Chapter 47
Marco
I’m standing in my room staring at the mirror. At the ridge that runs down half my face like a seam on badly butchered meat. Ben is away with the in-laws.
Then I hear it. Voices downstairs. The front door.
My pulse kicks.
I cross the room in three strides. Press my ear against the door like the pathetic hermit I’ve become.
Ethan’s muted voice filters through. “Get your belongings. Make it quick.”
What?
No...
A pause. Then: “I’ll be right back.”
I hear footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful. Coming up the stairs.
I know that stride. The same one he used when we’d spar at the gym. When he thought he had me cornered and was about to make me tap.
Except this time I deserve whatever’s coming.
The footsteps grow louder. Closer.
And finally stop outside my door.
A knock comes, hard and angry, followed by Ethan’s voice.
“Open up, Marco.”
I don’t move.
“Open the goddamn door or I’m breaking it down,” Ethan finishes.
“Is Jess with you?” I ask tentatively.
“No,” he says. “She’s downstairs. Getting her fucking things.”
So the day I’ve been dreading has finally come.
The day she leaves me.
I’d hoped I would have more time.
I’d...
I unlock the door.
Ethan shoves it open. His face is tight. Controlled fury radiates off him like heat from a grill turned too high.
“You fucking befriended me to orbit my fucking sister?” he hisses.
The words land clean. No garnish. Just the raw truth plated and served.
He doesn’t seem disturbed by my scarred features at all, even though this is the first time he’s seen my face since the attack.
I could lie. Could spin some story about coincidence or genuine connection or any other bullshit that might make this go down easier.
Instead I say nothing. I glance past him at the hallway outside to confirm no one else is standing there.
Can’t let her see my face.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Ethan’s jaw tightens. “Say something.”
“What do you want me to fucking say?” I ask him.
My former best friend grits his teeth. “The truth. For once. You hired a private investigator?”
The truth. Right. Like truth ever made anything better.
“Yes,” I tell him. My voice is tired and dead. “After Vegas... I had him map her life. Find the people who mattered to her.”
He nods. “So you joined my gym. Became my ‘friend.’ All so you could get close to Jess.”
“Yeah.”
“You sick fuck,” he growls. “This is all some billionaire game to you.”
He’s right. I am sick. Twisted. The kind of man who manipulates friendships and drags people into the woods where bears tear faces off.
He shoves me backward and steps inside, then closes the door behind him. “We’re going to settle this.”
I almost laugh. Settle this.
“You want to hit me?” I ask, offering him my face. “Go the fuck ahead. You can’t do anything worse than the bear did.”
“I want you to fight back,” he says softly.
“Why would I do that?” I tell him. “Maybe I want this.”
His hands ball into fists. “You’re going to fight back. Because otherwise I’m just beating up a pathetic coward. So fight, you piece of shit.”
He moves forward. Grabs my shirt. Shoves me against the wall.
The impact sends pain flaring through my shoulder. The healed skin there is thin. Delicate. Like tissue paper over broken glass.
“Fight back,” he says again.
Fine.
I grab his wrist. Twist. Use his momentum against him the way we practiced a hundred times at the gym.
He stumbles. Catches himself. Grins. “There we go. Fucker.”
We move into the familiar dance. Grappling. Striking. Testing for weaknesses.
Except this time it’s not practice.
This time every blow connects with intent.
And pain.
He catches me with a jab to the ribs. I return with a sweep that takes his legs. We hit the floor hard. Roll. Trade positions.
I’m on top for maybe three seconds before he reverses. Gets me in a hold that would make me tap any other day.
But today I don’t tap.
Today I let him tighten the pressure until spots dance in my vision.
“Tap,” he growls.
I don’t.
He releases. Shoves me away. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Everything.
Literally fucking everything.
I drag myself up. My shoulder screams. The thin skin there feels wrong. Wet.
“You want the truth?” I ask. My voice comes out bitter. “Fine. I never really wanted to be your friend.”
His eyes narrow. “What?”
“You were a means to an end. A way to get close to her.” I push every ounce of venom I can manufacture into the words.
“You’re too poor to matter otherwise. A fucking paramedic.
Like I’d ever become best friends with a lowly, fucking paramedic who barely makes seventy grand a year.
It’s laughable. You’re a parasite. A worm, compared to me. ”
It’s a lie. A complete fucking lie.
But it works.
He charges. Lands a blow to my injured shoulder that tears through the healed tissue like a knife through raw meat.
I feel warmth spreads down my arm.
Blood.
Perfect.
Maybe he’ll kill me.
I lower my guard. Let him hit me again. And again.
Each impact is punishment I deserve. Penance for Vegas. For the private investigator. For befriending him. For dragging Jess and Ben into the woods.
For existing.
The bedroom door rattles as someone knocks.
“Marco?” Jess’s voice. Terrified. “What’s happening?”
Fuck!
I gather the last of my strength and slip out from under Ethan.
I lunge for the door and lock it before she can get inside.
“Worried my sister will see how ugly you are?” Ethan taunts.
The word ugly hits harder than any punch.
