Chapter Thirty One: The Inevitable

With little else to do but wait around for Trevor's pals to arrive, Sonia grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and went to check on the hostage.

Joe Pierno was sitting in the same spot where he'd been left, propped against the radiator, hands bound to the pipe beneath it, but he was awake now, staring back at Sonia with small, hate-filled brown eyes. Some color had come back into his face, but it was still a bit pale, dark circles around his eyes. Sonia also noticed he wasn't sweating, despite the stuffy heat in the room, and his pallid lips were badly chapped. He should've been sweating. It was oppressively hot in the Senora during high summer, even in the wee hours of the morning, the temperature probably still holding in the nineties, and Sonia had never gotten around to having her AC unit fixed. She could feel moisture beading on her own forehead and trickling down the middle of her back, making her shirt stick to her.

He's probably dehydrated. Guess that happens when you lose blood and then spend a few hours crammed in a hot cargo hold.

"Where am I?" Joe demanded with enough spirit left in him to sound authoritative.

Sonia didn't answer. She strode up to him and knelt down, unscrewing the plastic cap from the water bottle. She took a gulp, then gestured the bottle to him. It was more than he deserved, but she wasn't taking a chance on his health worsening. He needed fluids, and she needed him alive.

Joe looked between the bottle and her face, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, seeming as if he would reject her dubious act of kindness. Then he nodded and strained forward.

Sonia held the rim of the bottle against his lips, tilted it so some of the water trickled into his mouth. Joe drank thirstily for a moment, some water escaping his lips and dribbling down his chin, wetting the front of his shirt. Then he suddenly leaned back and spat a mouthful in Sonia's face.

"Traitorous cunt," he hissed through his teeth.

Sonia calmly wiped the spit-laced water from her face with the heel of her palm. "Guess that's what I get for being merciful."

A ferocious grin twisted Joe's lips, making them crack open and bleed. He didn't seem to notice, or care. "Mark my words, the next thing I spit on will be your mangled corpse. It's been a long time coming. We won't rest until you pay for your crimes against our family, and Lupo's; your treachery cost us a powerful and lucrative ally."

Sonia scoffed. "An ally you conspired with to kill Tony Centore for his casino once upon a time, who, I might add, did quite a few favors for you when you were just starting to get your feet wet in the sea of organized crime. You're no stranger to treachery, either, so you can cram your righteousness up your enormous ass."

"The difference between you and me, Sonia, is that my treachery benefited my family, not just me. My treachery didn't get my people killed or thrown in prison."

"Right, and I'm sure Tony would've happily accepted those knives shoved in his neck, dying an undignified death face down in a piss trough if he'd known it would be beneficial to your fucking family. You can dress up your betrayal in all the pretty little excuses you want, it's still betrayal. So no, Joe, there's no difference between us, not in this. We've both betrayed people and we both tell ourselves we were within our right to do it."

"Ah, you've overlooked one little fact, though, Sonia: I got away with my sin. You won't. And neither will that nutjob pal of yours." Joe settled back against the radiator and smiled thinly. "There's something about him…he must be important to you if you haven't tossed him under the bus yet to save your own skin. Finally found the one person you won't betray, eh? And now he's going to die because of you, and you will watch him die, I'll make sure of it." He chuckled, his small dark eyes flickering with mean satisfaction. "How perfectly fucking tragic."

Sonia felt a surge of mingled rage and fear, and used it. "Speaking of tragic, have you spoken to your son Gino lately?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady.

Joe frowned, apparently caught off guard by the question. "I don't see what he has to do with—"

"It's been a few days since you've heard from him, hasn't it? Haven't talked to him since that day I broke into your casino and killed all your bodyguards, I'd bet. Just poof!—like he disappeared into thin air."

Joe stared at her silently, brows furrowing deeper, Adam's apple bobbing against his throat as he swallowed.

"Guess you probably thought nothing of it, huh? Not the first time Gino's disappeared on you for days on end without a damn word, after all. Probably thought he was just on another days-long party binge again, getting his drink and drug on and sticking it to every whore in the city."

"What's your point?" Joe growled, though Sonia thought she saw a flash of trepidation in his eyes.

