Anger at him for leaving. Anger at his father. Anger at this place. Anger at yourself for caring.
But you're used to anger. It's been your constant companion since she was killed in front of you, since you stood by as a child and did nothing to stop it. Since then, it's been there, wrapped up with the diamonds and the jewels and the whips and leather. You haven't actively thought about the fact that you spent years wishing it had been you instead of her, not until this moment. Because you're alone again, and there's no one out there that understands. This isn't home, where someone always thought there was more to you than you thought there was. You need that, and now it's gone, and that's dangerous.
You have a death-wish, see, and you always have, since the age of twelve.
So you're angry, and you're staring down at the note in your hand, and you wish you could find his cat amid the ones that are crawling around and put it out into the night. But you can't, and you won't, and you're angry at yourself for that too.
You have to do something, you realize as you stand there and, for once, stealing doesn't feel like it's going to be enough. So you suit up, and you head out, and you do the stupidest thing you can think of, which is pretty stupid. Because, let's face it, you've always been good at careless, especially without anyone to keep you in line.