36. Tonight, a man will die
The day drags on, but when the light outside dims, my blood buzzes with anxious energy. I volunteered to cook our dinner. Anything to make sure I don’t eat what a man other than my husband prepared for me. My movements are slow because of my busted shoulder, but I make due.
I’m busy cutting spring onions to add to the sizzling oil when Louis comes behind me and fuses his body to mine. His hands roam over my hips and I pretend I don’t notice. My knuckles blanch as I grip the knife handle harder.
Sweat glistens on my brow, and a drop follows the line of my spine. I grit my teeth but continue my task.
He becomes bolder and gropes my breast in a vicious grip that has me whimpering in pain. It’s nothing like the edge I get with the man who shares my life.
When his fingers come down to open the button and zipper of my jeans, I protest. I don’t want this. I know my survival depends on my submission right now, but I can’t have a repeat of this morning. I won’t survive that.
“Stop, Louis, I’m cooking.”
“You’ll continue later, I need to be inside you, right now, baby.”
“My shoulder is too painful,” I whine, hoping he’ll be sensitive to my pain.
I should know better.
“You don’t have to move,” he replies.
Shivers of dread on my skin mix with an icy fire underneath and I whirl around, using the knife in my hand to slice at his stomach. It’s too small to do real damage, but Louis jumps back, giving me space to grab the pan with my injured arm and throw it at his face, the burning oil splashing in between us.
He yelps and recoils more into the open living room, his cry of pain filling up the room and drowning the sound of the jazz music he put on, like the fucking pretentious prick he is.
“You fucking bitch!”
In seconds, he finds his footing again and draws his gun from behind him. The bullet whizzes next to my head and I dart back to the bedroom, pan and knife in hand.
That’s the worst idea I’ve ever had. I’ll be a rabbit ready to be killed in there, but he’s harmed and I’m not. My shoulder bleeds again with the exertion but I barely feel it, adrenaline inciting me to move faster, find a solution, escape.
“You’re going to regret this,” Louis yells from behind me, his heavy steps following close.
An earsplitting noise explodes, leaving me deaf for a short second, and when I turn around, eyes wide and heart in my throat, someone in cameo gear tackles Louis to the ground, effectively blocking my view of my aggressor.
I freeze as two more people in black tactical clothes harmed to the teeth enter the house. My fists are clenching tight around the handles of my wannabe weapons, and my breathing is coming hard. I’m having trouble breathing in, black threatening to take me under and clouding the edges of my vision, but I don’t let go.
One of the men walks towards me and I brandish the small knife with my right hand, the left starting to numb under the weight of the hot pan. “Don’t come any closer.”
Slowly, the person drops their rifle to the ground, crouching low and moving fluidly as if to not startle me. Too late. I’m rattled to my core, ready to carve within anyone with the poor excuse of a knife I cling to.
Their hands lift to the goggles, and they remove it from their face.
Warm honey.
The colour I know intimately.
He doesn’t need to remove the cloth mask that hides his face.
A pathetic sob escapes my lips, and my knees buckle underneath me. I never touch the ground. He’s already here, holding me to him.
Andrea sits on the floor and cradles me to his chest. He pulls the mask off and his lips find my face, peppering my skin with featherlight kisses that patch the open wounds around my spirit. Not pressing me to him, he’s careful with my bleeding shoulder, and I let myself go; he’ll catch me.
“I was so scared, amore mio,” I whimper.
I cry for what feels like hours, my body shaking with the force of this energetic release I need, Andrea’s voice in my ear.
“Ti amo, guerrieritta. Non posso vivere senza di te.”
The little lilt of his timbre when he speaks Italian soothes the tears and warms the heart that threatened to break again at the hands of someone who didn’t deserve to come in contact with it in the first place.
When I’m calmer, I lift my gaze to meet his, the pain in his hazel eyes staring back at mine, distorted and amplified like through a broken mirror.
“Thank you,” I choke on the words. “I love you, amore.”
“I love you.” He repeats the words over and over.
The house is quiet save for a muffled sound that I vaguely understand to be Louis’s struggling against a gag. It reminds me of where we are and what I need to do right now.
“He’s yours, guerrieritta.”
I nod and kiss him, passion igniting inside me when I thought all that was left was cold ice. His lips yield to mine and let me control our rhythm. Andrea opens for me to let my tongue glide inside his mouth like it belongs here. Because it does.
This is where I belong.
This is who I belong to.