She shrugged. "That you should have kept a better leash and a better eye on your son, not that it matters now..." Her hand snaked out, gripped Joe's face, nails digging into his flabby jowls, and leaned close. Her black eyes held his captive, her lip curling into an ugly sneer. "Last I saw him he was dead inside his fancy red Jester, a bullet in the back of his head. And you know how hot it gets in Venturas this time of year; that Jester's been more oven than car sitting out in the parking lot of your casino, under the blazing sun. Gino's been out there...oh, going on two days, now. Probably all bloated up and stinking, hardly recognizable. Crawling with flies and maggots."

Joe made a weird sound, something between a gag and a moan, then he swallowed hard again. His eyes were wide, his expression sickened, aghast. "You..."

"Yeah. You can add Gino's murder to the list of crimes I've committed against your family. And that list's only gonna get longer."

Sonia straightened up and walked out of the room to Joe's howls of rage and anguish, smiling. It felt good, and not just because she had cut him deep for threatening Trevor's life, but because she had also, in some small way, gotten revenge for Schmidt and his murdered boy. Now the child-killing prick knew what it was like, how it felt, to lose a son.

Sonia went into her bedroom to change into some clean clothes, as the ones she wore were still soiled in her own blood. Most of her clothes were still in her big suitcase. She supposed it was time to unpack; this was home now, after all.

Home.

Sonia smiled at the thought. None of it was perfect; not the town, not the house and certainly not Trevor, but it felt right, even if things weren't right with them at the moment. She had never really seen herself having a future anywhere, not even working for Lupo; her life was too unpredictable, too dangerous to bother thinking of what the future might hold. But now, she wanted to bother; she wanted to see if there was a future here, helping Trevor rebuild his criminal enterprise, having some part in it once it was rebuilt, sharing her life with him. Some logical part of her knew it was ludicrous—mad even—to want to commit herself to someone she had known for only a few weeks—Jesus God, weeks! Yet, at the same time, it felt like the fierce, visceral love she had for him should not be constrained by time. She had been terrified of that feeling before, the power of it, how vulnerable it made her, but now she wanted to throw herself into it, and damn the consequences.

Whatever was happening between them now, it was just a hurdle, and all relationships, new and old, had them. She could remember her parents having to maneuver through the occasional angry argument, bouts of hurt feelings and the silent treatment and whatnot, but they always came out stronger than they were before. And so would she and Trevor. They would figure it out, somehow. This would pass. Everything would be fine.

Is that what you really believe, or what you need to tell yourself? a traitorous voice in her head asked. Maybe you're just in denial.

Sonia shook her head as if to dislodge the thoughts, then she began putting away her clothes in the dresser, setting aside a lavender-colored cami and a pair of boot-cut blue jeans to wear.

Once the task was done and she set to undressing, Sonia noticed a dark stain on her shirt, darker than the dried blood that already soiled it. She touched it, fingers coming away wet with red. Sonia lifted her shirt, peeled back the moist bandage over her wound and muttered a curse. The stitches had come loose, probably from running into the front of Trevor's truck earlier.

Grabbing her fresh change of clothes, Sonia went into the bathroom. The wails of despair from the spare bedroom had died down to quiet weeping, almost inaudible. Even still, it might as well have been soft music to her ears.

Sonia rummaged through the medicine cabinet for a bottle of alcohol and a handful of adhesive bandages; it wasn't ideal care for the wound, but it was all she had, so it would have to do. She disinfected the oozing bullet hole with an alcohol-soaked washcloth, biting her knuckles against an explosion of pain, huffing and puffing through it like a woman in labor. Then she patted the wound dry, slapped on a few bandages, and got dressed.

Afterward, Sonia went back to the living room, picked up her cell phone from the coffee table and sighed. All that and only twenty minutes had passed. She sat down on the couch and lit what had to be her sixth cigarette in the space of an hour. She noticed a slight tremor in her fingers and squeezed them into a fist, trying to control it and having very little success.

The nicotine wasn't helping to ease her ragged nerves anymore. Now that the good, optimistic thoughts had had their moment in her mind, the negative ones demanded their turn, railing with fear and uncertainty for the future, fear of failure, of losing the people she cared for, afraid the things she wanted and needed to happen wouldn't happen, afraid of the bad things that might occur. Thought followed thought, fear followed fear, one after the other, filling her head with so much turbulent noise she couldn't stand it anymore.

