Chapter Twenty
Vida
W hy did I do that? That is all I can ask myself as I pour myself a glass of water. I feel dehydrated, and as I think back, I can’t remember the last time I drank some water. Lucia seemed nice and friendly when she spoke, but maybe too friendly with my husband.
“Fuck,” I curse, pouring the remaining water into the sink. What is wrong with me? A few weeks ago I couldn’t stand the thought of his name, now I’m calling him my husband.
Well, he technically is, but I don’t need to remind myself of that every damn time!
After standing in the kitchen processing my thoughts, I decide to head back to the room, at least to say ‘thank you’ to him for calling his ever-so-friendly doctor to come to treat me properly. I don’t necessarily think he deserves a thank you, considering he’s the reason I needed a doctor in the first place, but either way, I’m not ungrateful like he is and I won’t pass up an opportunity to show him that.
“Are you going somewhere?” I ask as I step into the room.
Silence.
I turn to the bed, and images of last night flood my head. Why did he lift me like that and put me on his lap like a child? His hands were on my waist, keeping me from falling. Why would he do that? And most of all, why did he smell like that, so good, so tempting, so very sinful?
“How many times will you do shit like that?” His question brings me back to reality. What is he blabbing about now?
“What?” I arch my brow at him, waiting for him to elaborate.
“The stupid stunts you pull. When the fuck will you stop?” he continues, taking a step towards me.
“I don’t pull stupid stunts,” I correct.
“You don’t? What do you call what you did with Carmela? And the shit you did yesterday?”
“How are you blaming me right now? You locked me in here like an animal,” I shoot back.
I hate this dude! Why on earth did I think this disrespectful, egocentric person deserved an apology?
“Maybe because you need some taming! You’re reckless and you don’t give two fucks about your actions.”
How fucking dare he?
“Are you for real?” I ask, laughing in between the madness growing in my head. “Are you freaking serious?”
“I am! You think you can do whatever you want, thinking I’d be there to what? Save you? Come to your rescue? Treat your fucking leg because you couldn’t just stay here!” he yells.
“I hate you!” I say through gritted teeth and point at him. “I am not a child and I don’t need you or anyone to save me.”
“Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night? Oh right! You don’t!” He pauses.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“It means whatever I fucking want it to mean! Since you got here, it’s been one inconvenience after another. I have things to do, little chaos, and people to lead. I can’t be at your beck and call because you’re lacking some attention.” His words are like a punch in the gut. They hurt, and they’re untrue.
“Fuck you, Ciro! If I was seeking attention, why on earth would I seek it from you? Do you think I like being here? Being married to . . . to . . .” I mumble, trying to find the right words.
“To what? Say it? The little church girl in you can’t say anything worse than fuck? Is that it?” he taunts.
I hate being called a church girl! I hate the labels that come with it, and the expectations that glue itself to that title.
“Do not call me that!” I warn.
“Or what? You’ll cut your other thigh and make me clean it up? You’ll fucking embarrass me in a meeting again? What will you do, little chaos? I am dying to know.”
“You’re cruel,” I say, glaring at him.
“You have not seen cruelty. You have not seen anything yet. My advice, stay put and out of my way. Next time you do some stupid shit, you better save yourself,” he says his gaze hard and his warning coming through strong.
When did he walk towards me and how is he standing just inches from me?
“I do not need your saving, Ciro Ballera.”
“And you, Vida Thorne, are a liability. A fucking inconvenience.”
I will not cry! He doesn’t deserve to see me cry!
“You’re a heartless and selfish prick! I dread this marriage as much as I dread living with you. Fuck you,” I say, squeezing my palms into tight fists and feeling my nails dig into my skin.
I watch as his brown eyes turn to something I can’t read, like new emotions have taken over. It is almost like I’ve struck a nerve, which is just what I want.
“Fuck you too,” he replies, quickly pulling his face away from mine and pretending that what I said didn’t just hit him hard.
I stand here as he picks up his car keys, his phone, and his jacket before heading out and slamming the door behind him.
He’s an asshole! And I will spend every waking day reminding him of that.
I take a deep breath and fall onto the bed. I need to shower and finish the book I’ve been reading for days. I’m going to enjoy all the time I get alone before he comes back and ruins my day . . . again.
The day goes by too quickly and I hate it. After falling asleep in the tub, I made myself some Mac and cheese and read my books. Lisa video-calls me and we spend the rest of the day talking and catching up. I couldn’t tell her everything, so I settled for the basics.
I watched as the weather changed and the rain began to pour. I wasn’t worried about him, I wasn’t. Neither did I care to know if he was okay or not, I just couldn’t sleep and that was the only reason why I was still awake at 2 am, starting a new fantasy novel. The little drizzles had slowly become a full-blown downpour of rain and the sound of thunder made me a bit worried. But not because I cared if he was safe or not, but because I didn’t want people to think that he died on our honeymoon.
After finally deciding to call and check in on him, I couldn’t go through with it once I heard the second ring. He didn’t need me wondering if he was fine, he was an ungrateful dickhead who would probably not even pick up my call.
I let out a long sigh before deciding to fix myself some snacks, and hoping it helps. I stand by the sink, watching the unrelenting storm as rain hammers down on the roof in a frantic rhythm. Then I notice the shed at the back of the house. The small yellow light from within is barely visible through the downpour, but it calls to me, fueling my curiosity.
The storm is raging, the cold creeping through the cracks in the window, but something about that light feels weird, considering the fact I noticed the shed earlier and the lights weren’t on. My pulse quickens as I head to put on a coat and boots. Every step toward the door feels heavier, like an invisible force is trying to keep me inside. I should stay back, eat a snack, and read a book, but here I am, opening the door and getting ready to run into the storm.
