The Devil Who Goes By Caro

THE AIR WAS THICK inside the room when Rome woke up. His morning didn't start as warm as Margaux's. It was cold regardless of the morning sun seeping through the cracks in the wall. It wasn't that he wasn't used to such; it was just that this scene wasn't exactly what he pictured in his dream last night after making love to her senselessly.

"What are these, Caro?"

Still dazed from sleep, he lazily looked down at the things she had lined up on the floor. He could have laughed at how Margaux put effort into arranging what looks like a red carpet welcome for him.

Had she been waiting for him to wake up? That was cute. If only it weren't his things that she scattered before bed. His key to the Ducati, his butchered wallet with all his IDs—both fake and real—circling it, a pocket-sized copy of his and his mother's photo, his metal-cased cellphone, and lastly, his gold-plated señorita gun.

"A perfect killing set?" he tried to joke out, ignoring her suspicious stare as he moved out of the be