Sonia jumped up from the couch. I need to do something. Anything to keep her mind occupied, before it drove her bat-shit.

Cooking. That usually helps.

Sonia went to the kitchen, looked through the cabinets and refrigerator, taking stock of what she had to work with. She decided on ravioli stuffed with minced Italian sausage and ricotta cheese in a marinara sauce. Prepared from raw ingredients, of course, never out of a can or jar, just as her father had taught her. Cooking had been the only normal family activity she and her parents had engaged in, aside from the odd family vacation. She could remember her parents standing side-by-side at the stove, doing their part for dinner, her father singing Italian opera in a full, booming voice that was always out of tune but somehow still pleasant. She could remember her mother's blue apron with the little yellow flowers on it, streaked with flour and spotted with grease and red sauce, the way she smiled amusingly at her father's sorry imitation of Luciano Pavarotti. She could remember the smells of garlic and the herbs she chopped while she watched them, the soft scent of her mother's rose perfume, the feeling of being whole, together.

Happy.

Sonia wondered if that was why cooking had stuck with her, even after they were dead and gone. It was like a bridge to the past, a way for her to connect to the only time she could remember feeling content.

Sonia gave her hands a good thirty second scrubbing before she got busy. Soon, her world narrowed to the tasks of mincing and slicing, kneading and cutting, chopping and stirring, the scent of cooking herbs and vegetables and meat hanging over the room. There was a rhythm to cooking that had a way of taking over, filling her mind with the music of the kitchen.

At some point, she was aware of a noise that didn't belong, sounding distant and muted in her focused state. When it came again, repetitive and somewhat louder, Sonia realized someone was knocking on her front door. She glanced at the clock on the wall as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. It read 6:13 in the AM.

Probably Trevor's friends.

Sonia went to the door and opened it. A young African-American man stood there on her stoop. He looked to be in his mid to late twenties, handsome with strong cheekbones and nose, generous mouth and dark eyes. He stood about half a head over Sonia and filled out his blue jeans and black tank rather well. His brown-black hair was braided in corn rows, a thin gold chain looped his neck and a diamond stud sparkled in both ears.

Sonia had always pictured Michael being of the middle-aged persuasion like Trevor, so she assumed this was Franklin.

"Uh...hey," the man said, looking beyond her, eyes searching the living room. "I'm supposed to be meeting Trevor here. He around?"

"He said he had some shit to do. Should be back soon," Sonia replied. "I'm guessing you're Franklin?"

"Good guess."

Sonia smiled and stood back to allow him inside. "Come on in."

The young man stepped over the threshold and then just stood there in the middle of the living room, inhaling deeply before looking toward the kitchen. "Damn, somethin' smells good." A look of uncertainty flashed over his face. "Uh...shit, I ain't interrupting anything, am I? T barely said shit on the phone."

"Nope, not interrupting anything," Sonia assured him, then gestured to the couch. "Make yourself at home. You hungry, by any chance?" Her stomach was too full of nervous lead to allow room for anything else, so she might as well offer the food to him and not let it go to waste.

The man grinned, flashing a set of perfect white teeth, and rubbed a hand over his stomach. "Shit, I am now. What you got goin' on in the kitchen?"

"Ravioli stuffed with Italian sausage and ricotta in a marinara sauce," Sonia said.

The man raised an eyebrow. "You usually eat shit like that for breakfast?"

"Uh...no, not usually. I just needed something to do, and I like to cook." Sonia smiled awkwardly, shrugged. "Wasn't really thinking about what would be appropriate for the time of day."

"Well, breakfast, dinner—I ain't about to pass on somethin' smells that damn good. You like a professional chef?"

"I just dabble; Italian food, mostly. Anyway, it'll be done soon." Sonia held her hand out to him. "I'm Sonia, by the way."

The man took it, his hand dry and rough to the touch, but his grip gentle. Genteel even. "Gotta admit, when T mentioned you I pictured someone older. Uh, a lot older."

Sonia grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment. It's good to meet you. Trevor speaks highly of you."

Franklin's eyes widened. "Say what? Man, now I know somethin' ain't right. T ain't got good shit to say about anybody."

