Sierra’s POVSilence enveloped us for a heartbeat, the only noise the drone of the engine and the uneven gasps of our party. Inside the van, the air was thick with anticipation and something more, something dark.Then, as my eyes adjusted to the low-light interior, I froze in my throat. In the corner sat Carlos Moretti, wearing a sleek black suit, and dark glasses on the bridge of his nose. A cigar hung limply from one side of his mouth, a thin wisp of smoke curling up to the ceiling.“You all didn’t know I was here. Well, I accept that compliment you gave earlier,” he said, “Oh, you are welcome,” he barely echoed and pumped out more smoke into the air with reckless abandon.Still talking to himself and all, he chuckled, a slow and gruff laugh that sent a shiver down my spine. It went on too long, stretching that moment into something just disgusting, something grotesque and even annoying, that made my stomach flip.I felt like reaching out to him and smacking him in the face to keep
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