I step into the night, shivering the minute the rain hits me, soaking my hair and clothes within seconds. I don’t let it change my mind, instead, I close the door behind me and continue to move towards the lights from the shed. My boots sink into the mud with every step, and the howling wind only makes this quest even creepier. All I can feel is the pounding of my heart that beats harder with every step closer to the shed.
Why did I let myself come out here again? I wonder, but it’s too late to change my mind now. I’ve reached my destination, and just as I’m about to open the door completely, I hear it; voices, deep and menacing. I stop, my hand hovering over the handle as my breath catches in my throat.
I’ve heard his voice before, in all kinds of different tones, but this is different. His voice is unmistakable, low, and dangerous, but there is something else, something darker in his tone that I have never heard before. A shiver runs through me, but it isn’t from the cold. What is he doing in there?
The door is slightly ajar, so I lean closer, my eyes peering through the crack as I peek inside. I stay perfectly still, whether it’s from the fear of getting caught or from the sight in front of me, I have no idea.
Ciro stands over a man who is slumped on the ground, his face bloodied and beaten. His best friend, Franchesco, looms in the corner, silent and brooding, like he is enjoying the show in front of him. I swear he even has a smile on his face as he watches Ciro almost kill the man. My eyes turn back to him, to Ciro, who has his sleeves rolled up, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and his hair damp with sweat. Why does that hold my attention and not the half-dead man on the ground? The way Ciro looks in this setting has me mesmerized. I’d hated how I felt recently, and right now, I hate that a part of me would dare think that my husband, who is beating on an almost lifeless man, looks . . . good?
My heart races as I watch him. I watch him raise his fist and strike the man again, each blow landing with a sickening thud. The man groans, curling in on himself, but Ciro shows no mercy and by the state of this man already, it doesn’t look like he will. From what I’m seeing, it looks like he is enjoying it more than Franchesco.
“Where is he?” Ciro asks, his voice cold, yet so calm it is terrifying. “You know what I want. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
The man whimpers something unintelligible, but it isn’t enough for Ciro. He grabs the man by the collar and yanks him upright before driving his fist into his gut and knocking the wind from him. The man gasps, crumpling to the floor again, and coughs up blood.
How long have they been here? How long has he been beating this man like this? By the look of the man and his unrecognizable face, I can tell they’ve been here for a long time.
My stomach twists at the sight, and yet . . . I don’t look away. I can’t.
I should be scared and horrified by the image in front of me. I should’ve run back to the house and hid in my room, curled in a ball and shivering after seeing the things he’s doing, yet my feet stay rooted to the ground. Instead of running, I find myself watching Ciro, really watching him. The way he moves with such precision, such control, as though he isn’t even fazed by the brutality of it all, like he’s done this a million times over. His face remains emotionless, even as his knuckles are stained more with the man’s blood. And somehow . . . that makes me stare at him, my gaze unwavering. It’s like it’s the perfect sight to truly behold.
My breathing pauses as my heartbeat pounds in so many unfamiliar rhythms in my chest. Why am I not scared? The same question tugs at me again. I should be terrified of the man I’m married to, this man who is capable of such violence, but instead, just like Franchesco, I almost like watching him do what he’s doing. How can someone look so composed, so in control, while being so utterly ruthless? Like an artist, painting his masterpiece, in the blood of his enemy.
Ciro’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his muscular arms flexing with each strike. His shirt clings to his body, damp with sweat from all this beating, the first few buttons undone, revealing part of his chest and exposing another layer of tattoos I can’t quite make out. The sight of him being commanding, the authority his voice holds, the way he moves and his ruthlessness is all intoxicating. It shouldn’t be, but it is. It is wrong, yet it feels so right.
I watch as he leans down, his voice dropping lower. “This is your last chance. Where is the man after my wife?”
I freeze, my eyes widening in utter disbelief. He was . . . he was doing this for me? I’m the reason he is doing all of this? Or did I hear him wrong?
The man coughs, spitting blood onto the floor. “I don’t know . . . please, I don’t know . . .” he begs.
Ciro’s jaw tightens, and he delivers a final, brutal punch to the man’s face, sending him sprawling against the floor. His breath comes in slow, controlled exhales, his expression unreadable.
My hands clench at my sides. I should stop this, but the words stay lodged in my throat. I’m frozen, my body betraying me. And that feeling, that dark thrill I don’t want to acknowledge, spreads through me, igniting a fire in my chest. Though I hate it so much, I can’t help but like it even more.
I swallow hard, my pulse racing. No, this isn’t right. This is wrong. But the way he moves, so confident, brutal, and in complete control, wakes something deep inside me that I don’t want to admit is there. My breaths quicken, my chest rising and falling as I feel something I didn’t expect to feel at this moment. Something even I don’t understand.
Before I can gather my thoughts, Ciro’s head turns. His sharp gaze locks onto me, almost killing me on the spot. For a heartbeat, neither of us move. My breath catches, my heart hammering in my chest. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, filled with something I don’t understand but can’t look away from. We stare at each other, almost like we’re looking way beyond what our eyes can physically see, neither of us wanting to look away, and neither wanting to succumb.
As the strike of thunder roars in the air, panic swells in my chest, and I spin on my heels, my body snapping into action as I run toward the house. The rain beats against me, soaking me to the bone, but I continue to run, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. Mud splashes up my legs, my feet slipping with every step, but I don’t stop until I slam the door behind me. My chest heaves as rainwater drips from my hair and clothes onto the floor.
My back presses against the door, my heart still racing, chest rising and falling violently as I run from everything I fear. Deep down, I know it wasn’t the storm that shook me, it was him, my husband, Ciro, and the terrifying, exhilarating realization that I hadn’t wanted to look away. From all he was at that moment and just maybe, all that he ever is.