17. Melody #2
"Your safety is my job." She sighs and rubs her forehead. "Pointing you at random shitheads is in direct opposition to that."
"So, you do have random shitheads that need to die? Cool. Let's go." I tilt my head towards the door and smile.
"No." She settles into her own chair, gripping the arms tight. "Your husband will be home soon, and I'll be heading out. Do you need any ibuprofen? Acetaminophen?"
I grumble and shuffle my feet with a frown.
I know I'm acting like a child, but this whole constant surveillance thing is wearing on my already thin nerves.
Haven't I proven I can be trusted yet? I'm not going to bolt out the door like a dog.
I'm not going to the cops— I've been a very willing participant—and instigator—of yet another murder.
Is this what it's like for other Goetic wives?
Do they get to leave the house? At this point, I don't even really care about having a job.
I'm sure I could find my dream job if I wanted to, but I don't dream of labor.
I just want something to do that doesn't involve sitting around this fucking mansion. Or being tailed like a thief.
The low ticking of the grandfather clock grates on my nerves.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Fuck. You. Fuck. You.
It's taunting me. Everything is taunting me.
My fingers dig into the emerald velvet of my chair, leaving little half-moons from my fingernails.
My bones feel like they're made of electricity.
I need to fucking rip and tear into something .
An unquellable rage burns in my chest. I can't sit here; I can't sit still .
I throw myself out of the chair and resume my pacing, stomping every step.
Like a fucking child, I know, but I don't care. I can't do this. I can't just sit idly by. I don't want to go to the spa—I want to go to a goddamn shooting range. Or something. A rage room? It doesn't matter. I need to break something . And fast, or I'll be breaking someone.
Just as I reach up to yank on my own hair, the front door flies open. Dante shuffles in, looking disheveled and annoyed. Good. He stalks over to the minibar and pours himself a full glass of his whiskey, chugs the whole thing down, and directs his attention to Helena.
"How's today been?" he asks, like I'm not here.
"Uneventful. Though I believe your wife has something she wants to ask you." Helena tilts her head towards me.
"You're goddamn right. I need—I'm having the urges. I want to fucking tear someone apart, limb from limb, I want to hurt them—"
"—good." Dante cuts me off. "Roman should be setting it up now."
Helena's eyebrows twitch before she schools her face back into a neutral expression. "Lovely. Is there anything you need from me?"
"No," my husband replies. "Enjoy your evening."
"What do you mean, setting it up now? What's he setting up? What's happening?" I bound over to him like an excited puppy.
"Let's go to the basement, shall we?" He extends his arm, and I grab it. Oh, fuck yes. This is what I need. This is what I crave .
"I think this is going to be a very prosperous partnership, Dante." I smile and practically skip to the basement, arm in arm with my husband.
He follows the familiar routine of unlocking the murder-basement, and I trail after him, barely able to contain my giggles. At the bottom of the stairs, Roman locks the cuffs around a man's ankles.
"Who's this?" I ask. Fuck, I'm almost vibrating with excitement.
"This, my love, is Chad." The man flinches upon hearing his name. He stares up at us, squinting, watching us descend the stairs.
"Chad? Are you fucking kidding? Classic asshole name. What'd he do, piss on your car?" I scurry over to the surgical table, running my hands along the various implements.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—I swear I'll get the money!" Chad wails, and I snicker. Of course, he sounds like a cat in labor. His eyes are bloodshot and snot bubbles from his nose as he sobs.
"Really, Dante? Money? You're richer than god; what do you need his cash for?" I turn to my husband.
"Oh, it's not about the money, love. He's been name-dropping me all over town.
Using me as a threat to get what he wants.
" Dante strides up to the man and backhands him with a crack .
"I don't appreciate being used as a cudgel, Chad .
And really, if you're going to drop my name? Don't threaten my employees."
"So, what? He's stupid?"
"I'm sorry! I didn't know you owned it. I was—I was trying to get the money to pay you! I didn't know where else to go!" Chad snivels and whines. The chains clatter and clank as he wriggles, trying to get free. Bad move, Chad.
"That's not all, love. He assaulted Claire."
"Who's Claire?" I sniff and turn to Dante.
"General manager of one of my restaurants.
Tough woman. Doesn't take any shit, let alone from assholes like him.
He came in with a gun under his shirt and demanded money—said he was making the rounds for me , as if I need a protection racket.
When Claire laughed in his face, he pistol-whipped her.
" Dante frowns and picks up a scalpel. "Good thing she called me the second she regained consciousness.
And now he's here, ready for his punishment. Would you mind if I started, love?"
"Fine. But I get to finish it off." I gesture my husband forward but grab my machete. I can't wait for him to tap me in. The growling in my skull is building to a scream. It needs blood, I need blood, and I'm so fucking close to getting it.