ELIANO #3
I start to feel stupid, practically imposing on Storm and Damian, taking up a room in their small house.
True, I am mostly gone during the day and only come back in the evenings, but still, it cannot be comfortable for them.
Every night I hear them having passionate sex, and it… doesn’t let me forget what I’ve lost.
Lying in the dark, my own cock painfully hard, I squeeze my eyes shut and remember the time I was inside Salt, when everything between us felt open and full of hope, a foolish hope, because, as he himself admitted, he never cared about a relationship with me.
Sometimes, in desperation, I take out the picture of us sitting on the beach. I stare at his feral, beautiful face, and then I have to hide the photo quickly, because seeing him hits me like a hot iron through my heart.
Salt only wanted revenge, I was a means to an end.
He planned to let the police kill him. That was the path he chose, me…
not included. The pain of that realization is almost unbearable, which is why, day after day, a great portion of my time is spent making a massive effort to keep my mind tightly closed, separated from memories, cut off from thoughts of what we were or could be.
That is how I function for those first two weeks. But with every passing day, it becomes harder.
Sometimes I press my face into the pillow, the pain tearing through me so violently it crushes my chest. I see again the moment I marked him, the sound of full submission he made.
His words pushed me away, but his energy, his body, called to me.
Should I have left? Or ignored the Tanner case, stayed, and tried to make it work somehow?
My pride mirrors his. In that sense, we are disturbingly alike.
He said he hated me. That he never wanted to see me again. Fine.
I close my eyes and see his beautiful, catlike face, those moments where his defiance mixed with vulnerability. The session on the beach when he posed, his eyes half-lidded as he looked at me, the evenings as he gave himself to me, offering me his body.
Fuck. I want to hit something, kick something, break something.
It could have been beautiful.
It could have been divine.
But we lost each other.
◆◆◆
As I'm stuck in a dejected mental state, the lack of progress starts to gnaw at me, but instead of making my move, I end up frozen in apathy.
The needed change in me, or what you could call a push from Fate toward action, comes from an unexpected direction.
Not wanting to mooch off Storm any longer, I check the BA program site to find out how to access the account assigned to Salt and me. To keep everything safe, I go to a bank, and withdraw some cash there. Since I have to park far from the bank, I end up walking through downtown.
As I take my stroll, I realize I’m not far from a restaurant my family used to go to, one of those fancy spots.
The urge to check it out hits in a flash, and I find my body already moving on its own, pulled forward by a stupid whisper from my more reckless side.
The restaurant waits at the far end of the block, golden light spilling through its windows, and the sight tightens something in my chest. For a moment I stare at the decorative neon above the entrance, memories flowing through my mind.
This is where Anzo took me after my first winning fight.
Here, he also celebrated taking two districts from the Russians.
Even Rocco used to eat there constantly, always at the same table.
Still, whenever Mauro and I were here, we’d sit like decorative centerpieces, pretending we belonged.
With my brows furrowed, I slow down, drawn closer by some foolish, dangerous impulse, and before I can talk myself out of it, I step up to the window and look inside.
The moment breaks me open.
Rocco is there.
Imposing as ever, he seemed to fill the entire space by sheer presence, with Uncle Vincenzo across the table and Ennio turned slightly, listening to the capo’s voice.
The moment almost hypnotizes me; my eyes stick to Rocco’s scarred face completely against my will, emotions churning inside me.
The hatred I feel for him starts to buzz through me, making my jaws involuntarily clench. Caught in the turbulent feelings, I lose my alertness.
And the worst happens.
Rocco lifts his head mid-motion, and our eyes collide through the glass.
There is no confusion, no delay. He recognizes me instantly. The second stretches, knifelike, bare, and I understand in that breathless pause that I have made a grave mistake.
I turn and run, to save myself, or at least give it a shot.
My boots hammer the pavement as I throw myself forward in a wild sprint. But the sound of my steps is chased almost immediately by another pair, heavier. I do not look over my shoulder. I can feel him behind me, the pressure of his energy pushing at my back.
I cut down a side street, then another, forcing speed out of my legs, until my breath comes ragged.
He shouts, his voice ripping through the street.
