combination of all that precision guided pain mixed with my blood boiling rage.

Each entry seems to drift back to her. Looks like it was part of him on a very deep level.

Looking at his hands he thinks to himself: The irony - Walking death, reminiscing over a broken heart. He reads on:

Unfortunately, I was too late. A drug overdose two days before I-

He skips forward a few pages, unwilling to relive the memory he knew was there waiting to ambush him.

But I’d traded efficiency for effectiveness when taking out a target. Whole mob families, buildings and public streets bore witness to my rage as I slaughtered in equal measure mob bosses, sex