TWENTY-TWO
‘I need a hobby.’
The words scraped out of my mouth and bounced off the tiled walls.
The shower kept a slow, steady drizzle, icy needles digging into skin that felt too tight. Borrowed. The cold water bled over my closed eyes and fevered cheeks as I shivered more from shame than chill. But it was sobering, if anything.
My swollen lids peeled open, the world still tilting like a broken compass from last night’s escape.
Through the fogged glass of the shower cabin, beyond the doorframe, I caught sight of the bed.
Or rather, what lay beneath it.
Two empty bottles of brandy; one slumped on its side like a casualty of war, the other glaring at me as if proud of the wreckage it had helped cause.
A sour taste clung to the back of my throat.
I felt as though I’d failed at life. And this failure sat heavier than the hangover – throbbing behind my eyes, aching in my chest, wound around my spine.
I scrubbed a hand over my face.
Not to wake up as much as to check I still had one.
I hadn’t drunk to celebrate. It had always been about silence and numbing the world out of me. This time, I was trying to drown the coldness of the gun barrel pressed against my jaw and the plea that followed it.
‘Please.’
The word was branded into my skin, tangled around every memory I’d ever tried to smother. I’d wanted to erase the darkness that stirred when she was too drugged to push me away – the sickening truth that I’d hovered over a line no man should ever cross.
One I almost had crossed.
I rubbed the water across my face in an attempt to wash away the image of that look in her eyes that flickered on and off behind my lids – fierce and broken all at once. And the way it reminded me of my own mother’s when she begged for things to stop.
But the bottle hadn’t erased any of it. It had just stripped me bare, left me staring at the pieces of myself I wasn’t sure I knew any more. And now, sprawled beneath the cold water, I knew I’d drunk not because of her…
But because I was terrified of myself.
My phone buzzed for the tenth time against the dark grey tiles, skittering slightly with each vibration – a tinny, insistent reminder of a world beyond this space.
It lay just beside my shoes, the polished Italian leather gleaming dry and pristine.
At least I’d had the decency to spare them from the water-drenched penance I’d chosen for myself.
I looked down at the sorry state of me: last night’s shirt was plastered to my skin, its creases heavy with water and stains of brandy, the denim of my jeans hanging cold around me, dragging me down.
The fucking phone refused to stop its tirade, each vibration rattling against the ceramic like an accusation.
On all fours, I crawled out of the walk-in shower, soaked jeans leaving a trail of water across the cold floor. The screen flashed ‘Hospice’ into my face.
The bitterness left me with a quick breath, and I could feel the sting of my heart blackening all over again at the mere thought of answering.
My first instinct was to ignore it. I didn’t owe Ezio a damn thing – not after everything he’d done. But then my gaze drifted upwards, snagging on the floor-to-ceiling mirror my designer had once called essential.
Jesus Christ – Halloween had come early this year.
Hollow-eyed, skin chalk-pale, bruised shadows clinging to the jaw – a face that belonged to monsters, not men.
A creature who looked as grotesque as he felt, at the very least. And in that unflinching reflection, I realised something far worse than guilt: even now, twenty years later, fifty pounds heavier… I still shrank in Ezio’s shadow.
With a sigh, I picked up the phone and pressed it to my ear.
‘D’Angelo,’ I said hoarsely, propped against the bathroom cabinet.
The voice on the other end was calm but clipped, the professional tone of someone used to delivering bad news. ‘Mr D’Angelo, this is Dr. Ricardo from the hospice.’ The fast-paced Italian drifted from the phone. ‘I’m calling about your father, Ezio D’Angelo.’
The name triggered a surge of irritation before he was done saying it. ‘What about him?’
‘He attempted to harm himself earlier in the morning,’ the doctor said clinically. ‘A nurse found him in time, and he’s stable now. He did lose a significant amount of blood, so we’ve arranged for a transfusion.’
The first emotion wasn’t concern, or compassion. It was anger. It flared hot and fast, a virulent heat that coiled low in my chest. I gritted my teeth, a muscle ticking in my jaw as the doctor continued with details about Ezio’s wrists bandaged and his body being secured to the bed.
Slit his wrists?
His last words rang in my ears, his smug voice taunting me, telling me I would be coming back to him, as I always did.
Even now, the bastard was still pulling strings – testing how far his reach extended into the man I’d become. It wasn’t enough that he’d destroyed so much of my life already, he had to wound himself to drag me back into orbit, forcing me to play his game once more.
