27. Vian
VIAN
My gut instinct never leads me astray.
Deep down, I knew. Perks of knowing her and the fact that I put a tracking chip inside her.
It wasn’t difficult to connect the dots, especially after her return, when she swung from one extreme to the other—her desire to kill me masked beneath a playful game, then surrendering to her need for me.
The two sides of her wreak havoc—her indelible love for me, the one I thought would drive her insane, and her misplaced anger.
Her eyes glow with a hatred so intense it butchers my insides.
I erased myself from her thoughts so she could live. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, knowing she loved me but would go mad.
I tried to explain, time and time again, yet it only triggered another episode until she turned completely numb—no reactions, and that horrified me.
She pins me with a deadly glare burning with betrayal. “I hate you.”
I drag a hand down my face, undecided which course of action would be best this time. I am rooted in place, knowing one wrong move could cost me everything.
“I’ve heard this before. Hate me all you want. Hate me for the rest of your life, but I won’t lose you a second time. If you want to get rid of me, then kill me, but I refuse to let you go. I’ll take your hate, or you can take my life. There is no middle ground.”
I step forward when she snatches something from her purse. The gun trembles in her hands as she points it at me.
She could very well shoot me, and I wouldn’t care. “What’s it going to be, mi sol?”
“Don’t call me that,” she shouts, fat tears brimming in her eyes.
I don’t stop, driven by the need to reach and soothe her. The muzzle digs into my chest, and I lift my hand to overpower her, but she backs away, shaking her head. “You must have had a good laugh at my expense.”
I shove my hands into my pockets, balling them into fists, and let out a derisive laugh. “Oh, I’ve laughed so fucking much I contemplated ending my life a hundred times over the course of these years.”
Silence drops like a hammer on a crystal floor, shattering the frail foundation we tiptoe on.
Her pain is my pain, and what I feel threatens to destroy me. All I’ve ever wanted was to love this woman, make her happy, and bring her joy, but our world intervened. Mafia love stories aren’t supposed to be sweet; they spill blood, wear sin, and carry betrayal.
It takes everything in me not to erase the distance between us, claim her lips, remind her we’re inescapable, unavoidable, unstoppable.
I will die loving her. She will live hating me.
She wipes her cheeks, attempting to erase her vulnerability, and my focus redirects to the loaded gun that could go off any second. “I’ve been so stupid.”
“Not stupid, just in love. Please, lower the gun.”
“In love?” A shout wrenches from her throat, piercing my chest, and she swings the gun between us. “Do you call this love? Then you’re a sick, twisted man.”
“So be it. It won’t change a thing.”
“I hope you rot in hell, asshole.”
“You’d join me, baby. Because you can’t live without me either. We’re that fucking mad for each other.”
Fury strikes her face, pulling her features taut, and I know what she wants to do long before she does. She rushes to the first frame.
“Don’t,” I plead, but my words fall on deaf ears.
She yanks the first picture off the wall and throws it at me. I catch it midair and stare at it before the next one hits my shoulder and breaks at my feet.
“I will destroy every single one of them, and then I will burn this house down with you in it.”
I let her, sensing she needs to dispel her anger by giving in to a destructive impulse, even though it hurts me. That’s why she does it, forcing me to witness our past lying in shards at my feet.
She breathes heavily by the time she finishes crushing every single one.
This was the only thing that kept me sane, preserving our past like a shrine to our love, surviving time and secluded from prying eyes. I’ve spent days and nights simply looking at the pictures, drawing hope from them.
A few feet separate us, the path paved with shattered dreams, broken hearts, and cutting memories.
“There are a more in our bedroom. Destroy them all. Level this house to the ground, but even the ashes will glow, scattering frail embers you can’t stomp out.” Conviction laces every word, which only infuriates her more.
“I’m going to bury you in it, Vian. Just watch me,” she grits out, her face reddening with wrath.
“Till death do us part. Remember?”
“I fucking remember because you tricked me into it,” she shouts, holding her head and not caring about the gun in her hand.
I point to my chest. “I? Oh, wife, let’s take some accountability, shall we?”
“Don’t you dare, asshole. And I am––”
I arch a brow, and she has the decency not to continue spitting bullshit. The marriage is genuine, like our love and her wayward thoughts.
“How much can you remember?” I ask, leaning against the wall, incredibly calm considering the precarious situation.
