Chapter 59
Damien
I've always thought of the basement as the place where my demons dance free, but today it becomes the place where my shadows kneel before her.
Roxanne's face is grim as she stares at the man hanging from the ceiling. I promised her I wouldn't touch him until she gave me permission.
"Why can't I remember that whole night?" she asks him.
Henry barely opens his eyes, scanning her from head to toe.
"Because of him," he spits through clenched teeth, glaring at me.
I raise an eyebrow but don't say a word.
"In the first conversations we had after that night, you kept telling me about this boy you'd met who was going to be your husband.
" His irritation bleeds through every word.
"After everything I sacrificed for you, you'd promised him—a stranger—that you'd become his wife someday.
HOW COULD YOU DO THAT?" he screams, and I step forward with my blade in hand.
"Raise your voice at her one more time, and we'll find out if you can function without a piece of your cerebellum," I tell him, watching his throat work as he swallows hard.
"You're confused, Roxy. But deep down, you know only I love you the way you deserve," he says quietly, never taking his eyes off her.
My wife steps up behind me and pushes my blade away from Henry's throat. Hope and adoration flood his eyes, and I want to carve her image from his retinas permanently, but I need to be patient.
Patience, Damien. You'll have time to play with him.
"You didn't answer my original question. He's the reason, but it's not his fault I forgot pieces of that night," she says.
After shifting slightly, trying to get comfortable, he answers.
"Hypnosis. Technically not recommended for children because of the side effects, but I wanted you to forget that bastard who didn't deserve that promise from your lips."
Blood starts boiling in my veins because you don't need to be a genius to understand how many things could've gone wrong with his method.
A child's mind is fragile. The mind of a child who'd seen her mother dead in the middle of the kitchen?
Christ, Roxanne's lucky she didn't end up with permanent damage.
"What was your connection to Marzena?" I ask, and he clenches his jaw without answering.
"Answer him, Henry," Roxanne says.
His eyes soften instantly at hearing his name from her lips, and I have to restrain myself from grabbing him by the hair and slamming his head against these walls until his skull's no longer intact.
"I met her in Naples, at the same party Elena was at. She figured out my feelings for her and suggested we keep in touch. After we moved to the States, she'd send me messages about that bastard Agosti, and I'd send her information about Elena."
Information exchange, why am I not surprised? That's what my dearest mother’s done her whole life, except she gave away this information for free, never selling herself.
And it was this interaction that brought Elena to her end.
"Who's your accomplice? The guy in the mask?" Roxanne asks, and a smile spreads across his face.
"You'll never find out. The Guard will protect him." Then, as if realizing he's let something slip, he presses his lips together.
Who the fuck is The Guard?
Roxanne nods slightly, absorbing this information. Processing.
I watch her, dressed in leather pants and a black shirt that make her look like an avenging angel, approach him slowly.
Each step is deliberate, measured. When she reaches him, she leans down and whispers something in his ear.
Her lips move closer to his skin, and I notice his entire body goes rigid.
My body rebels against their proximity, every instinct screaming to rip her away from him. But I force myself to stay put, fists clenched at my sides, because this is her time. Her revenge. She deserves this moment.
I see Henry's eyes fill with rage, contempt, and fury. His face goes crimson, veins standing out in his neck as he struggles against his restraints with renewed violence. But before I can guess what she said to provoke that reaction, my wife walks toward me with purpose.
She reaches up, pulls my head down to hers, and kisses me.
It's not gentle. It's claiming, possessive, a statement. Her hands slide into my hair, nails scraping against my scalp.
"ROXY!" Henry's scream is sharp, desperate, full of anguish. "DON'T TOUCH HIM! GET AWAY FROM HER!"
But nothing could make me break from this moment. Nothing could make me pull away from her.
Her tongue touches mine, and I respond instantly, deepening the kiss. A low moan escapes her, vibrating against my mouth, and it takes every ounce of control not to forget where we are and take her right here.
Damn, I want to finish up here faster.
Her mouth then moves to my neck, lips trailing along my jaw, down to my pulse point. I feel her breath hot against my skin. Only then do I register her hand sliding around my waist, slipping beneath my shirt, reaching for the back of my jeans where my gun is tucked.
She pulls it free with ease, and I understand.
She steps back, and I let her go. With flushed cheeks, dilated eyes, and lips swollen from the kiss, she looks devastating. Dangerous. Beautiful. Mine.
I watch her turn toward Henry with the weapon raised, arm steady despite everything.
His eyes widen. "Roxy, no. Please. I love you. I've always loved you. Everything I did was for—"
Roxanne empties the entire clip into the man before us.
The sound is deafening in the confined space. Each shot echoes, reverberates. His body jerks with each impact, blood blooming across his chest, his stomach, his throat. By the time the slide locks back, he's gone. Eyes still open, staring at nothing.
"For you, Mom," she murmurs softly into the ringing silence.
For a few moments, she just stares at Henry's body and all the blood pooling beneath him, spreading across the concrete in a dark puddle. Her hand doesn't shake. Her breathing stays even. Then she sets the gun on the table beside her with a soft click.
She turns to me, and I see it. Not guilt. Not horror. Just pure relief.
"Let's get out of here," she says quietly.
I take Roxanne's hand and lead her up the stairs, out of that basement that smells like blood and death. When we reach the top of the stairs, stepping into the fresh air of the main floor, I ask, "What did you whisper to him?"
I would've expected to see her haunted, to see her affected by what she'd done. Shaking, pale, struggling with the weight of taking a life. But I forget this woman has danced with bloody shadows her entire life. She's survived things that would have broken anyone else.
"That I hope wherever he ends up, he sees me every single day," she says, her voice calm and clear.
I frown at her, trying to understand, so she continues.
"I told him he'd die knowing that every night I scream your name in pleasure.
Knowing that the only man who knows every inch of my skin and every corner of my soul is you.
And that he disgusts me." Her voice hardens.
"His voice disgusts me. His touch, his obsession, every single thing he ever did in his pathetic existence disgusts me.
That he was nothing. That he'll always be nothing. "
No wonder he lost his mind.
Without waiting for any signal from her, without asking permission, I scoop her up in my arms and carry her toward the bedroom, where I intend to fulfill the promise she made to that bastard.
I'll make sure that every night she screams my name, that I kiss every particle of her skin and soul, and that I chase away those shadows from her eyes that sometimes steal her sparkle.
Because now that this bastard is dead, now that the ghost of her past is finally buried, she has every reason to shine again.
And I'll spend the rest of my life making sure she does.