20. 20 – Domenico
20 – Domenico
M y knuckles smash into the bag hanging from the ceiling, over and over again.
“Looking to break some bones?”
I don’t stop at the quiet question. Instead, I hit harder. “If I wanted your opinion, I would have fucking asked for it.”
I don’t tell him that my sloppy position is intentional. That I’d welcome the pain of broken bones, take it with a smile and a fucking thank you over this damn buzzing in my head that screams at me to fight . To punch and smash until red flows beneath my hands.
Punching the hell out of this bag at least takes the edge off.
I drag the bag to a stop, pausing long enough to snag the water next to me and take a drink. Feeling eyes on me, I turn. “Problem?”
I came down to the gym for some peace and fucking quiet. It’s not even six in the morning yet.
Stefano fucking Asante doesn’t blink an eye at my tone. “I know what it feels like, you know.”
I scoff at him, pulling the wraps from my hands and flexing them. “I don’t want to be psychoanalyzed.”
Cat may have chosen the fucker, but it doesn’t make us friends.
But he doesn’t move. “I know what it is like to be made into something you never wanted to be, Rossi. You want to fight it out, I’ll get on the mat with you.”
I narrow my eyes, assessing him. “You might not walk back off.”
I’m not exaggerating. And the fucker makes a show of looking me up and down, before he raises his eyebrow. “I’m not worried.”
I point to the open space in the center of the gym. “Rules?”
He shrugs. “Not particularly a fan of them. I won’t kill you, though. Cat wouldn’t be happy.”
Something that might be amusement sounds at the back of my throat. “Feel free to try. I don’t plan on holding back.”
He peels off his shirt, rolling his shoulders before he joins me. I eye the artwork inked over his neck. Must have been someone with skill.
I stretch out my swollen knuckles.
He notices my stare. “Want to touch? Buy me dinner first.”
“Fuck you. No wonder you never used to speak.”
Stefano bounces back on his feet, his eyes noting my position, the hold of my arms. He seems to know what he’s doing, at least.
Something he proves when I move, sudden and swift. My right arm swings up in a savage blow that would be a clean KO, but he easily sideswipes it with surprising agility.
Warier now, we circle each other.
“Come on,” he flicks his fingers at me. “Go for it. You know you want to, Rossi. Better to get it out here.”
I wait for him to move back, for his foot to lift so he’s off balance, before I strike again. Back and forth we go, neither of us able to land a true hit on the other.
Frustrated, I lunge for his left side, and he shoves me back.
“Tell me, Asante. Did she scream when you branded her?”
He stumbles, and my next blow lands directly in his ribs. “Better me than any of the others. I’ve seen too many die from that fucking rod to let anyone else place it on her.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss at him, lowering my hands. “So I should be – what? Grateful? You’ve scarred her. She’ll have to look at that brand every day for the rest of her goddamned life, Asante. What else did you do to her that isn’t so obvious?”
His sudden blow smashes into my cheek, and I stumble back. He advances on me, hands up defensively.
“I did everything I could,” he says abruptly. “He had my mother, Rossi – you’ve seen her. My hands were fucking tied, and I still risked her life to get Cat out of there.”
“He drugged her.” I shove him back, smash him in the face. “Fuck knows what else. Don’t tell me you did everything you fucking could. What did you do, kiss her forehead in apology as he was injecting her?”
“I was locked up !” He roars the words at me, his voice bouncing around the room. “He locked me in a fucking cell for forty-six days to keep me away from her. You think I don’t feel that guilt, that she had the chance to leave and she came back ? You think I didn’t try to rip those bars apart to get to her?”
We both stop. He doesn’t look away. A cut has opened up above his eyebrow, splitting the skin as blood drips and he wipes it away impatiently.
“I spent forty-six days listening ,” he says heavily. “Listening to the soldiers talk about her. About what he was doing to her. And sometimes, he’d come and tell me himself. It was fun for him to do that, to torture me, knowing I couldn’t do anything but sit on my fucking ass as he walked back up there to do it again. I remember every single fucking second of that time, and it kills me. She cannot remember it, but I can’t fucking escape it. You don’t need to punish me, Rossi. I already have a fucking life sentence, because I will never forget .”
