Chapter Four, Narrator #2
It was a thing that my men already had a plan to end. The thing they had sat down and told me was evil alongside Reaper’s fifty billion step plan to ruin his life without murder or fallback on innocent people.
The bar of soap was slippery, but I clutched it like it held the key to my redemption. “Goodbye, emotional breakdown,” I muttered as I scrubbed my arm, “hello, raw epidermis.” The suds spiraled down the drain, taking with them what I hoped was the last vestige of my grief-induced self-sabotage.
By the second round of scrubbing, I felt something almost resembling optimism creeping in.
Not enough to inspire anything rash, like smiling, but enough to make me believe I might make it out of the bathroom without needing to crawl.
I lathered up again for good measure, the narration continuing, when I quickly shaved and noticed an odd amount of dirt on my shins for someone who hadn’t been outside in days, or given a good blowjob for just as long.
“The Heather’s thoroughness is remarkable. Note her meticulous scrubbing, likely a reaction to the extended period of dormancy that preceded this activity. One might say she’s attempting to shed her skin like a snake, though the results remain to be seen.”
The shower curtain fluttered slightly, and for a brief moment, I froze in the middle of my hissing.
I’d definitely heard the bathroom door open and close.
Of course, I wasn’t about to check. I was naked, vulnerable, and mid-debacle.
The last thing I needed was to make eye contact with whoever had invaded my sacred domain.
Instead, I resumed scrubbing my shoulder, deciding that if they weren’t screaming or barging into the hot stream, it probably wasn’t my problem.
Still, the presence of another person lingered like an itch at the back of my mind. My narration continued once more.
“The Heather demonstrates remarkable restraint in the face of potential threat. Rather than confront the intruder, she chooses to focus on her grooming ritual, trusting that the quilted armor she left behind will remain unmolested. And her ass will not be fiddled when she bends over to grab potentially dropped soap.”
Once I’d rinsed myself off for the third time and washed my hair twice, I turned the water off and stood there for a moment, listening. Nothing. Either whichever man of mine had disturbed me had left, or they were silently judging me from the other side of the door.
I reached for the towel hanging on the rack and dried myself off quickly, deciding not to check for potential murderers in my space.
My reflection in the mirror was exactly what I’d expected: damp blue hair, pale face, brown eyes still carrying the weight of too many sleepless nights.
But there was something else, too—an odd determination I hadn’t noticed before.
Maybe it was the shower’s magic. Or maybe it was the caffeine deprivation kicking in.
Or maybe it was the knowledge that in this round of vengeance I was not working on my own, with a shadowy man yelling praise from a distance.
He was now working with me, fact checking things and finding out more than I ever had.
And he was aided by a flirty mafia man who pretended to be evil but was secretly a simp. A simp with a gun and a biteable ass.
Not that Gio liked his ass being bitten. I’d threatened to do it, and he’d recoiled. Sure, that only made me want to do it more. But I was pretending to be a nice girl today; a nice girl who did normal nice girl things like shower.
When I turned toward the door, I noticed something that hadn’t been there when I entered: fresh clothes hanging neatly on a hook. A pale green pleated skirt, a white jumper so fluffy it practically screamed ‘hug me,’ underwear and a pair of socks that looked like clouds knitted by angels.
I stared at them for a moment, unsure whether I had the energy to dress myself.
Then I saw the socks had little ghost men on them and knew I had to get dressed.
“In a surprising development, the Heather has been gifted with new plumage. This offering, likely from one of her caretakers, suggests an effort to encourage reintegration into the group.” My eyes narrowed in thought as responsibilities won out over depression, and my mind allowed me to have the energy for clothes.
I pulled on the underwear, then skirt and jumper, relishing in their softness. The socks followed, wrapping my feet in a cocoon of warmth and fluffiness that made me want to giggle.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror again, this time looking almost… presentable. Not quite human yet, but maybe something adjacent.
My hair, still wet, clung to my shoulders in limp strands, and a shiver ran down my spine. The jumper was warm, but the cold air against my damp skin was less forgiving. It was still winter, even though spring was firmly on its way.
Spring meant summer, and I loved me some summer.
With my new armor in place, I opened the bathroom door a crack and peered out.