Sonia's smile wilted. "What do you mean, 'now you know'?"

Franklin shrugged. "Crazy dude sounded weird on the phone—weird for Trevor, I mean. He the most untamed, unhinged motherfucker I know, but...shit, it was like he was subdued or somethin'. Just didn't sound like Trevor."

She sighed, frowning. "Yeah. He has been acting...not like Trevor lately. I don't know why. Something's wrong up here." She tapped a finger to her temple. "But whatever it is, he ain't talking about it."

Franklin snorted with amusement. "Girl, he ain't ever been right up there."

"True," Sonia said, smiling a little. "But crazy is Trevor's normal; he embraces it, but this..." She shook her head, the smile gone again. "I'm really worried about him."

Franklin said nothing, just looked at her strangely as if worrying about Trevor was a bizarre concept.

"Well, I better check on the food," Sonia said. "Make yourself comfortable."

She returned to the kitchen while Franklin helped himself to the couch, plopping down on the cushions. It didn't take her long to prepare his plate; four ravioli—she had made them bigger than usual—swimming in marinara, with a sprinkle of parmesan cheese and basil garnish on the top.

"I know it's early, but this goes really good with Chianti, if you'd like some," Sonia called from the kitchen.

"Yeah, cool," Franklin called back. "I've drunk stronger shit than wine for breakfast."

Sonia smiled as she opened the cabinet where she kept the bottles of wine, grabbing the Chianti. She decided she liked the man; he seemed tame, nice, was easy to talk to. Not at all the kind of person she would've expected Trevor to run with, but then…well, you never really know who's going to come into your life, who you're going to connect with, find friendship with, or even love.

After pouring the wine in a glass, Sonia brought the meal out of the man, setting plate and glass in front of him on the coffee table. "There you are. Buon appetito."

Franklin leaned over the plate, stirred the aroma of the food up toward his face with his hand and inhaled. "Damn, girl." Then he dug in, groaning in pleasure between bites. "If you ain't a professional, you might wanna look into becoming one."

Sonia beamed, pleased that he was pleased, and moved to sit down on the couch, but there was another knock on the door. This time when she answered it, a slightly paunchy man around Trevor's age stood on the stoop, looking for the world like he belonged in a commercial for a country club golf course in his smart blue polo and gray slacks. The salt in his pepper hair and the crow's feet around his blue eyes showed his age, but didn't detract much from his features; he was good-looking, but in a distinguished, older gentleman kind of way. Sonia noticed he wore a plain silver ring on his left ring finger.

"You must be this Michael I keep hearing so much about," she said, by way of greeting.

"That would be me. I'm sure Trevor had only good things to say about me," the man replied dryly. His eyes, dark blue as the deep ocean, looked her over briefly. "And speaking of, where is that psychopath? He was raging about some 'dire situation that required all hands on deck'. It damn well better be dire at six in the goddamn morning."

"He had some things to do," Sonia said, stepping aside. "Come in."

Michael passed the threshold and stopped, looking at Franklin, who was stuffing a forkful of ravioli into his mouth. "Hey, Frank. So Trevor woke you at the crack of dawn and coerced you into coming out to this dried up shithole too, huh. And I'm guessing he also told you next to nothing, aside from 'it's a dire situation'…which could mean fucking anything."

"Good morning to you too, dog."

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

Franklin took the light reprimand into consideration, then turned up his middle finger at the older man.

Michael's lips twitched at the corners with mild amusement. "Cute."

Sonia made a face. So they had no clue why they were here. Apparently when Trevor had said earlier that he might have left out a few details, what he'd really meant was all of them.

Michael turned to her, looked her over again, longer this time. "I assume you're this mysterious 'Sonia' Trevor kept mentioning?"

"Mysterious?"

"He said your name enough, but not much else. So yeah, mysterious."

"Oh." Sonia found herself disappointed by that. She sort of liked the idea of Trevor telling his friends all about her, that he might be proud enough of her to boast a little. Well, he didn't, so get over it.

Michael folded his arms at his chest. "So what's the story here? Trevor kidnap you to piss off your husband or something?"

Sonia raised her brows. "No…"

"Then how the hell did a woman like you get sucked into his psychotic orbit?"