Red mist drops over my vision at the look on his face.
“What did he do?” Hoarse words, ripped from my chest.
He shakes his head, face resolute. “That’s not my place. If I tell anyone, it’ll be Cat. If and when she asks, but she doesn’t need those fucking details in her head. So I will try my fucking best to forget them, and to be the man she makes me want to be, instead of Salvatore’s fucking creature. You should do the same.”
He stalks off the mat before he turns back to me. “I don’t owe you my guilt, Rossi. You’ve got enough of your own.”
He walks away and leaves me there. I grip the back of my head, trying to push that red mist away but it just gets darker.
I came down here to try and work this fucking buzz off, to ease that craving for violence before I see her later. But all it’s done is raise something savage inside my head.
I make for the small bathroom that adjoins the underground gym, switch on the light.
The bruising looks worse in this light. I may as well be a patchwork fucking quilt.
I stare at the mirror.
One moment, it’s there. Whole.
And the next, it shatters around me, glass showering the steel basin until I can see twenty warped versions of my own reflection in the shards left behind.
I punch it again. Again. And I’m shouting, roaring over that agony in my head, in my fucking heart, as I look down at that glass.
I failed her. I failed her so badly, and I’m still fucking failing her.
Hands grab at my arm, and I turn, swinging my fist.
It smashes into a solid grip, even as horror locks my muscles into stillness, the fury draining and fear taking its place within a second. “ Merda , Cat—.”
Her hand stays wrapped around my fist as we stare at each other. It must have hurt – her fucking wrist, the strain of catching that punch—
She looks down at the broken pieces, still holding onto me. “I did the same thing. Smashed my fists into my bathroom mirror at the Asante compound.”
Her eyes are dark. “I picked up the longest, sharpest piece, and I considered how quickly I would bleed out if I dragged it along my wrist. Or if I was quick enough, would I be able to cut my own carotid?”
My breathing deepens, agony with every spike.
“I had to decide if it was worth fighting. Death is easy. Living – that’s harder.”
She’s breaking my fucking heart. A heart I thought was broken already, as if she’s sliding those shards into it.
“And then,” she whispers, “I thought about what I would be leaving behind. What would happen, when you found out? Dante, Luc, Gio – what would they do? And I knew that wasn’t something I ever wanted to think about again. What your faces would look like.”
She shoves, and my back slams against the wall. The edge of a dagger pricks against my neck. “Don’t you ever put that look on my fucking face, Domenico Rossi. Do you hear me? That’s a fucking order.”
“What did you do?” I rasp the words with effort. My hand twists in hers until I’m holding her. “With the mirror?”
She stands there, her chin lifted. “I chose to save my anger for those who deserved it. And that wasn’t me. So I hid the sharpest pieces, and I waited until I could use those edges on them .”
She smiles, and it’s savage. Victorious. “I dragged that blade across Cecile’s throat like butter. It took her so long to bleed out. And Salvatore – I used a steak knife, jagged and blunt, to carve a crow into his chest. To brand him, the way that he branded me . I sliced up every part of him that I could see. And then I cut off his cock.”
Her lips tighten. “I made sure he felt every moment of what he had done to me. To us, Dom. So believe me when I tell you to save that anger. Save it for the person who fucking deserves it. And that person is not you.”
I look down. “I—,”
“When a weapon is used,” she says softly. “Who is to blame? The object that had no choice? Or the person who wielded it?”
She pulls herself back, her final words lingering in my head. Her face tightens as she looks down, and I follow her eyes to my bare chest. “The bruising is fading.”
She smiles, but it’s sad. “All things fade in time. We just need to weather it.”
Swallowing, I rub my hands down my face. “I’ll try. These thoughts – they’re not easily dissuaded, Cat.”
“No,” she says quietly. “They’re not.”