trust in people. Rios wondered if Blank knew this would happen, when he killed the Detective. Could he have anticipated this far into the future?

    Agent Nelson straightened herself and exhaled, pulling out her gun. "Alright," she breathed, glancing over. "Ready?"

    Rios nodded, pulling out her own gun. She didn't intend to use it on Wilford, or Dark, or any of Derekson's officers.

    Celine's orders were clear.

    She intended to use it on Amy.

    "Ready," said Rios, meeting her eyes.

———

Dark heaved for breath, heart pounding both from exertion and adrenaline. The time was up, he and Wilford both knew that, but they pressed on, sprinting through the city streets. Of course Celine would wait until the last minute to tell them anything. That gave them the disadvantage. Gave them no time to prepare.

    They raced onto Fifth Street, and Dark exhaled with relief, or dread, or hope—he didn't know. Just as they reached the front of the building, car doors slammed shut from afar. When Wilford glanced over his shoulder, he met eyes with Agent Nelson and Rios exiting a cop car. They livened at the sight of him.

    "Shit," cursed Wilford. "We've got company."

    "HEY!" shouted Nelson, raising her gun. "FREEZE!"

    "Go, go, go," said Wilford, shoving them inside.

    The lobby lights glared down on them, blinding them for a moment. The place was empty—no signs of anyone else—until the two of them heard the click of heels.

    Celine.

    Wilford and Dark exchanged a look, breathing hard. Wil pulled out his gun and pointed it towards the hallway where the noise came from—the same hallway, Dark noted, that he and Wilford had their first conversation.

    "Quit hiding, Celine!" shouted Wilford, walking forward. "I've had enough of your shit."

    "Oh you have, have you?" came a voice from the hall—one that wasn't Celine's in the slightest.

It made Wilford stop in his tracks. Lower his gun.

"Because, quite frankly, brother—"

The shadows parted, and Wilma walked forward, gun lazily aimed at Wilford's chest.

"—we haven't even started."

Wilford thought he wouldn't recognize Wilma when he saw her again. Thought that she would look too different, too changed. But now that he looked into her eyes—those same eyes he'd gazed into the night he promised her—he knew exactly who she was. She was, in fact, different from when he last saw her. From a little girl—the girl that he left alone all those years ago—to a grown, menacing woman.

He froze in place, drowned by tides of emotions—shame, guilt, surprise, dread, relief.

His first instinct was to fall to his knees and apologize and beg for forgiveness. His next was to pull her into a hug—try to make up for what he'd so carelessly thrown away—but he knew better than that. He noted the gun in Wilma's grip. Remembered the texts between Celine and Ms. Lounds.

'Wilma will take care of him.'

"Wilma," breathed Wilford, his vision closing in on her.

'She's going to kill him.'

"It's—" Wilford tripped over the words. There was so much to say. So much to uncover. And all he could do, after all these years, was fumble like an idiot. "It's been so long..."

"Wil?" breathed Dark, glancing between the two of them. "Who is this?"

"Go," said Wilford, nudging Dark forward. "Go, find Mark."

"What? What about you?"

Wilford swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving Wilma's. He lowered his gun to the floor.

"I have to take care of this," he said. "Leave us."

A clamor of footsteps sounded outside, and Dark glanced over his shoulder. In the next moment, it all broke into chaos.

The doors flew open, and just as the FBI rushed in with guns ablaze, Wilma dragged Wilford into the hallway—away from sight. Officers made eye contact with Dark, and they raised their guns, rushing towards him.

"EDWARDS!" an officer shouted. "Stay where you are!"

Dark cursed. Before all this, he would have obeyed and threw his hands up in surrender. Now, he spun on his heel and raced off, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

    Warning shots lit up the lobby. He disappeared into the stairwell and kept running.

———

The moment the gunshots rang in the air, Celine felt it.

    A newfound charge in the air. The kind that made your skin rush with a chill; that made your breath hitch with anticipation.

    Celine took a deep breath and tipped her head back, relishing the breeze through her hair. Ever since Actor's death, she had been yearning for this moment. All this time, and it was finally here.

    The steel door clanged shut behind her, and her eyes slid open, gazing down at the city streets far, far below.

    "You're late," she said.

    Blank said nothing. He knelt beside Mark's body and grabbed his chin, pulling his face up. He shook him a bit, and the bodyguard's brows furrowed, a groan leaving his throat.

    Celine glanced over her shoulder. "I don't need him awake, yet."

    "Trust me," said Blank.

    Those were words that the man rarely said; his trust spoke for itself. Celine narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing the back of his head, before she turned back to the view. She couldn't help the feel of distrust settling under her skin again.

