Chapter Thirteen #2
“Everybody thinks you are revolting,” Art interjects. He’s slowly moving toward the table.
Mario takes advantage of my moment of distraction, cutting the front of my shirt and tie.
Art screams a scared no, but I don’t have time to reassure him I’m fine.
I need to keep my eyes on the piece of scum.
Knife fights are brief and vicious, where a single failure in defense can be fatal.
They are almost frantic, and inherently lethal.
I need to neutralize his weapon hand, controlling physical space, and delivering an incapacitating slash.
“As you can see, he doesn’t belong to you, you sick fuck.” I smirk back, trying to provoke him the same as he did to me.
“He’s fucking mine!” He snaps his teeth, visibly fired up. It’s working.
“He’ll leave with me today. You won’t ever touch him again while I will—every fucking day.”
“Over my dead body,” he hisses, lowering both his knives.
“That can be arranged,” I say just before we both lunge.
We exchange high-speed slashes and thrusts, both sustaining cuts within the first minutes.
My reactions are driven by adrenaline and fury as I shift from standoffs to sudden explosive attacks, focusing on evasion and maintaining a stance that protects vital organs since he has two knives and I only one.
I have tuned out my surroundings, only hearing the sound of my own heavy breathing and the scuffle of boots on the floor.
He pounces again, and I half spin, evading his attack and then elbowing his temple after another half twist of my body.
I move back and kick the knife off his right hand.
It falls on the floor, bounces, and slides somewhere.
“You might be good at cutting defenseless victims, but you are shit in a fight,” I sneer, feeling once again so fucking grateful for Don Massimo’s teaching and all the training with Seb and Marco.
His blades got me four times, only superficial, defensive wounds over my free forearm—he slices rapidly, but he has no technique. While his blue polo is covered in blood, his arms and left thigh as well. Yes, I’m that good, you motherfucker.
Mario roars and dives toward me again. I parry his knife hand with my own.
And move away. He tries again and again.
Clearly blinded by anger. His pumps are rapid, frantic, repetitive.
Predictable at this point. On his next thrust, I grab his left wrist and squeeze until he lets the knife go with a grunt.
Vibrations ring up my arm when my fist connects with his cheekbone.
Blood splatters over my chin as his lip gets busted.
And I let my mouth turn up into a feral smile.
The vengeful beast is out, it’s taken over.
It’s impossible to shove it back now. I don’t want to.
It’s waited so long for this, and I want it to enjoy it, too.
I crack his nose and jaw as laughter reaches my ears—I realize it’s coming from me.
I keep going, striking and hitting, drunk on violence and my vendetta.
Until I hear a fuck come from behind me.
Art. My fist freezes in the air. I’m on the floor, straddling Mario.
My other hand around his neck. I feel the slickness of blood on my knuckles.
His nose is broken, one eye shut, brown hair painted red but he’s still breathing, still glaring at me.
I start turning toward Art when I suddenly feel the wet warmth of blood on my side, then the sharp, searing pain hits.
“Luca!” Art calls my name while the knife slides out of my body, and I’m shoved to the floor. My head smacks against the hard porcelain tiles, and I almost feel my brain quaking inside my skull.
Then a shadow looms over me, Mario holding a knife, his bloody face twisted in a murderous grimace.
I hear a snarl before Art appears. He swings his arm, striking Mario’s face with a heavy-looking crystal ashtray. Twice. Mario’s eyes roll to the back of his head as he crumbles to the ground.
Fucking hell! My brat is incredible.
I sit up and look for the Enzino killer, finding it a couple of feet from me—I must have dropped it while pummeling the dirtbag into the floor.
I grab it, clenching my teeth against the sting in my side.
I kneel near his wheezing body and, holding the blade with both hands, I thrust it right into his heart.
“Five times,” I whisper into his ear, pulling the blade out.
“You stabbed my mother five times.” I sink the knife again and again and again and again.
Then I give it a sharp twist. “This—is for Art.” And twist the blade again, turning the black organ into a bloody pulp, until it’s done.
Until his evil spirit leaves him. This is how a bastard like him ends—in blood and the ashes of everything he destroyed.
I sit and let my head drop back as I take a long, purifying breath. I did it, Mother. I avenged you. The debt he owed you is finally paid—with his death.
Bang! Bang! My head snaps straight, and I spring to my feet as I hear the sound of bullets. Art is standing over Mario’s body. My gun is in his hand, aimed at his brother’s dead body, smoke coming from the muzzle.
