"Who the fuck does she think she is?" Marco's voice deepened with fueled rage as he exaggerated every word spoken. His then relaxed stance became more structured, increasingly poignant, as he immediately pivoted away from my direction, stomping toward the apartment door.

"Woah," quickly reacting, I dropped the fabricated contents within my palm onto the dark-colored carpeted floor.

Gaining the remaining energy, I had left to lunge forward, I tightly grabbed his upper right arm, pulling him back into a halt before he had a hold of the doorknob.

"What are you gonna do?" I whispered in hopes of bringing him down to his senses all while not allowing Camilla to hear our conversation.

He turned facing me; his eyes widened with lineal specks of red popping from his sclera's—the ultimate display of increased hypertension. As far as we know, yes, Camilla had possibly tried to kill me, and knowing Marco, he wanted answers; especially, considering, it was his sister who handed me the damaged weapon.

I would be angry too—but my mind was gradually becoming numb on the exhaustion and occurrences of the day. Other than being hell-bent on looking for the son of a bitch who killed Rafael, I was too damn tired to care for anything else.

Suddenly, a squander of a thought came to me, "Could Camilla have killed Rafael?" As a possible realization hit, I slowly retraced my grip from Marco's arm.

"Let's just think about this, " I convinced myself out loud in hopes my words would apply to his situation as well. "Think about what to do next. How to get her to reveal why she gave me that gun in the first place?"

Marco gave a loud and obnoxious exhale. "I'm sorry, Kitten. We don't have time for that."

I leaned in forward, parallel to him. An apology wasn't necessary, but I could understand his need for one-it's hard to control your emotions when seeing red.

"It's okay, baby, just breathe." As soon as I approached his body, for a communal hug, Marco grabbed the dominant half of the gun from my clutch and quickly inserted the filled magazine tube into the slot. I immediately shoved him forward a bit as soon as I realized what he had done, "Seriously, what the fuck?"

"Remember what I told you this morning," he rhetorically noted while pulling back the slide lock safety. "No hesitation. No remorse."

"Listen to yourself," I leaned forward to maneuver the weapon out from his grip. "This is your sister we're talking about."

With whatever remaining might I had, I attempted to yank the gun out from his pry. It wasn't the same method I normally use, per se, grabbing the gun from the nozzle and pulling it further—but I was hoping it would get the job done, nonetheless.

"Exactly," His grip became tighter, as he spoke with a slight chuckle in his tone.

Part of me was glad my actions were humorous to him, but the timing was far more impeccable. Besides, I never recalled him being this strong before.

He continued as I gave one final pull, "My sister, not yours. I know what she's capable of."

"Fine," I reacted with utter frustration, eventually giving up, weakened from the overwhelming events of the day.

There was no way he was going to let me get the gun back. I may have not had a sister, but I knew losing a sibling, nonetheless, would be traumatic. I took a small gasp of air before walking a few steps backward hoping he would disarm my secondary proposal.

"Will you at least give me a few seconds before you scare her?"

I needed answers.

"We don't have time Rebecca," Marco declared while fastening the Glock under his shirt, onto the back portion of his jeans. "You said yourself the cops are near. Let me just go in there, shoot her ass, come back out, then we can leave. It's a thirty-second job."

"What if she didn't know, huh?" I angrily added, knowing damn well I hated when he called me by my full name—it's almost as if it was a curse when he spoke it. Damning me into danger. "Look, I used to do this all the time—negotiations were my specialty. I just need three minutes."

"If I'm not out by then," I added as I stepped closer toward the apartment door, "feel free to come in guns blazin' Eastwood"

"Fine," he hastily mouthed.

I carefully crept through the doorway and into the foyer, avoiding any possibility of a surprise attack from Camilla. The sound of clinking silverware and the background noise of CNN on the television echoed throughout the entire apartment.

"Cam?" I asked loudly into the open space.

"In the kitchen," her voice trailed.

I turned around, observing Marcos' sincere look of displeasure upon his face. I would have never imagined our first fight being about killing Camilla—I'd always thought it would be about simpler things, like dinner options or furniture picking.

"I love you," I carefully mouthed without sound before closing the door on him.

