Chapter 5 - The End of Silence
I didn't need to look to know who it was.
The footsteps were heavy, flat-footed, and accompanied by the faint, rhythmic rustle of a nylon windbreaker. It was Marco.
"Boss?" Marco’s voice said, entering the room.
It was a rough, gravelly voice, the voice of a man who had smoked two packs of Camels a day since the age of fourteen. It was a voice that had spoken thousands of words of loyalty to me, all while keeping a secret that had stolen my life.
"Sterling," Marco said, his voice dropping as he saw the gun in my hand. "What’s going on here? Why is the girl still in the room?"
I didn't look at Marco. I kept my eyes on Sterling.
"Marco," I said, my voice clear, level, and entirely devoid of the broken, scratchy quality of my first gasps. "Did you... know?"
Marco stopped. His head tilted slightly to the side, his brow furrowing in confusion as he heard my voice for the first time in his life.
"Boss?" he whispered, his hand instinctively dropping toward the inside of his jacket. "You... you're talking."
"I asked you a question, Marco," I said, turning my head to look at him.
The green banker's lamp caught his face, revealing the sudden, paralyzing shock in his eyes. He looked at the silver tray, at the silicone plug, and then at the trembling doctor.
"He knows," Sterling whimpered, dropping to his knees on the Persian rug. "He’s known the whole time, Vincent! He’s the one who paid me to keep the plugs in! He’s been taking thirty percent of the Westchester clinic's budget for fifteen years to ensure your 'condition' remained permanent!"
Marco’s face went hard. The confusion vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating expression of a man who had realized the game was over.
"You were a great boss, Vincent," Marco said, his hand sliding into his jacket, his fingers wrapping around the grip of his revolver. "The best we ever had. But a silent boss... a silent boss is easy to manage. You didn't hear the side deals. You didn't hear the kickbacks from the docks. You didn't hear us talking about you behind your back. We had a good thing going."
"We did," I said.
Before his hand could clear his jacket, I pulled the trigger of the Walther.
The sound was not a vibration.
It was a massive, white-hot crack that tore through the air, a deafening explosion that filled the study and made my ears ring with a high-pitched, clean whistle.
Marco went down, his body hitting the floor with a heavy, wet thud that sounded like a sack of grain being dropped from a truck. His revolver clattered across the hardwood floor, stopping inches from the silver tray.
Dr. Sterling screamed, a high, pathetic sound like a rabbit caught in a trap. He covered his ears with both hands, his face pressed against the rug, his body shaking with dry, silent sobs.
I stood up from my desk.
The world was loud. It was chaotic, messy, and filled with a thousand small, beautiful, and terrifying noises that I would spend the rest of my life learning to name.
I walked over to Emily, who was standing near the bookshelf, her face pale but her eyes remarkably steady. She looked at me, then at the dead man on the floor.
"Thank you, Emily," I said, my voice sounding deep, resonant, and entirely mine.
"What are you going to do now, Mr. Turner?" she whispered.
May you like
I picked up the black leather bag Dr. Sterling had brought, tossing it onto my desk, where it landed with a soft, heavy sigh.
"I'm going to clean my house, Emily," I said, looking out the window at the harbor, where the ship’s horn let out another long, beautiful rumble. "And then, I'm going to listen to everything this city has been saying about me."