Despite what I just survived, I want him; I need his skin on mine and for him to remind me who I am.
When our lips part, my resolve is iron-clad and the flash of bloodlust in his eyes tell me I’m not with Andrea, the love of my life, but Andrea Capaldi, leader of West Hill and reaper of souls. And he’ll just hold my hand while I exact my revenge.
He helps me stand and we walk into the living room where the table and chairs are upturn. Louis struggles against his bindings, but can’t move an inch nor speak. Good, I don’t want to hear the sound of his voice anymore.
“You need us?” a man I don’t know asks Andrea.
“Not for this next part. Stay on hold and call for a doctor to be on site when we’re done.”
His eyes dip to my shoulder with concern. My eyes haven’t left Louis who’s watching me with venom and hate clear on his face. He can’t possibly understand how anything he throws at me will never compare to what I feel for him.
The other men leave but not before they set Louis on a chair with more rope around his legs and arms. Except for a gash on his brow, he’s unharmed and that pisses me off.
I didn’t notice until now that I’m still clutching the little knife in my hand. I don’t hesitate when I stab Louis in the left shoulder, a mirror to the wound he inflicted on me. His shrill is music to my ears and my smile grows, bloodlust pouring inside my veins and infecting me.
“Is that what you want, guerrieritta?” Andrea asks at my back, his breath fanning on the side of my neck, cooling me down until bloodlust and peace coexist in perfect harmony.
“Yes. You’re going to pay, you fucking son of a bitch.”
Louis shuffles in his restraints, his eyes wild with anger. His dire situation hasn’t registered yet. Adrenaline is delaying the pain. He doesn’t see me as a threat yet. His eyes are trained on me, Andrea barely registering in his brain.
I wrench the knife away and blood pours while Louis lets out another muffled cry. I stab his other shoulder. And wrench the weapon away again. I stab his right thigh. Remove the knife. The left. Remove.
I lose sense of time and space, every moment bleeding into the next.
My chest heaves with the effort, the adrenaline wearing down, but I’m not satisfied. I’ve barely scratched the surface of my pain, barely exacted the revenge I need to fully quiet the grief gnawing at my insides.
Andrea’s arms encircle me, and the comforting scent of bitter oranges fills my nose. “Take a breath with me. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.”
Our chests move in sync, his against my back and mine against the corded muscles of his arms. I fill up my lungs with him, let his strength support me, and release a sigh that ends on another sob.
I’m already so fucking tired of giving my tears to that piece of shit. Andrea turns me around, before his hands frame my face, his thumbs wiping my tears away before he kisses me again. The colour of his gear mutes the ones in his eyes, but he’s never looked more beautiful to me.
Our kiss seems to piss off our esteemed guest and despite the wounds and the blood staining his clothes, he’s still not cowering, still not nearly as afraid as I want him. Rage is a sickness taking residence in my chest, but I hold onto her like my lifeline.
“Amore?”
“Yes, guerrieritta?”
“Do you have a lighter?” I keep my eyes trained on Louis who’s fallen silent again. Andrea hands me the small object and I twirl it in my fingers before flicking it. “Remove the gag and hold out his tongue.”
My husband’s eyes come to me and a flash of admiration shines through his expression. He does as I say, rummaging through the kitchen drawers and coming back with what he needs. He gives me a smirk while immobilising Louis and holding his tongue with kitchen tongs.
I flick the lighter on and take the small knife I’ve been using for the past however long, holding the flame to the blade. This is going to hurt like a bitch, and I cannot wait.
I press the blade down and my prisoner yells at the top of his lungs. The tongue is a muscle full of nerve endings and I’m surprised he hasn’t passed out already. I cut into sinew, blood pouring everywhere. I barely see what I’m doing, but I keep slicing.
Finally, I hold Louis’s tongue in one hand, the bloodied knife in the other, and just watch both. It doesn’t feel like it’s my own hands, so I force myself to take a breath and notice every single aspect of the morbid picture in front of me.
The blood is crimson and almost slimy, coating my two hands, wrists and drifting down my forearms to drip to the floor with a soft tap. The blade is indistinguishable from the handle of the knife.
The tongue looks grotesque, like a prop for a movie. God, it’s disgusting. It’s all red as well, with a stringy end where I cut.
I drop both on the floor and double over, throwing up the light lunch I had on the floor.
Hands take my hair off my face and soothe my back, and I smile despite the nausea.
When I stand back up, Louis’s passed out, chin to chest, and I feel marginally better.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, tesoro mio.”