I faced the ravished apartment head-on, inhaling an exhausted fueled breath before taking the first few steps through the cool, tiled, foyer. I purposely exhaled loudly as I walked into the formal open concept living area; Camilla stood near the kitchen island, staring at the TV with a butter knife in one hand and a half-eaten smeared bagel in the other. My brows frowned in confusion, not knowing how or when Marco had the time to get a box of bagels and tubs of flavored cream cheese?

"Want some? It's fresh," she asked with her mouth slightly full. "The box says they're from Einstein's."

"Nah," I lied. "I'm good." Although a fresh bagel with flavored cream cheese did sound delicious, I needed to focus on the task at hand.

"Where's Marco?" She asked after swallowing whatever was in her mouth.

"Bringing the car upfront, he wanted me to grab a few things before we left, " I walked up to the island, standing across from her.

"I swear, " I added while looking down at the several tubs of cheeses laying on the table.

"That brother of yours is a piece of work." There was blueberry, vegetable, strawberry, and raspberry—each tub, opened and nearly picked upon, had a butter knife dipped into it.

"What did he do this time?" She openly pondered as I watched her dip her knife into the blueberry schmear.

"He tossed the gun you gave me," her eyes immediately shifted upward as I spoke. "You believe that? A waste of metal that was."

"Wow" She sarcastically commented before licking the cream cheese off from the knife. "Why the fuck would he do that for?"

As a precaution, I slid the nearest tub of cheese-schmear closer to me, along with the butter knife inside of it.

"You gave me a jammed gun," I continued while leaning forward toward the center of the island and grabbed a whole bagel from the box. "Crazy, right? I mean you out of all people..."

"Did you say, jammed?" She placed her bagel down on the counter but kept the knife in her hand. "No fucking shit, I had no idea."

"C'mon Cam," I placed my bagel down as well, immediately grabbing the butter knife from the container.

"I thought you weren't hungry, Rebecca" she imposed as she began walking around, making her way directly to me.

"And I thought you were genuinely being nice," I slowly moved closer as she came around.

We stood, arms lengths away, face to face; each with a dulled butter knife in our grip, "I mean we bonded didn't we, I thought the carpool karaoke was great, but I guess I misjudged our friendship."

"Why would I intentionally hurt you?" She chuckled while I watched her place the knife from her hand back onto the counter.

"Beats me?" I wondered out loud with my attention toward her release of the knife. "Maybe jealousy, fear? Honestly, these days, I have no fucking clue anymore."

I felt a quick brisk within the air. Veering my peripherals, Camilla pulled a miniature Colt from her bra. The gun pressed directly against my forehead.

"If I wanted you dead, Rebecca, you'd be dead already."

"Is that what you did in Jersey, hmm...kill up some folks?"

"Fuck Jersey and fuck killing."

"Then why give me the jammed gun, if you didn't want me dead?" I nervously noted while taking a few steps back, away from the forcing element.

"To make it easier, perhaps," she said in a demeaning tone.

"Easier?" My mind was convoluted to comprehend the situation to its entirety; that, and well, having a gun pointed at my head didn't do good for cognitive refinement either. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Camilla tilted her weapon to the side, signaling me to put down the butter knife I was carrying. There wasn't much I could do with the thing, especially since she had a gun—I internally hoped Marco would barge in, make a scene, distract his sister...

"Any time now," I subconsciously noted as we did, after all, agree upon 'a few minutes.'

I peered around, looking to see if there was any movement coming from the foyer. Nothing. I continued to comply with her demands, hoping she stayed true to her previous notion of not wanting me dead.

"Love, it blinds us to the obvious," she continued as I placed the knife down on the white marble island. "Marco didn't care about anything else until you came along."

I tested the waters and began taking a few slow steps away from the kitchen island as she spoke.

"I figure I'd put a wrench in—Hey!" She immediately followed her finger back on the trigger.

"I need to sit," I noted while pointing at the sofa. "It's been a hell of a day and my feet are killing me. "

We both quickly peered down and looked at my swollen, dirty, and slightly scraped toes. "No," she immediately asserted, taking a few steps forward.

I prompted my arms upward, showing surrender, "I thought you didn't want to kill me, Cam?"

"Don't you fucking move."

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