The main room was visible from this angle, but thankfully, neither Giovanni nor Atlas were in direct view.
I took a deep breath, gathered what remained of my courage, and stepped out.
The quilt was gone—stolen—which left me feeling both exposed and oddly free.
Who was I if I wasn’t a burrito of doom? Was I a real girl now? Or was I permanently made of wood, that had nothing but hatred festering in her splinters?
I padded into the room, keeping my head high, and my steps confident. If they were going to make a big deal out of my emergence, I might as well give them a show. It seemed more fun to pretend to be confident than to admit I was suffering.
I fucking hated suffering. It was such a bitch thing for my mind to do to me.
Both my men turned to look at me as I stepped fully into the room, and I raised a hand before either of them could speak. “I have returned to reality,” I announced, my throat dry. “Please hold off on questions, comments, or anything other than praise for at least an hour.”
Giovanni smirked, leaning back on the couch with a casual arrogance that made me want to hurl one of the decorative pillows at his head. Atlas, to his credit, didn’t say a word—just nodded slightly before returning to his slicing of whatever was on his chopping board.
I lingered for a moment, letting the silence settle. The fresh clothes, the shower, even the act of leaving my room—it all felt like a tentative first step toward something resembling progress.
Gio looked at me. I looked at him, eyes narrowing when he smiled. Purely because I wanted to throat punch him. I had no idea why. My fists were just hungry for violence, and he was a De Luca.
If I beat him hard enough, would his dad feel it?
“The Heather has completed its ritual and rejoined the group. While its reintegration remains tentative, the signs are promising. Only time will tell if this fragile progress will endure.” I hissed under my breath.
“Though the Heather is itching for violence, she is aware that the creature in her space is not worthy of pain. He is innocent, and he deserves kindness and blowjobs. Not stabbings and insults.”
Atlas appeared before me in a blink. He pointed to the couch. “Sit,” he ordered as he handed me a coffee. “I made you food.”
I tilted my head at him, weighing my options. Atlas wasn’t mad—if anything, he looked worried, like he thought I might disappear into the floorboards if he took his eyes off me. His brow furrowed just slightly, the softest crease between his light blue eyes.
It was unnerving to be seen. Especially when it was happening twice.
But the couch was closer than my bedroom, and the way Atlas gestured made it clear that it wasn’t a request. With a heavy sigh, I shuffled over and flopped down, letting gravity do most of the work.
The cushions swallowed me up, their warmth a quiet betrayal. “The Heather has returned to the nest,” I muttered. “Observe how the males circle, their protective instincts activated by her rare and fragile presence.”
Giovanni was the first to strike—or rather, to serve. He got out of his seat, grabbed some more stuff from the kitchen, and approached like a waiter at a five-star restaurant. Setting a plate and a neatly wrapped muffin in front of me, he smiled.
“Caesar salad and a blueberry muffin,” he announced. “Eat. You need fuel so you do not waste away into nothingness.”
I stared at the food, then at him. “I could lose a few kilos right now and still survive. That’s what my thighs and ass are for—emergency winter and depression fuel.”
“I prefer all of your kilos as they are, especially if they were wrapped around my face,” he said smoothly, as he slid onto the couch beside me, placing a plate for himself and Atlas on the coffee table too. “Now, enough talking. Eat before I force feed you.”
Atlas, not to be outdone in doing stuff for me, grabbed a blanket from the armrest and draped it over my shoulders with his usual gentleness.
“You look cold; do you want a bigger fire?” He asked before taking a seat in the armchair opposite me. His gaze stayed on me, as if he were mentally cataloging every tiny twitch and breath. Knowing Atlas, he was doing just that.
Shaking my head, I took a sip of coffee—it was perfect, of course—and poked at the salad with my fork.
The lettuce crunched just right, the dressing was perfectly balanced, and the croutons were golden little bites of happiness.
“You guys are acting suspiciously nice,” I said between bites, glancing between them.
“Should I be worried you think I’m more mentally unwell than usual? ”
“Not at all,” Gio said breezily. “This is what we do every day. You just think more of it because you are coming out of your hibernation. No doubt you need an argument or sassy remark to feel more of yourself. Your sarcasm levels are probably dangerously low.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t hide the tiny smile tugging at my lips, at the warmth seeping through my chest I didn’t understand. I thought they were called feelings. But I wasn’t sure how they worked, so I pretended they weren’t real.
