50. Adalina
Chapter 50
Adalina
M y vision is drenched in crimson, not from actual blood but from the haunting fantasies of me violently ending my father’s life. It is this vision that propels me forward, pushing me to intervene in the brutal violence being inflicted upon him. Their fists are raised, ready to deliver the final blow at any time, but they hesitate and back away as I approach with a glinting knife in hand.
I press it against the fabric of his shirt and watch as it effortlessly tears through the material, exposing his heaving chest beneath. His body is covered in a sheen of sweat and drool, but I pay no mind to the mess. My heart thuds violently against my ribcage, like a caged animal desperate for freedom. The sound of my blood rushing in my ears is drowned out by the whooshing of the blade as I etch the first letter into his skin. The sharp tip slices through his nipple, unleashing a fresh stream of crimson that joins the already pooling blood below.
For the first time in my life, I want to be close to my father.
He moans, his eyes still closed, as if he’s stuck somewhere between life and death. He tries to speak, but his words are a gurgle, and I am not fluent in the language.
My letters are jagged and crude, the result of a rusty blade carving into skin. They resemble a child’s scrawl, but each stroke is deliberate, fueled by years of anger and hatred. The blood drips and pools along my father’s chest, creating a grotesque masterpiece of vengeance.
“I wish I could see the wounds fester,” I whisper in his ear. “I wish you could be around for the next month, the next year, the next ten years, so I could watch the scars become engrained in your identity. You left yours on my back in the form of cigar burns. I never have to see them, but I know they’re there. I am marked by your anger, and I have to live with that every day for the rest of my life. And so will you. You will die knowing that your anger is the reason why you’re here. You will die with my name etched into your skin. You will die knowing cruelty and pain, the same way you forced me to live.”
The blade of the knife that was so silver and pristine in Dante’s hands now gleams in red. She is beautiful, even if she is marred. Just like me.
“Do you want me to finish?” Dante asks.
I could step back and hand the knife to him. Dante wouldn’t let me down. He’d make Tommaso suffer just as much if not more, than I would.
But I need to do this for me.
“No, I can finish him myself.” With steady hands, I grasp the knife and drive it into my father’s chest. The blade slices through flesh and bone, releasing a gut-wrenching scream from his lips that will haunt me for years to come. A crimson spray of blood arcs through the air, splattering against walls and furniture as it spurts from the fatal wound. His body convulses and then falls still, a pool of thick red liquid spreading beneath him.
I straighten up and try to wipe the sticky blood from my hands on my borrowed clothes, but it clings stubbornly to my skin, a sickening reminder of what I’ve just done.
Someone in front of me lets out a low whistle. “Damn.” It’s Luciano. I recognize his voice. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
My gaze reluctantly shifts from my father’s lifeless body, the metallic smell of blood still lingering in the air, to Dante’s youngest brother. His arms hang limply by his sides, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and awe at the brutal scene before him.
“Give us a minute,” Dante interrupts before I can reply. “We’ll see you upstairs, yeah?”
Enzo, Salvatore, and Luciano look around expectantly as if waiting for the other to say something. No one ever does. Finally, as they make their way out of the room and down the hall, their hushed voices can be heard mingling with the sounds from my father’s imprisoned guards. The tension in the air dissipates with their absence, but the scent of death lingers in their wake.
The sound of their footsteps slowly fades away, and I feel Dante’s presence behind me a moment later. His hands gently grip my hips as he turns me around to face him. In his eyes, I see a tumultuous mixture of worry, fury, and suppressed longing. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice laced with genuine concern.
“Never better.” The blood drenching my outfit bathes me in liberation. I’ll never have to worry about going back to my father’s. He’ll never touch me or tell his guards to hurt me again. I’m free from my greatest fear.
Dante places a hand on my cheek, his eyebrows knitting together as he examines me. But if he’s looking for remorse or guilt, he won’t find it. “Are you sure? You just killed your father. It’s natural to feel regret. The average person’s soul is not equipped for this kind of thing.”
“How many men have you killed?”
His expression shifts, his eyes widening in surprise. His grip on my waist tightens incrementally, like a vise closing around me. “You can’t compare yourself to me, Adalina. I was?—”
“How did you feel after you killed your first man?” I cut him off.
Dante closes his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. He looks tense, but then his features relax as he opens his eyes again and speaks. “Nothing. I felt nothing.”
The abyss of Dante’s soul is unfathomable, a black void that rivals even my father’s darkness. His lack of emotion sends chills down my spine, making me question my own morality. If a man like him feels nothing when he kills, what hope is there for someone like me who feels nothing? “I feel nothing, too,” I whisper.
A faint glimmer of a smile dances across his lips like a delicate brushstroke on a canvas. “You really wanted him dead, though,” Dante reasons to explain away my feelings of nothingness. “What he did to you was horrible and?—”
Before he can finish his sentence, I cut him off with a kiss. My body moves of its own accord as I stand on my toes to reach his lips, the tingle of anticipation racing through my veins. “I don’t want to talk about my father or my feelings. I just want to be .”
Maybe the guilt will set in later. Maybe I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and cry out because I killed my father. Maybe I’ll regret my actions in a few weeks or months when the dust has settled.
But at this moment, I crave nothing more than pure pleasure. The simple act of kissing Dante ignites a fire within me, sending tingles down my spine. My hands eagerly slip beneath his shirt, relishing the feeling of his warm skin against mine. As our kiss deepens, I can feel the heat and electricity between us intensifying. His body presses against mine, our movements in perfect sync as we lose ourselves in the moment. It’s a rush of sensations that overwhelms me with pure ecstasy.
If the remorse is coming, I can’t stop it. But right now, I’ll enjoy a little indulgence before the hard light of day sheds truth on who I’ve become.