Twisted (Never After #4)(27)

One strike for every bruise he put on Mamma.

Another for every bruise she put on me.

I dragged him out to the back alley in the middle of the night, put rats on his broken body, and let Isabella out to play. She sniffed out her prey with her tongue, mistaking him for food, courtesy of the rodents, and started to curl her scaly body around him. I stood back and watched, twirling the staff around in my hand, enjoying the way his blood vessels burst and his eyes bulged as she coiled around his neck, squeezing until he died.

“Don’t worry, Papà. It will only hurt for a little.”

And you know what? In the end, he was right. I did feel powerful.

I got my first tattoo in honor of the moment so I’d never forget the feeling. A replica of Isabella, starting at my hand and curling up my arm.

The biggest lesson my father taught me was that in all things, you must have patience.

Something that’s becoming increasingly hard for me to remember with every day that goes by and we’re no closer to finding the lost lamp.

I stare at the email on my computer from Jeannie, our head archaeologist in Egypt, as Isabella curls around my shoulders, the disappointment feeling thick like sludge.

Mr. Faraci,

Nothing yet on the lost lamp, although I’m going to check out a new dig spot one of the locals told me about. It’s in the middle of the Western Desert and is off-limits to civilians, so I’d rather go alone and scope the area. If I take people with me, we’re going to draw attention and we definitely don’t want that.

But I didn’t want to do it without you knowing, and since Tinashe left yesterday to go back to his home, I didn’t know how else to reach you directly outside of email.

Hope you don’t mind. I’ll keep you updated.

— Jeannie Grants





I don’t mind, but this proves that I need to get Ian and the boy out there, if for no other reason than to have Ian overseeing things since Tinashe is needed elsewhere.

Sighing, I close the screen and reach up, running my hand along the top of Isabella’s head. She feels warm and dry, and her tongue flicks out as she nuzzles into my palm.

“You’re a good girl,” I coo.

Despite the fact that she was a gift from my father, Isabella has become the most important living being in my life. She’s loyal to a fault, and she cleans up my dirty work, aiding me in my kills and swallowing them for dinner whenever the opportunity should arise.

She doesn’t talk back, and she doesn’t ask for much, but she can give love in the way only an animal can. By providing a gentle, calm companionship that doesn’t expect anything outlandish in return.

I feel guilty that I haven’t been spending as much time with her as I should.

Standing up, the weight of her body heavy on my shoulders as I do, I walk out of my home office and up the staircase until I’m in the hallway where my bedroom sits, going to the room next door and placing Isabella back in her enclosure, which runs along the entirety of the far wall.

“I’ll be bringing home a new friend,” I tell her. “So play nice. She’s a friend, not food.”

Isabella ignores me, curling up in the bottom of her enormous glass cage.

I spin around but then pause before leaving, adding one last thing.

“She’s temporary, so don’t get attached.”





I rap my knuckles against the heavy oak door of Ali’s home office, then twist the handle to walk in, expecting to see him working hard behind his desk. We have a new line of Christmas jewelry that’s a few months out from dropping, and I sent him the mock-ups for approval. What he doesn’t know is they’re already approved and on their way to our advertising team, but that’s something he can live without finding out.

Since he’s been in hospice, I’ve been sending him details of things after having already taken care of them, just to make sure he still feels like he’s being useful.

If I were in his position, it’d be what I would want someone to do for me. It’s hard enough accepting death; feeling as though you’re useless while you’re still around would be a bitter pill to swallow.

Instead, I see him sprawled out on the sofa in the far corner of the room, his hospice nurse, Shaina, at his side.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, walking over quickly.

Shaina shakes her head, shushing me as she moves around the bed to check his vitals.

Ali’s eyes are closed, which causes a twinge of panic to pinch my gut. I sweep my gaze over him, locking on the even rise and fall of his chest, and then shake off the feeling, reminding myself once again that it’s a good thing for me if he’s closer to death.

“What’s wrong?” I repeat, more forceful this time.

“I’m okay,” he rasps. “I just…I’m feeling a little tired today.”

Nodding, I purse my lips and turn my attention back to Shaina. “Get out.”

She lets out a humorless laugh and shakes her head again before standing up straight. “You better check your tone with me, Mr. Faraci. I don’t work for you.”

Annoyance at her disrespect winds its way through me, and I have to blow out a steady breath to calm down the burning energy that’s filling me up, urging me to lash out. She’s doing her job.

“It’s fine, Shaina. Give us a few minutes,” Ali replies, his bloodshot eyes peeling open.