“I only got a session done, but it was enough to discover that you ruined my life.”
I expel a long sigh, the deep breath ringing with dejection. She wants to paint me as the villain so badly. I should be used to it, but it doesn’t hurt any less than the first time. It’s a self-protection mechanism, or maybe it’s simply easier for her mind.
She drops onto the sofa, staring into nothingness, while her gun hangs from her hand, pointing at the floor.
For long minutes, I watch her until I am afraid she slipped back into that part of her that’s impossible for me to reach.
I don’t think, I act, reaching for her.
Everything happens so fucking fast I can’t stop the spiral into a tragedy. The gun goes off, the bullet ringing through the air like a death sentence. I stumble back, clutching my stomach. A hole bursts open, bleeding in rivulets of red. So much blood soaks the black material and coats my fingers.
She shot me.
I guess she decided. It was the only choice because I wouldn’t have given her another.
“Don’t fucking burn this place down, or I will haunt your ass, Zara,” I groan, not mad at her, but strangely at ease. Maybe I’ll find some peace in the afterlife.
She remains frozen in place, the gun dropping from her hand and clattering to the floor with a thud that echoes the end.
Her eyes water as she stares at my hand pressing on the wound, covered in deep scarlet.
“Look at me, mi sol.” Slowly, she lifts her chin. “I’m not mad at you. It’s okay. I love you. Never forget that.”
“Liar,” she screams, the sound gut wrenching.
I fall to my knees, the blood loss weakening my legs, draining my life force with each second.
“One more kiss,” I whisper, craving her taste one last time so it can nourish my soul on the other side.
“Death will give you one. I’m not that merciful.”
She storms out, leaving me to die. And I want to. I yearn for it so badly that I lean back, staring at the ceiling.
I won’t grow old with her. I won’t see our children playing around.
I won’t have a future.
And that’s okay.
Our past felt like a lifetime of only good times, but even those end––humanity’s irrevocable truth.
I don’t know what I expect––some grand epiphany. Some memorable wisdom. It’s nothing but silence and the slow thud of my pulse weakening.
Did she really want to shoot me?
I am certifiably crazy. No doubt.
She wanted to, and she did.
But… Shut the fuck up with your but. Let me die in peace.
I can’t believe I am arguing with myself now.
Someone else will get her, that antagonistic, pesky inner voice seeps through the mental chaos. Just like that, enough life returns to make me roll onto my side and attempt to get up.
Oh, no, fucker. She is mine. Even if she doesn’t want to be. Fuck it. I’ll chain her to my bed if I need to. She will fucking listen to my side of the story.
Even if she wanted to kill me, it would change nothing, but if she didn’t, I will use it to my advantage. She fell in love with me once more. What’s a third time? I’ll succeed a hundred times over.
I scramble to my feet, my vision blurry as I brace against the wall. The world spins, but I focus on taking one step after another. No one can know what happened here or who attempted to kill me. It would sabotage all my well-laid plans, and I can’t have that.
Zara will calm down and return home, or I am bringing her back by any means necessary.
This woman is so stubborn that kidnapping will probably be required.
Pondering the best strategy, an idea lights up in my brain, and I smirk.
She won’t pass up the chance to see her supposed enemy take his last breath, but first, I must survive this.
In my car, I slide into the passenger seat, aware I can’t drive, red instantly painting the leather seat, my fingers leaving bloody prints on the handle and phone as I call my cousin.
She answers on the third ring, her voice sounding sleepy. “Vian?”
“I need your help. I will drop my location, and you will take me to the family doctor. No fucking hospital. Do you understand?”
“Oh my god, what happened? Are you hurt?” She bursts into tears. It’s too soon after she lost her father to lose me too, and I am trying to survive here, but the more she keeps me on the phone, the slimmer the chances.
“I’m just dying here, but yeah, let’s continue this fucking chat,” I groan while I press down on my wound.
The phone slips from my hand, my vision turning black.
A light slap wakes me up, and I see my teary-eyed cousin. “I thought you were dead.”
Me too, considering the beautiful dream I had.
Noemi slips into the car, glancing at me more than at the road. Every traffic light grows increasingly blurry, strength leaving me as I teeter on the edge of unconsciousness. I am trying to survive a bullet here, and my cousin attempts to kill me with her driving.
“Eyes on the road, cuz,” I groan through another bout of dizziness.