"A woman like me? What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing, as far as I know. That's my point. You're young, and a knockout—anyone ever tell you you're a dead ringer for Sophia Cardinale, that Italian actress from the 60's, starred in An Italian in Paris?"

"Once or twice." Sonia made a mental note to look this person up on the internet sometime; she still had no clue who was this actress that she supposedly resembled.

"And you seem sane and normal enough," Michael went on. "You're not exactly Trevor's type. So what's the deal?"

Sonia shrugged. "You'll have to ask Trevor. I was minding my own business when he barged into my new life here. I used to work for a Las Venturas mafia family. I turned state's evidence, went into the WitSec program and got relocated to Sandy Shores a few weeks ago."

There was a moment of silence as Michael and Franklin stared at her with varying degrees of disbelief.

"Okay, don't tell me," Michael eventually said.

"Yeah, I'm a little skeptical myself," Franklin agreed with his friend's sentiment, frowning down at his empty plate. "Ain't the mafia supposed to be a boys' club, no girls allowed?"

"Normally, yeah. At least here in the States," Sonia explained. "It's been known to happen in the Motherland, though, under certain, extreme conditions. But my former boss and one of his allies were a little more…open-minded, I guess. Only me and one other woman have ever been initiated into La Cosa Nostra, and very few people were happy about it."

"Huh," Michael uttered. "Gender equality in the mafia. Who would've fuckin' thought? But none of this explains why the hell you're associating with the likes of Trevor. Oh, he likes to think he's the big shot kingpin of a criminal empire, but I probably don't gotta tell you he ain't on any level with the fuckin' mafia."

Sonia felt a stab of annoyance. She really saw no reason why she should explain herself to him, or why he thought her association with Trevor was any of his business. "I guess we can apply the same question to you. It's obvious you don't think much of Trevor. So why are you still associating with him?"

Michael laughed humorlessly. "Who says I got a choice? The thing about Trevor, once he attaches himself to you, you're stuck with him for life. And life with Trevor ain't a fucking picnic, trust me. Take my advice, sweetheart: if he ain't got his claws in you yet, run and don't stop."

"I have no illusions about what he is," Sonia said, her annoyance becoming a surge of defensive anger. "I know he's psychotic and insane. A monster. But that's not all he is. He's done things for me that no one else ever has. Good things. And he's saved my life, in more ways than one. Even monsters can have some good in them."

For some moments Michael said nothing, just looked at her with a mix of disbelief and repulsion, as if she had suddenly sprouted a second head that spoke to him in some alien language. Then he slowly shook his head. "Jesus fucking Christ, you don't really believe that, do you? All this shit you claim he's done for you, you think it was just, what, out of the kindness of his heart? You don't think he's got an ulterior motive? Come on, you can't run with the mafia and be that goddamn naïve. The only person Trevor looks out for is Trevor."

"And maybe you don't know him as well as you think," Sonia spat back, hands knotting at her sides.

Michael scoffed. "Pretty sure I know him better than you. I've got years of experience on your few weeks, sweetheart."

The condescending tone with which he spoke those words made Sonia want to sock him in the nose. She was beginning to understand why Trevor didn't like him much. "If he was as one-dimensional as you think he is, you wouldn't be standing here right now; he wouldn't have spared you for betraying him. And stop calling me 'sweetheart'!"

The man put his hands up in mock surrender, smirking. "All right, no need getting your panties in a bunch. Look, I'm just trying to do you a solid by warning you what you're getting yourself into. Whether you heed the warning or not, that's your call."

"Man, I gotta listen to you and T bicker every damn time we get together, and he ain't even here yet," Franklin spoke up, apparently having grown tired of listening to them argue. "I ain't about to listen to y'all go at it too. So why don't y'all give it a rest and focus on the reason we're here?"

Michael shrugged and made a proceeding gesture at Sonia. "Since Trevor couldn't be bothered, I guess that means you'll need to brief us on what the fuck's going on."

"It's a long story," Sonia grumbled.

"Give us the condensed version, then."

"Fine. Sit." Sonia waved him rudely toward the couch, where Franklin was polishing off the rest of his wine. Michael sat down one side of him with an old man grunt, and Sonia sat down on the other. Then she told them almost everything, leaving out only the unimportant bits.

