28. Cian
Cian
C all me a selfish bastard, but I enjoy having my wife’s full attention again. She’s no longer constantly fussing and worrying over her twin sister. Though the concern she showed toward her gave me the sense that she’ll be a wonderful mother. One day. Soon, I hope.
Having Elena in my house showed me that she would have been the wrong bride.
We would have been a disaster. I thought I wanted the meek, sweet sister, but now I know otherwise.
Ravenna was meant for me in every way possible, and even though she originally deceived me, I’m grateful I ended up married to her instead of her twin.
Smart. Sassy. Bull-headed. She’s perfect.
She’s also a distraction. As I knew she would be.
I think about her even when she’s not around, like right now.
Walking down the street at night near this cemetery, I should be vigilant.
Instead I’m preoccupied with thoughts of my wife’s charms. Not only her physical assets, but also the way she makes me feel…
is it happiness? Hope? Something akin to those emotions.
I feel young again. Free. My wife manages to take me back to a time before my mistakes of the past, before the trauma, pain, and hatred. A time before my scars. I don’t know how she does it.
She’s ruined me in more ways than she’ll ever know. I let her go once, and I’ll regret that for the rest of my life. She’s mine. Forever and always. I hope she understands what that means.
I love the woman, there’s no doubt in my mind about that. One day I’ll tell her, but now’s not the right time. I want it to be perfect, memorable.
I’ve yet to find the perfect moment to confess my feelings. The right moment, but also the right words. I don’t want to fumble.
Clearing my throat, I consider how I might phrase those three short but significant words. I’ve never been so nervous about speaking a single sentence before.
I’ll want to practice.
Someone smashes a glass bottle as I round the corner of the cemetery’s iron fence. I sense their presence before I see them. Turning, I find three men following me. They slow as I come to a stop. Yeah, definitely tailing me. But why?
I take in their buzz cut hair, muscular builds, and distinct features. Russians . There are several bratvas in the city, so it's impossible to tell which one these men belong to, unless they’re going to tell me. Which is unlikely.
We stare each other down. They widen their stances. I fold my arms.
I probably should have brought Wolfe or one of the other guys with me tonight, but my plans were to visit the Pontrelli family graves—alone. In private.
Seems like I picked up a tail along the way. Opportunists?
The three Russian punks crack their knuckles and fan out to divide my attention between them.
The one wearing all black speaks first. “They call you The Beast, and I can see why—you’re one big, ugly fucker.”
I’ve been called that and worse so many times in my life that his insult rolls off my back. Mostly. Except for an inner voice that whispers, d oes Ravenna see me that way too?
I hate that I have that insecurity. It haunts me.
“We heard you got the shit kicked out of you by Little Italy,” says the one wearing a bomber jacket. He snickers as he shuffles closer.
So that’s why they think I’m easy prey. Because I lost a fight. One I was honor bound to throw.
I scowl. Dumb fucks.
The third one’s dressed in white athletic gear. He hovers near his bomber jacket friend, but I can tell he’s eager to strike. His shifty gaze and tense muscles practically scream his intentions before he moves.
I make a come hither gesture, and they pounce. Bomber and Athletic rush me as the guy in black opens his switch blade.
One punch and Bomber hits the ground, out cold. I elbow Athletic in the nose. Crunch . A wellspring of blood follows the loud sound, drenching his white clothing in a deep crimson. The violent sight satisfies a primal part of myself.
Those clothes were too white anyway. Glaring.
This is what they wanted to see, right? They wanted to go up against The Beast and be able to tell the tale to their friends. Too bad for them, only one of them will walk away from this tonight.
The guy with the knife comes at me, slashing his blade in quick, jerky movements. He’s trained, but not well. He’s also too confident, thinking that since I’m unarmed—at least to his knowledge—that I pose no threat.
Foolishly, he’s under the assumption that a knife gives him an advantage.
I jerk backwards, dodging his slashing arcs. Pivoting, we dance around each other for a few seconds. Just long enough that I start to predict his movements.
He jabs the blade at me.
I catch his hand and crush it, breaking his fingers.
His screams land on unsympathetic ears.
The sound cuts off when I take his head between my hands and break his neck. His body crumples to the ground.
When I glance around, Athletic is nowhere in sight. Bomber hasn’t moved, so he’s either knocked out or dead. Or too afraid to move. I don’t really give a shit which.
Five strikes of my boot do the job of caving in his skull. Now he’s dead for sure. Message sent.
I leave their bodies on the sidewalk for their people to find and clean up. Hopefully their pakhan will take it as a warning not to fuck with me again.
With that inconvenience out of the way, I continue into the cemetery.
It’s quite a hike to the Pontrelli family plot.
The short, wet grass whispers beneath my boots.
Twisted, budding trees dot the landscape.
My breath fogs in the chill night air. Spring is supposed to be approaching, but fuck all if it feels like it.
Using my phone’s flashlight feature, I find the graves I seek.
Lorenzo Pontrelli. Matteo Pontrelli.
Ever since Ravenna confided in me about her abusive family, I’ve been itching to visit these assholes one last time. She told me about her brother on our honeymoon. It wasn’t until later that I found out how her father treated her at home.
If they were alive, I’d kill them both again, slowly, painfully.
Unfortunately, they’re already dead, and reaching into the afterlife isn’t in my skillset. But I can do the next best thing.
Unzipping my fly, I take my flaccid cock in hand. “I hope you can feel this all the way down in hell.”
With a grunt, I piss on their graves.
You deserve so much worse, you motherfuckers .