“Even when you’re almost dying, you’re bossy.”
The question is on the tip of her tongue, and she eyes me, scared to ask it.
“She found out some stuff.”
Noemi sighs, “Some things are not meant to be. Maybe all that happened was supposed to keep you apart and not together.”
“I make my destiny.”
“And look what that brought you,” she snickers.
“Don’t blame her.”
“Then you better remain alive,” she snaps.
God damn it, I am trying my best here. Fuckers like Cato survived three bullets. I won’t be the asshole to go down from one. It would be embarrassing.
Reaching the doctor’s house, he takes one look at me and says, “You refuse to die, I see.”
I chuckle. “I still have some things to settle first.”
He helps me down the stairs to his basement and places me on the makeshift hospital bed. He cuts the shirt off me, revealing my wounds. Rolling me to the side, he says, “The bullet made a clean exit, but your blood loss is worrisome.”
He hooks me up to various machines and an IV, then gets to work while my cousin pales into a ghost next to me.
I wink at her. “I’m tougher than the bullet.”
She cries out. “Please don’t leave me.”
“Not yet,” I gnash out through another wave of pain, needing my words to manifest themselves.
“Anesthesia,” he says, approaching me with a mask.
“No, I want to feel it.” It’s the least I can do after causing her so much pain when I swore I’d rather stay away than hurt her again in any way. It’s like I can’t fucking change our ending regardless of my attempts.
“Don’t be stubborn,” my cousin insists.
I glare at the doctor, and he grumbles under his breath, “Fine, we don’t have time to lose.”
The pain is atrocious, making me recoil. I grip the edge of the bed so hard it’s a wonder that the needle of the IV doesn’t snap.
The pulse oximeter beeps wildly. My blood pressure spikes, sweat pouring from me, but it drops when he stops the bleeding.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion or the near-death experience, but my lids close, and I embrace the nothingness.
Through the mental fog, I hear my cousin yelling my name.
“He needs to sleep,” the doctor says, and my cousin holds my hand as I drift away, wondering if I will wake up.
My lids feel heavy, needing a few attempts to open my eyes. I am in bed, a dim light glowing in the makeshift hospital room. My cousin sleeps on a chair, still holding my hand.
She’s more like a little sister to me, and I smile, grateful for her.
I am hooked to another IV, and I read the label. Antibiotics. Right. I won’t die of an infection if I survived a bullet.
The doctor comes in to check on me. “You were extremely lucky. One inch away from your liver. Didn’t hit any major artery.”
I nod, and he continues, “Take it easy the next few days. You need to heal.”
My cousin stirs, and when she sees I am awake, she jumps to my side, making me hiss. She forces herself back. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say, my voice sounding groggy. “I need you to do something.”
Both she and the doctor eye me with pure skepticism as I tell them about my plan.
Neither of them even tries to refute. In my world, my word is law.
The doctor shifts things into place, making it appear as if a machine is keeping me alive, and my cousin slides her finger over her phone, showing me the camera. “I don’t like this, but I’ll help you with this stupid plan just because she shot you.”
“Don’t hate her. Don’t blame her. She doesn’t know.” I’d defend Zara even if she prompted a mass extinction. I’d choose her even if she ensured my ruin.
Noemi seeks my eyes. “I don’t hate her, but I blame her. I don’t know if I can forgive her,” she sighs, hugging me. “I love you, cuz, and I hope one day she realizes that no man has ever loved a woman the way you love her.”
There’s yearning in her eyes, and as the doctor makes sure the frame appears as real as possible, my cousin snaps some pics.
After scrolling through them, I choose the one that looks the most damning. Since she’s my wife, she will have to make the decision to pull the plug on me.
What is one more act of deceit? This time, I will change my strategy––just us in the penthouse for as long as we fucking need to make up.
I refuse to entertain any other outcome.
I will make her choke on the truth, but she will never doubt my love again.
She will forgive me.
She will learn to accept the past. I would have changed it long ago if it were possible.
I warned her. Time and time again. It’s life or death with me. I survived, and now her life is irreversibly bound to mine.
She can hate me all she wants. My love for her hasn’t been conditioned on her loving me back.
I won’t apologize for making that decision. Only for her finding out.
I knew that fucking doctor was trouble, but killing her will only worsen everything between me and my wife when I am trying to plead my case, hoping the jury finds me not guilty this time.