Trevor braked his truck at what might have been the curb in front of Sonia's house, if Sandy Shores had bothered having curbs. He'd checked out the bomb the mafia had planted on his trailer doorstep, a set up that would require some professional help to disarm, but he was certain he could get the ever-resourceful Lester to give him a name. Then he'd gone to Sandy Shores airfield to pick up some hardware for the boys; he always kept a hidden cache of weapons somewhere, because you never know when you're going to need them.

After that, he'd driven to the Bayview Lodge in Paleto Bay to check in on Ruth, because that's what any good son would do. Trevor had decided not long after meeting her that while his own mother remained absent, Ruth would do for a surrogate. The old dear had greeted him with a bony hug and a few dry pecks on his cheek, then she proceeded to sternly reprimand him for leaving her on her own for so long. Trevor had, of course, apologized profusely and begged forgiveness, which Ruth granted him.

They'd sat around and talked a bit, Trevor delighting in her company, her warm and matronly presence. But then something in him had given way, and cracked open; all the soul-crushing despair and hopelessness he'd been trying to stem, to keep from Sonia, finally burst free like water from a broken dam. He'd sobbed in Ruth's lap for a good fifteen minutes. Big, ugly, shattering sobs that wracked his entire body and made his stomach and head hurt afterward. She had cooed soothing words to him and stroked his head, not really understanding the cause of his misery but wanting to comfort him all the same. Trevor hadn't wanted to talk about it, because talking was pointless. Talking wasn't going to suddenly cure him of his bloody and violent nature, the only thing that barred him from ever having a chance at some kind of happiness. It wasn't going to make him safer to be around or change the fact that he destroyed everything he touched. It wasn't going to stop the inevitable.

It was all Trevor could do to pull himself back together, but eventually he did. He had to. He could not be weak when he went back to Sonia, when he finally faced the unavoidable end. If he was weak, he might put off the whole thing for another day, and that definitely wasn't going to make it any easier. Best to just rip the bandage off. Quick and painless.

Now, as Trevor sat there in his Bodhi, taking a few hits off his meth pipe, he thought he was finally ready to go through with it. He'd shored up his broken heart with cold iron and carried cold iron tucked in the waist of his jeans, and that was all he needed to get the job done. Quick and painless.

Trevor left his truck and climbed the steps to the front door three at a time. He entered the house to the smell of food and the sight and sounds of Sonia, Franklin and Michael sitting on the couch together, engaged in conversation.

There was a pause as all eyes turned toward him, where he stood just in front of the open door.

Sonia stared at him, his presence reminding her of the hateful things he'd said to her earlier, and she felt a sudden rush of anger. "Nice of you to join us. I was just filling in your friends on what's been happening."

Trevor cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders. "Yeah? Good, good." He grinned at Franklin. "Frankie, buddy! My homeboy! I knew I could count on you to show up!" Then he promptly sneered at Michael. "And look at you, actually doing the decent, unselfish thing for once, putting your monotonous existence on hold to help a pal out. Color me fuckin' surprised."

Michael rolled his eyes and released a long-suffering sigh. "Speaking of monotonous, can we skip the part where you criticize and make smart-ass cracks about me? I've already seen it a million times."

"Seriously, dog," Franklin added as he stretched his arms across the back of the couch. "It would be a refreshing change. I mean, it ain't like we don't already know Mike's one seriously flawed motherfucker. You don't gotta keep reminding everybody."

Michael eyed him, one brow arched a fraction, but he said nothing.

Trevor put his hands up. "I'm just saying! It's not every day you witness a fuckin' miracle!"

"So, I hear the drug and gun-running business ain't doing so well, courtesy of two redneck drug dealers, a bunch of bikers and the Italian mob," Michael said, an almost imperceptible smirk on his face. "I wouldn't have thought it was possible, but it sounds like the unbeatable Trevor Philips has finally met his match."

Trevor scowled at him, practically vibrating with outrage. "That is utter fucking bullshit! And you, of all people, should know better. Those motherless fucking pricks may have destroyed all my hard work here, but they haven't destroyed me! They may have won a few small victories, but I'm gonna win the fucking war!"