    Blank glanced over his shoulder. Celine stood by the edge of the roof, hands resting over the guns in her holster.

    Blank slid out a knife, turned back to Mark, and found his eyes fluttering open. The bodyguard blinked, confused, but the moment he regained focus, his eyes widened.

    Blank shoved a hand over Mark's mouth and showed him the knife. He whimpered, thrashing, thinking Blank was going to use it on him—

But Blank set the knife down—right behind Mark's bound wrists.

    Mark's brows furrowed, eyes lingering on the knife. He slowly looked up, and when he met Blank's eyes, they were serious, intent. The stare made him freeze with disbelief.

    Was this some trick? Another one of his patterns?

    Blank dropped his hand and slowly rose, eyes unblinking. Mark swallowed, and when Celine turned around, the bodyguard shifted to hide the knife from her view.

    Blank turned to her like nothing had happened.

    "They'll be here soon," said Blank, joining her side. Celine stared at Mark for a long moment before turning back towards the view.

    "Is Wilma in position?"

    Blank nodded.

    "Good," said Celine, smiling to herself. "She'll be out of the way soon enough."

———

Wilma threw Wilford into the nearest room, shoving him onto the floor. Before he could try to get up, she dug her heel into his chest, pressing him down with all her weight. Wil grimaced, glaring past the gun pointed at him.

    Wilma's finger pressed against the trigger—one more inch of pressure, and the gun would go off. Right in Wil's chest.

    "I know you're mad at me," said Wilford, panting against the pressure of her heel. "And you have every right to, really, you do—but if you could just let me explain—"

    "Explain?!" roared Wilma. "You know exactly what you did, tu puta madre. What is with men and trying to slide their way out of everything!"

    "I'm sorry," Wilford said, voice heavy. "I know, I know I left you. I know I broke my promise—"

    "You want to know what else you broke?" spat Wilma. "My fucking life. Do you even know how Mom and Dad reacted after you left? You can't—you can't even understand what they did to me!"

    "I should've been there for you—I know. I know—"

    Wilma tore her foot off his chest and growled. "Get up."

    Wilford rubbed his chest with a grimace.

    "I said get up!"

    "Alright! Ok!" said Wilford, raising his hands by his head. He rose slowly, eyes never breaking contact with his sister's. She kept the gun pointed at his chest, breathing hard. Tears glossed her eyes.

    "Why did you do it?" she demanded, voice torn.

    Wilford gave her a desperate look, searching her face. Fury consumed her.

    "Why did you leave me?!"

    She swiveled the gun aside and shot the corner of the room, lighting up the place with an explosion of noise.

    "I did it to protect you!" he shouted with a flinch. "Like I said, Wilma, if you'd just let me explain—"

    "You left me to die," growled Wilma, aiming the smoking gun at him. "I had no one when you left. No one but Mom and Dad to beat me everyday!" She heaved for breath. "They blamed me when you left, you know. They said it was all my fault!"

    Wilford's chest sank at that, his face falling. He had no idea. All this time, he thought he'd protected Wilma by leaving. But of course that wasn't the case. Perhaps he really was saving his own ass. He was selfish.

    "I..." He swallowed. "I didn't know."

    He was a terrible brother.

"Of course you didn't," spat Wilma. "We were supposed to leave together." Her voice thickened. "You promised me, Wil."

    "You were too young..." said Wilford, hands lowering slowly. "What I had to do to escape—you couldn't have done that."

    Wilma scoffed with disbelief.

    "I left," said Wilford, "because those were my orders."

    "Please," sneered Wilma. "You put that shit above your own family?"

    "They were going to kill you if I didn't listen."

    Wilma gave a bitter, humorless laugh. "This is ridiculous," she said, shaking her head. "I should just kill you right where you stand."

    "You should," said Wilford, catching her off guard. Suddenly, she couldn't handle the genuine emotion in his eyes. It made her skin crawl. Had her chest pang as if she missed him.

    She tightened her hand over the gun, gritting her teeth when Wilford took a step forward.

    "I've done terrible things, Wilma," said Wilford, searching her face. "I promised you we'd stick together, that I'd protect you and I... I failed."

    Wilma's jaw tightened.

    "I should have come back for you," said Wilford, screwing his eyes shut. "I should've left the mafia as soon as I was in the clear, but I—" He choked up on his words, drowned by shame. "I didn't. And I'll never forgive myself for that."

    Wilford carefully opened his eyes, and when he met Wilma's, they were both tearing up. In an effort to hide the quiver in her lip, she raised the gun higher, pointing it between Wil's eyes.

    "We were supposed to grow up together," said Wilma, voice on the edge of a sob. "Like siblings are supposed to."