‘You’re listed as his next of kin, Mr D’Angelo. If you’re able to provide a blood donation, it may expedite the transfusion process.’
He wanted more of my blood. As if he hadn’t already wrung enough out of me.
But even knowing that, even understanding the manipulation behind it, I hated myself for the answer I already knew I would ultimately give.
I clenched my fist, my knuckles turning white as I levelled my voice with stark effort. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said tightly. And ended the call, my grip on the phone hard enough to crack it.
The tiny piece of plastic burned in my palm, its surface faintly warm from the constant vibrations. The screen blinked irritably – past noon. Thirteen messages stacked like complaints.
I wasn’t ready to go back into the world.
Maybe because I didn’t deserve it. Not after last night, not after the way I’d let my demons circle her like vultures.
Swiping them away one by one with swift, decisive flicks, I paused at her name.
My thumb hovered over the white ‘P’.
And then I tapped, if only to hear her voice.
I held my breath as the voice message filled the speaker. The words were dragged down by the weight of sleep. She must have just woken up when she left that voicemail.
Fuck.
She was probably confused. I wondered if she remembered any of it. Wondered whether she remembered I’d grazed the skin of her thigh… lingered too long over her ankles.
I dragged in a breath and pushed to my feet, limbs leaden and stiff. Peeling off my damp shirt, I felt my body moving in slow-motion. The jeans followed, both pieces of fabric hitting the floor with a wet slap.
I couldn’t call her back. Not in this state. I would make a mistake. A terrible… fucking… mistake.
With my eyes shut tight, I drew on the last of my strength to ground myself. And when I opened them again, I tapped on the Obsidian app and typed in the address of the hotel Scarlett had sent me once before, and pressed ‘Send’.
Tonight, I needed to let my demons off the leash.
All of them.
And after that—
I didn’t let my mind finish the thought. Instead, I tapped on the photo of Vinnie’s grinning mug and his arms locked tight around me like a brother who still believed there was something in me worth holding on to.
He picked up on the second ring.
‘You dead yet?’ he muttered, almost bored.
‘Schedule a fight tonight,’ I said, fast.
There was a pause. A long exhale. Then a groan, weighted and tired of my shit.
‘Don’t drink,’ he warned simply.
I didn’t answer. Just flicked the phone towards the living room, watched it bounce off the open door with a hollow clack and land face-down on the grey carpet.
The silence that followed felt louder than a scream.
Scream?
Nah… Monsters didn’t scream.
They swallowed the sound, turned it into rage.
And roared.
The lobby of the hotel buzzed weakly with the hum of distant conversations and the clatter of heels against the marble floor.
I clutched the smooth keycard in my palm – the only barrier between me and the woman waiting for me upstairs.
Her name alone stirred a primal ache that no amount of distraction could dull.
She was waiting, and I couldn’t get to her fast enough.
The thoughts of her lips, her body, the way she gave herself to me fully – they burned in my chest. It pushed out every other thought, every other damn thing that didn’t matter but pressed down on me anyway.
The steel doors of the lift slid open, and I stepped in, hitting the button for the sixth floor hard enough to make the panel rattle.
The calm in the lift did nothing to soothe me.
My blood was already hot, my body wound too tight, the contact lenses scraping at my eyeballs – which only sharpened the edge of my nerves.
The fucking receptionist’s judgmental glare when he clocked them had been a blip in my day. I let him think what he wanted. I had one thing on my mind, and it sure as hell wasn’t him.
The doors opened, set me loose into the dim hallway, the carpet muffling my footsteps as I pulled the mask into place. Its snug fit reminded me swiftly that I was playing a role now. Though there was no pretending the hunger coiling in my gut wasn’t real.
I imagined her tied up, waiting helplessly, as though she’d been thinking of me just as desperately. The idea teased at the pit of my mind, warping into something darker. But she couldn’t very well tie herself up, could she?
The keycard slid into the lock with a quiet beep, the green light flashing before the door clicked open. The room smelled like wine, something orangey, and the faintest trace of her perfume. Pressure built within me, a bestial thing rising from the balls of my feet and tearing upwards.
I dropped the duffel. Yanked off my long-sleeve without a thought, tossing it aside. She loved my tattoos. I could tell by the way her eyes devoured them every time we were together. And I wasn’t about to deprive her of that pleasure.
My boots thudded against the floor as I kicked them off, already feeling her hands on me, her nails dragging down my skin.