"Okay, so clearly we're gonna take it to these fools," Franklin said. "But what's the plan, T? Or are we playin' it by ear?"

"Oh, there's a plan, don't you worry." Trevor swatted at the air dismissively. "But we'll hash out the details later. I've got other unfinished business to attend to first." He took a deep breath, released it, then turned to Sonia, putting on a cold look. "You and I still got things to talk about, yeah?"

Sonia gave back his cold look and made an indignant sound. "You sure you wanna bother with that right now? I imagine you have much more important things to do than chat with someone as useless and brainless as me."

"Yeah, I'm fucking sure. Look, I admit it, okay? I might have gotten excessive with the insults, but—"

"Might have?"

"Is that not what I just said?" Trevor stabbed a finger in her direction, his expression souring. "You damn well know you would've reacted the same goddamn way, so stop giving me shit!"

"Whatever," Sonia spat back.

Trevor grumbled something incoherent, and no doubt unpleasant, then turned a glare on Franklin and Michael. The former was pretending to be interested in something on his cellphone, an air of awkward discomfort about him, like an unwilling spectator in a loud, public argument—that also happened to be inconveniently sexual in nature—between two married people, and the latter was staring between Trevor and Sonia with a brow cocked at a bemused angle.

"And just what the fuck are you two waiting for, my foot in your asses?" Trevor growled and aimed a finger at the front door. "Go on, get the fuck out. This is a private discussion between me and Little Miss Ballbuster."

Michael simply rolled his eyes; Franklin put his cellphone away and raised his hands in a gesture that said you don't have to tell me twice. Then both men rose from the couch and went outside on the porch, the door closing softly behind them.

And then it was just the two of them—the two of them, and the inevitable. Trevor felt the sickening weight of dread pressing down on his guts and was tempted to punch himself in the stomach to make that feeling just fuck off.

The room was silent and still, tense with anticipation, as if they stood in the eye of a hurricane, between the storm past and the storm coming.

You are the fucking storm, a voice in Trevor's head said. Not his mother's voice this time, but his own. Everything you touch you destroy. Can't control it, can't change it. You are who you are.

"So?" Sonia prompted, standing up from the couch and approaching him. The exasperation he'd expressed only moments before seemed to have faded now, his face a vacant mask of scarred flesh, his eyes no longer blazing. Something else had come into them, something hard and cold, and they were almost entirely black, the dirt brown irises no more than thin rings encircling the voids of his dilated pupils. Clearly, he'd been smoking the glass again. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong now?" she asked, and then poked him in the chest, once, twice, thrice. "And don't you fucking dare tell me it's nothing, Trevor." Another poke, harder this time, emphasizing her next word. "Don't."

Trevor heaved out what felt like a lifetime of held breath. He would've been lying if he said there wasn't still a weak part of him that wanted to back out of this, that wanted to grab her and run off into the sunset. Pretend everything would work out, that there was only good things ahead of them, that he wasn't the enormous fucking ominous cloud looming over her that could, and eventually would, become a devastating cyclone at any moment. But that part was living in a fantasy world where he had the power to fight his own nature, for as long as he needed, and succeed at it; where Happily Ever After could happen for even monsters like him. It was a nice thought, but a nice thought was all it was. It would never be reality, not for him. He was a creature of violence and death, and could never be anything else, no matter how much he wanted to for her. You can't change who you are.

Trevor clenched his jaw, his fists. Inhaled another breath, as if it would even help. Just fucking get on with it. "For what it's worth, sunshine, I wanted this to work out. I really fucking did. More than anything. You're the best thing that ever happened to me…but also the worst."

Sonia felt an unpleasant lurch in her belly, as if the floor had suddenly dropped out from under her. He wasn't talking like someone who wanted to fix what was wrong. He was talking like someone who thought it was much too late for that, who'd decided it was already over. "So that's it, then? You're not even gonna try?" A sudden hot flood of rage burst through her and she was surprised at the power, the violence of it. "You put us through all this…shit, to get us here, to this place, this place I thought I'd never fucking reach, and for what? To just fucking give up?! That doesn't sound like the Trevor I know, and it sure as fuck doesn't sound like someone who wants this to work!"