“Roaches need a double tap,” he explains, still looking at his brother’s corpse with a wary expression. The gun is out of bullets, but he keeps pulling the trigger a couple more times.
I crouch down and grab Mario’s already broken jaw. I yank at it using all my strength until I feel the crack as I rip it off his face.
“Convinced now?” I toss it on the floor and stand again, wincing as I pull the injury on my side.
Art drops the pistol and closes the two steps between us, to part the side of my jacket and look at the wound.
“Are you okay?” He looks worried. I fucking like that.
I clean my bloody hands on my already dirty pocket square as best as I can and then move a blond lock of hair from his forehead with my thumb as I drown in the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.
“It didn’t pierce any organs—I’ll survive.” As soon as I finish the sentence, Art’s hand delivers a hard slap on my cheek.
“Fuck was that for?” I ask him with a rumble.
“Did it hurt?” He frowns at me.
“Yes, it fucking did.”
“This isn’t a dream, then.” He smiles for a second before the frown is back. “If it is, you are dead meat!” His little hand grabs what remains of my necktie, pulling me down—or trying to.
I grit my teeth—I’m going to lose them all at this rate. “Shouldn’t you have slapped yourself?”
“Can’t ruin my makeup.” He sniffs.
Why the fuck do I find his insanely bratty attitude cute? I grab him by the hair and halt. In this position, the light coming from the window hits his face, revealing new bruises under the makeup. I can only imagine what he had to endure in the last two days.
“I fucking hate it. Hate that I left you alone. Hate that I’d have probably let you go back to them anyway if you hadn’t left by yourself.
I hate that I let pain touch you again.” I growl, letting all the disgust toward myself come out.
I stop his shaking head and push my thumb over his lips because I need to say more.
“I want to tear you apart only to put you back together again. Because I know where all your crazy, annoying, fucking beautiful pieces go, I know the right place for them. With mine.” I savor his shocked expression, those little hands covering that sassy, slutty, skilled mouth.
“I am the only one who can fuck you and fuck with you. Nobody else, because if they try…” I point at the dead body on the floor.
Dead. I’ll enjoy seeing them suffer before cutting their chests open and squashing their hearts with my bare hand.
“You killed my brother for your vendetta,” he states, kissing my thumb.
“And for you, a gift for you.”
“Some men give chocolate,” he teases me, not in the least horrified by my gory present.
“Some men haven’t got the size of my cock.” I raise my eyebrow at him.
He crosses his arms, but he isn’t able to stifle his smile. “Such a romantic.” He snorts. “Although I do appreciate your national treasure very much.”
I grab his ass and pull his body against mine—gently. His hands land on my pecs.
“I’m also grateful you killed the sick bastard,” he confesses, looking up at me all vulnerable and lovely.
Fucking. Hell. My heart is hammering. I thought it couldn’t be moved anymore, but my sun seems to know how to pump life into it.
Into me. I can’t take my eyes away from his now.
His fingers find the back of my neck, and I lift my hand to swipe my thumb along his chin.
My gaze is drawn down to the way the plump flesh of his lower lip curves outward as he lets out a shaky breath.
“You want romance?” I ask, letting my voice turn gruff.
He nods eagerly.
I grab his hand and flatten his small palm over my chest. “I haven’t shown my heart to a single being before you.
I didn’t even suspect I had one. If I ever did, I buried it with my parents thirty years ago.
Now it pounds and bleeds and breaks and hardens for you, Art Enzino.
Because I’ll hate-love you until its last beat. ”
He chuckles as tears spill again from his eyes. They have turned pale blue.
“I’m madly in hate-love with you too, you wacko. And your dick.” He insists on specifying. Then he gestures to his face. “See? What the fuck is this? You make me feel fucking…emotions and wishy-washy crap. You big mobster!”
I pull his face toward mine and let my lips respond to him.
His tongue is eager and thirsty, fucking delicious. He hums and sighs as he lets me take control. The sounds he’s making are giving me a half chub. This kiss tastes like hot times to come, like late snacks and night cuddling, like blazing fights and hate-love fucks. Like us.
Art suddenly jumps into my arms, wrapping his legs tightly around my waist, taking the kiss from zero to dirty as fuck. There’s no finesse, just two mouths devouring each other. I bite hard on his lower lip and then wince when he tightens his thighs around my hips—pushing on my wound.