“The Heather consumes the meal cautiously, still wary of the outpouring of affection,” I mumbled between bites. “Notice how the males maintain a non-threatening posture, their voices soft and encouraging. As though they too think she is mentally unwell.”
Neither man said anything as we ate, even though they continued to stare. It wasn’t until I was full and pushed my empty plate away with a shiver that anyone moved.
Gio suddenly leaned forward, his expression shifting from smug to serious. “Your hair’s still wet,” he said, like this was the most tragic news he’d ever delivered. “You’ll catch a cold.”
“It’s fine,” I said, waving him off. “I’ll survive death—I always do. I’m lucky.”
The nickname was not one I enjoyed hearing anymore. Not when those who used it were gone from me. So it was safe to say it left my lips with a healthy dose of poison.
“No, you won’t; you’re too sweet for death not to want you,” he insisted, already standing and grabbing a brush from the coffee table. “Come here.”
I blinked at the mafia man holding a hairbrush like a weapon. “What are you doing? I do not consent to anything weird.”
“Fixing your hair,” he said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world. “You’re not spending the day with damp and unruly curls.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You know how to do hair? But you are just a boy. A soft, empty, snarky boy.”
He scoffed, his hand resting on his hip in a way that was almost theatrical. “Heather, I have five sisters. If I didn’t know how to do hair by now, I’d be excommunicated from the family.”
Snorting, I leaned back against the couch cushions. “Fine. But if you make me look like a poodle, I’m haunting you forever.”
“Deal,” he grinned, as he hurried to stand behind me and brush out the knots on my mop head.
“The Heather submits to grooming, a rare and intimate ritual among her species,” I whispered, suppressing a laugh. “Notice how the dominant male handles her with expert precision, his technique honed through years of dealing with more cooperative subjects who are not likely to stab him for fun.”
The brush moved steadily, smoothing out knots I hadn’t even realized were there. Gio’s hands were warm, his touch firm but not rough. It was… nice. Annoyingly nice, seeing as his ego was high enough without extra compliments from me.
I leaned further into the cushions, letting the rhythm of his movements lull me into a state of semi-relaxation. Atlas watched quietly from his armchair, his expression unreadable. Occasionally, he’d glance at the muffin I still hadn’t touched, like he was mentally willing me to eat it.
“I’m not going to break, you know,” I said suddenly, my voice softer than I’d intended. “This isn’t the same as it was the first time. I was dealing with a broken heart for two people when I thought you were guilty, Gio. This time it’s only for Missy and I can handle it well enough to keep going.”
Gio paused for half a second before resuming his brushing.
“We know,” he said, his tone light. “But you don’t have to hold yourself together all the time, either.
Sometimes you can rot for days on end, then you can let us take care of you when you’re done.
This is fine for us, Heather. That is what boyfriends do. ”
Atlas nodded. “We just want to make sure you’re okay, malyshka. That’s all I care about, and there is no shame in you feeling less human than normal.”
The warmth in their words settled somewhere deep in my chest, a quiet reassurance I hadn’t realized I needed. I stared at the coffee table, my thoughts flickering between grief and gratitude.
I reckoned round two of my revenge mission was going to be better than the first, for another reason. One bigger than having two large, feisty men on my team.
I wasn’t alone. I was loved and cared for. It was easier to be a human when I knew that.
“Look, no more knots,” Gio said, his voice pulling me back to the moment. He set the brush down and hurried to grab my hairdryer from the bathroom.
I blinked up at him as Atlas changed seats, picking the one beside me so he could feed me bites of muffin.
“Are you going to burn my head off now?” I teased as Gio flicked the dryer on.
He snorted, and I let myself relax a little more, the tension in my shoulders easing with each pass of his hand, and each nibble of delicious muffin.
I rolled my eyes each time they muttered sweet words or doled out affection, but couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto my face. For the first time in days, I felt… okay. Not fixed, not whole, but okay. And maybe, just for now, that was enough.
As was the thought of real revenge.