She turned away from him, paced across the living room floor to put some distance between them, because she wanted to hit him; she wanted to hurt him for the way he was hurting her. Trevor just stood there like a cold, stone statue, and that made her want to hit him even more.

"Yeah, maybe I could've fought a little harder," he said after a moment. "But honestly, sunshine—"

"Don't call me that!" she roared, shaking so hard with rage her teeth rattled in her head. With just words, he was demolishing all they'd built, crushing her newfound hopes, vaporizing the future she'd thought she could never have and now found herself picturing, wanting more than anything. And she couldn't say for certain why she was so surprised, why it so devastatingly unexpected. After all, what in life had ever gone the way she wanted it to? What was Trevor good at it, if not untold, unapologetic destruction? And why should that change now? For love? Maybe love just wasn't enough. Maybe he'd never loved her at all; maybe it was just a passing infatuation for him, and she was the fool who'd mistaken it for something more.

"This," Trevor continued with infuriating calmness, gesturing back and forth between them. "You and me—it was never gonna work. We were just kidding ourselves, you know? Love's a nice thought, but for people like me, it just ain't fucking enough."

"Why?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, all the anger she had felt suddenly doused by a wave of complete and utter despair. Tears burned at her eyes but she didn't bother to blink them away. "How do you know it's not enough, how do you know it won't work when you've already given up? You can't know the truth of it until you put in the effort to find it."

"I know 'cause I destroy everything I touch. 'Cause nothing good ever survives me." That's what he might have said if he didn't think it would make her fight harder for them, cling tighter to hope. There was none, so what he actually said was, "Except I do know; I've had more than enough experience in my lifetime, Sonia." A lie, of course. Oh, he had experience, but it was nothing like this and with no one that could hold a candle to her.

The anger came flashing back. "What kind of experience, exactly? Sticking your cock in a prostitute every once in a while? And you think that makes you a goddamn expert on love, on what it takes to make a relationship work?"

"Well, I know a good goddamn deal more about it than you do, that's for fucking sure!"

Sonia bared her teeth and lurched at him, shoving her hands into his chest, so hard he almost fell over the coffee table. "You don't know shit! You're just doing this 'cause you got scared of it! Because when you have something to care about you have something lose! Just admit it, Trevor. You're a fucking coward just like I was! But I'm not scared anymore. If you think I'm just gonna give up on this or accept that you have, you got another fucking thing coming!"

Exactly what he was afraid would happen. Now. Do it now. Fucking get it over with. "You just made this a lot fucking easier, sunshine," Trevor growled. More lies. He felt the heavy press of dread in his belly again as he reached a hand behind him and slid the gun from the waist of his jeans. No amount of anger at her would make this any easier. Nothing would. But it had to be done. It was, after all, inevitable.

Sonia eyed the gun in his hand and scoffed indignantly. "Really, Trevor? How many times have we been through this same scenario? I know you're not gonna do shit with that gun."

"Oh, sunshine." Trevor sighed, his shoulders slumping, his face crumpling with despair. "You have never been more wrong."

The hand holding the gun trembled as it rose up between them, but did not otherwise waver. He met her eyes, one last time. Beautiful black eyes that had never shown him an ounce of fear nor looked at him like he was a freakshow, the scum of the earth, the worst of the worst. And so they looked at him now, even in her anger, one last time.

"I'm sorry." His voice was hoarse, strangled. "For what I am, that I can't fucking be anything else, not even for you. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

Sonia opened her mouth, but whatever she had intended to say, Trevor would never know.

There was a hallow crack, a gasp. Sonia felt a moment's worth of pain explode in her head, and then she knew no more.

A/N: Whew! I'm glad that's over. This chapter ended up being the hardest one in the whole story to write. You'd think Trevor, being the psychotic nujtob that he is, would be the biggest challenge to write, but strangely, for me, that ended up being Michael. I didn't want him to come off as a dick, but even after the copious amount of rewrites and sleep lost making the effort, he still came off as a dick in my opinion. So, yeah, sorry to all you Michael fans out there who feel the same, but I gave it my best shot.

On another note, we're nearing the end now. I think two more chapters left, four at the most, and I'll be able to label this 'finished'. And hell, who knows? Maybe it'll actually happen sometime this year. *rolls eyes at self*