"Fèrmiti, Eliano!" (Stop, Eliano!)
The voice literally rams me. Being an alpha lets me hear, even from thirty feet, the sharp snap of a firearm being readied. I cannot outrun what comes next.
My eyes snag on the storefront to my right, and I catch sight of samurai armor standing rigid behind the pane; a kendo sword mounted beside it feels like a gift from Fate. Does Fate really give me a chance? I veer hard, crash through the door, and the bell shrieks overhead.
The gunshot detonates behind me, glass exploding outward as the bullet goes wide. The sound fills the shop, rattles my skull. But I do not slow. My hand closes around the sword. My body remembers what to do and how, as I turn just as Rocco storms inside after me.
He comes around the corner fast. I move in a split second, on instinct, snapping the tip of the blade down and across, feeling the jolt travel up my arms as his gun flies from his hand and skids across the floor. He does not even swear at the sharp jerk. Yeah, Ferros don’t scream.
He dives behind the counter, rolling low and fast, and I chase him around the display, heart slamming, until he yanks another sword from the wall.
The shop comes apart around us. Shelves tip, glass shatters, and the owner’s scream cuts through everything before he bolts for the door, abandoning the place to the crash of steel and splintering wood.
Rocco straightens with the sword raised, eyes locked on me. His mouth twists, and the word comes out pure venom.
"Tradituri!" (Traitor!)
And bam, we clash.
Steel slams into steel, the impact punching through my arms as sparks scatter across the floor.
His swings are brutal, meant to batter straight through my guard, and every block carries a weight that forces my stance to give or break.
I feel the difference immediately. Rocco is ten years older; his strength has had more time to develop through training in various martial arts, and when I mistime a parry, the shock rattles my shoulders clear down to my spine.
But I won’t go down easy.
I stop trying to match him head-on; I keep moving instead, sliding my feet rather than stepping back, letting his blade cut past close enough that I feel the air shift against my ribs before I turn it aside.
My breathing sounds gaspy in my ears, but I hold myself together, keeping my eyes on his hands, his shoulders, with wild focus, searching for the subtle cues that tell me what comes next.
My slightly smaller frame gives me a speed advantage, and I use it.
Rocco was never as into kendo as I was. I kept training and reached 3-dan, while he’s still at 2-dan.
It’s a subtle gap, but it matters. I can’t match his raw strength, so I rely on timing and distance, countering with cleaner technique and tighter control of maai.
Sensing neither of us gaining ground, Rocco crowds me, forcing the fight tight where his size matters more.
Our swords cross in front of my chest, locking, and he leans into it, trying to drive me down by sheer force.
My arms tremble under the pressure, muscles screaming as he bears in, but instead of pushing back, I start to work the angle.
I twist my wrists, inch by inch, changing the point of contact, feeling the balance shift as his grip starts to slip.
Realizing he’s losing control, Rocco flicks his eyes sideways for a heartbeat.
He releases one hand and snatches a small ornamental silver knife from the wall display.
The blade flashes, and pain tears across my face, almost blinding, blood spilling as the cut slices diagonally over my cheek.
The shock makes my vision flare, but that single moment costs him a precious second that I can use.
I surge forward, break the bind, and drive the hilt of my sword into his temple with everything I have.
The blow lands solid. Rocco staggers, drops to one knee with a low, furious grunt, not fully down but rocked enough.
Sirens wail somewhere close now, rising fast, and I do not intend to stay and see what happens next.
I turn and run, bursting back onto the street with my hand pressed to my face, blood dripping warm between my fingers.
For real, I expect it to end there. I’m almost sure I will feel the sharp pain of a bullet or the hands of soldati grabbing me.
Instead, I see Ennio across the street, standing still amid the chaos of people crowding the corner. Our eyes meet. He lifts his hand just enough to point toward a narrow passage between two buildings, his face giving nothing away.
I take the chance without thinking. I cut sharply into the gap, pushing bystanders aside, and run until the noise fades behind me, until the passage ends, leading me out onto a deserted side alley.
Only then do I slow, my breath tearing in and out of my chest as I lean into the shadows, one hand clamped to my bleeding cheek, alive, but shaking and coughing all at once.