Because he’s right.
I have the kind of face that makes children cry and women look away.
I charge him. Blind rage replacing calculation.
We crash into furniture. The nightstand tips. Something clatters to the floor.
The hunting knife.
My father’s knife.
The one he gave me.
Part of my rite of passage into manhood.
The same knife I planned to give Ben.
I grab it without thinking. Lunge forward.
Ethan sidesteps. Catches my wrist. Twists.
The knife falls.
He scoops it up.
For a moment we freeze. Him holding the blade. Me realizing what I just did.
Then he moves.
Drives forward with the knife aimed at my chest.
I grab his hands. Hold them. Stop the blade inches from my heart.
The irony hits me hard.
Killed by my own father’s hunting knife.
The symbol of manhood and all the bullshit traditions that led me to drag my daughter into the woods in the first place.
Wielded by my former best friend.
Appropriate.
I could let go. Let him finish it.
But my hands won’t release. Some survival instinct overrides my death wish.
I can’t do that to Ben.
Can’t make her lose both parents.
So I fight.
Fight with all my ebbing strength.
We stay locked like that for a few seconds.
And an eternity.
Trembling.
The blade between us.
Then finally Ethan pulls back.
Tosses the knife aside.
“Pathetic,” he says. “You’re not worth it.”
He’s right again.
I drag myself to the far side of the room and collapse behind the bed. Shielded so that Jess won’t see me when he opens the door.
“Get out,” I tell Ethan. My voice sounds foreign to my ears. “You and your sister. Get out. And never return.”
He stares at me. He has blood on his knuckles, shirt, and face.
My blood.
He unlocks the door and leaves, slamming it behind him
I hear Jess’ muted voice in the hall. “Oh my God, your face.”
“It’s not my blood,” Ethan says.
A pause. Then: “What do you mean? Is Marco...”
“He’s fine,” Ethan replies. “Did you pack everything?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Their voices fade. Move toward the stairs.
I crawl across the floor until I’m at the door, then press my ear to the wood.
I hear Jess’s voice again. Sounds like she’s talking to staff. Niamh?
“I resign. Invoking my exit clause. I’m done.”
The words hit like a second mauling.
She’s really leaving.
I stumble to my feet. Ignore the pain screaming through my shoulder. The blood soaking my shirt.
I run.
Past a shocked Niamh in the hall. And out the front door.
I’m bare faced. No mask. No cap. Just me and my scars and my blood in the streetlight.
“Jess!” I shout.
She’s at the Range Rover. Ethan’s helping her inside.
“Jess, please!” I beg.
But she won’t look at me.
Won’t even turn her head.
The car door closes.
They drive away.
I stand there bleeding on my own front steps, with my face exposed, and my heart somewhere on the pavement.
Thank God Ben is away with the in-laws.
When I finally go back inside, Niamh is waiting. Her expression is carefully neutral.
“You need medical attention,” she says.
“I’m fine,” I tell her curtly.
“Your face and shoulder are bleeding.”
“I said I’m fine!” I snap.
She steps aside. Lets me pass.
I drag myself upstairs. Back to my room.
The scene of the crime.
Blood on the floor.
Furniture overturned.
The hunting knife next to the bed.
I sit in the corner. Press my back against the wall. Close my eyes.
Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. Time has stopped making sense.
A knock.
My heart jumps.
She came back.
I lurch to my feet. Throw open the door.
Ready to show her everything and beg for forgiveness.
But it’s just Neli.
She takes one look at me and her jaw tightens.
“Niamh said you were bleeding.” She enters and sets down her medical bag. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re standing in a pool of your own blood. You’re not fine.” She starts peeling back my shirt. “This needs proper cleaning and fresh dressings.”
I let her work. I’m too tired to fight. Too empty to care.
She cleans the torn skin. Applies antibiotic ointment. Wraps fresh gauze around my shoulder and applies bandages to my face.
“You tore through healed tissue,” she says quietly. “This will set back your recovery.”
I bite back a bitter laugh. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to your daughter,” she states.
Ben.
Fuck.
“Jess quit,” I hear myself say. The words taste like ash. “She’s gone. Invoked her exit clause. I need you to cover until I can find someone else.”
Neli’s hands pause. “Mr. Fiore, I’m a wound care nurse. Not a nanny.”
“I know what you are.” I grab my checkbook from the dresser. Scribble numbers with my good hand. “One hundred thousand dollars. For extended care. Ben and the household. Until I figure this out.”
I hold out the check.
She stares at it. At the amount.
Then she shakes her head. “This is too much.”
“It’s for Ben,” I tell her. “Not you.”
She finally takes the check. Folds it carefully. Tucks it into her pocket.
“I’ll do it,” she says. “But only until you find proper help. As I said, I’m not a nanny.”
She finishes bandaging my shoulder and then packs up her supplies. She pauses at the door.
“You should rest,” she says. “I’ll send someone up to clean this mess.”
After she leaves I shut the door and return to my corner.
I slide down the wall.
The house is quiet now.
No Jess.
Just me and the blood and the knife.
Exactly what I deserve.