    "I know," said Wilford, vision blurring.

    Footsteps pounded in the hallway, commands shouted.

"I know, Wilma."

Wilford tried to laugh it off as tears rolled down his face, the sound hollow. "I've... I've missed out. On everything. I mean, look at you." He shakily smiled, stepping forward. Wilma bristled despite the tear rolling down her cheek. "You're beautiful."

    Wilma scoffed out a laugh at that. She was about to say something when chaos swelled outside the room. A squad of feet, the shuffle of uniforms and guns.

    "Knock it down!" an officer barked through the door.

    Wilford's eyes flicked to the desk in the room. The chaos stilled, shuffled, and then—

    "GET DOWN!" he shouted, lunging forward.

———

The night sky is beautiful, glared the message on his phone. Isn't it?

    Dark heaved for breath, stumbling up flight after flight of stairs. He didn't know how much longer he could go on. His heart was about to burst out of his chest, lungs burning and entire body trembling from exertion.

    He had to keep going. To save Mark. To put an end to Celine.

    To put an end to all of this.

    Dark caught his breath on the 15th floor, sweat beading on his brow. A squad of feet echoed down the hall, and he cursed, forcing himself up another flight of stairs, two steps at a time, towards the rooftop.

———

    Wilma's face morphed from fury to disbelief as Wilford grabbed her, shoving them towards the desk as soon as the door slammed open. The officer spotted Wilford and opened fire, the room devolving into an explosion of bullets and noise.

    Wilford threw Wilma over the desk and stumbled after, pain tearing through his shoulder. He shouted and slammed into the ground, clutching his shoulder. When he pulled his hand away, it was covered in blood. A bullet had clipped him.

    "Shit," he cursed, keeping pressure on the wound.

    "I saw your ass!" yelled Detective Derekson, swinging about his gun. His three-man squad piled behind him, weapons pointed. "Hands where I can see 'em, Warfstache!"

    Wilford panted and grimaced, teeth clenching through the pain in his shoulder. He glanced at Wilma, meeting a conflicted face. Pain glimmered in her eyes, mixed with confusion.

    "You... saved me," she breathed.

    "Of course," panted Wilford, wincing when pain lit up his nerves. "You're my sister."

    Wilma's eyes swam with trouble, but before she could ruminate on her feelings any longer, Derekson was shouting again.

    "Fine—be that way!" he was saying, footsteps coming closer. "Say g'night, you bubblegum bitch."

    Wilford met Wilma's eyes. "I need your gun."

    "What?"

    "I know you don't trust me," her brother cursed. "But if you wanna get out of this alive—"

    Wilma glared at him. "I've got this," she said.

The rest happened in a single moment of chaos.

Wilma acted swiftly. Gun aimed over the desk—killed the three officers. Derekson released fire. Bullets flew across the room, boring holes into the desk, the walls. Wilma ducked, shouting as a bullet tore through her arm.

"Fuck!" she shouted, clutching herself.

Wilford made a move to protect her, but she shoved him aside, stood, and shot Derekson in the chest.

The detective crumpled to the floor without another word. Wilma curtly exhaled, blew the smoke from her gun, and glared at Wilford on the floor.

"I can take care of myself," she said.

"Hah—look at us both." Wilford exhaled a laugh, both from pride and admiration. "What a team, huh?" Wilford cleared his throat, and he slowly rose, looking at the dead officers strewn across the room. Blood formed in growing puddles around them. "Looks like you saved me this time."

Wilma's eyes narrowed, and Wilford held up his hands by his head. Commotion sounded upstairs, and Wilford whiplashed, remembering Dark with a sudden, sinking dread.

The businessman couldn't do this alone.

Wilford's eyes flicked onto his sister's.

"Come with me," he said suddenly. Wilma blinked. "Let's end this. Once and for all."

Wilma scoffed, fingers tightening around her gun. "That's your business," she seethed. "Not mine."

"Oh, please don't tell me you still want to kill me."

"I do," said Wilma, eyes pinning him in place. "But I guess Celine was right. It'll be nicer to watch you suffer."

Wilma circled around the desk and stepped over the dead bodies, lingering at the doorway. A tight string of wrong coiled in the air, and for the first time, Wilford felt an intense distrust in his sister.

"It'll be fun," said Wilma, her voice dangerously quiet, "to see how you'd save Edwards after this."

A dark look stole her face, and before Wilford could even comprehend it, she raised her gun and pulled the trigger.

...

The end is near... only a few chapters left, friends. What are your thoughts?

Thank you so much for reading >:)) and have a wonderful day/night!

Love, Vic xoxo