Chapter Eleven #3
“The rifle used in the shooting was found along with the corpses in the backyard of the house. The bullets match.”
An overpowering urge to grab my Enzino killer blade and stab it in that fucker’s face overtakes me.
It feels so strong it’s tearing at my insides.
Did Art know his brother was behind the shooting?
How about the break-in? What kind of relationship do they have?
Did he go back to his abusers? I have so many fucking questions, and Art isn’t here to answer them.
A deep-rooted need to go find him and bring him back here makes me growl.
It comes from deep inside, from my slithering guts, from my scarred soul, still bursting with fury.
Seb’s placating hand is once again on my shoulder. I glare at it, but he doesn’t move it.
“We need to think and plan,” he states. Of course, the Machiavelli boss needs a calculated strategy before moving.
The fuck with that. “Think?” I spit out. “Who knows how long Mario will be here?”
“Why would he leave?” Marco tries to reason with me, but I’m too on edge for that.
“I want that fucker dead!” I hiss, tossing the other knife. I yank my shoulder away, forcing Seb’s hand off me. What the fuck is with all the touching?
“It’s not working,” Marco suddenly says, looking at Seb. “Just stop.”
“Stop what?” My eyes move from one to the other.
“Neurolinguistic programming,“ Seb simply states after a moment.
“Neuro what?” I’m so close to punching both of them.
“The power of suggestion.” Marco’s words confuse me even more.
“I don’t get it,” Fly voices my exact thought—in a much nicer way.
“There are techniques aimed at altering behavioral patterns, methods to train the mind to react to triggers in a predetermined way. Like patting someone’s shoulders to calm them down.” Marco lifts his hand and wiggles his fingers.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I snap at them.
“So…patting his shoulder stops his anger?” Fly goes for a clearer explanation.
I try to remember all the times those two fuckers touched my damn shoulder.
I’m panting like a bull ready to charge as I wonder if that is even fucking possible.
Seb is too damn analytical to waste time on something with no logical reasoning.
Suddenly my memories add another person to the list, and my eyes lock with Seb’s.
“Don Massimo,” I utter softly. He used to pat my shoulder every time he talked to me. I always connected it with affection and a sense of solace.
“Yes,” Seb confirms. “That’s how my father stopped you from spiraling.”
Don Massimo started this?
“He was worried about you. We all were. Do you remember when you turned fourteen? You drove a car into that storage facility because you thought Jack Enzino was there,” Marco reminds me.
I still have the scar on my foot, but the place was deserted, and I only broke my ankle.
“The doctor at the hospital told Don Massimo you were showing kamikaze tendencies.” Marco keeps going.
“He didn’t believe him. Boys will be boys, right?
But then the port incident happened a month later, where you almost fucking drowned.
Then the one with the bullet body shape at Coretti’s club, and the time you got drunk and we had to tie you to your bed to stop you from going on a killing fucking spree.
You were struggling, Luca, watching the two men responsible for your family’s death continuing their lives like nothing had happened. ”
I take a step back, looking up at the ceiling. I remember wanting to get rid of them at any cost. I didn’t care if I died in the process or hurt someone else. I was trapped in a loop of repetitive, negative thoughts.
Those fuckers didn’t even know who I was—they still don’t, one reason could be because I have my mother’s surname. But they killed so many people that they forgot about most of them, like insignificant ants you step on while walking.
“The doctors kept recommending mental facilities to help you cope with your destructive feelings. But I told my father separating us three wasn’t an option.
” Seb’s piercing gaze zeroes in on mine.
The resolution in his voice is clear as day.
“So I looked for a different approach until I talked to him about neurolinguistic programming. Although he was skeptical, he tried anyway. The pat on the shoulder was his way to express his care toward the three of us. So we used that. A familiar, positive trigger has more chances to work. And it did.”
“Can the pat actually calm him down?” Fly talks for me again.
“It makes him think more…logically.” Marco nods.
How didn’t I see this before? How is this even possible?
“You mean, you fucking got inside my head,” I hiss. The betrayal runs deep, but the benevolent reason behind their actions mollifies me a little and also infuriates me to no end. I can’t even hate them properly for fucking tricking me since they were doing it in good faith.
“We hacked into your head and assuaged your…detrimental avenging urge.” Marco raises his palms up, pretty sure Seb said that at one point, and he’s just repeating it.
A sudden thought shows up. “What…what else did you do?” Did they fuck with my head some more? Art. Did they do something to make me feel like this toward him?
“To you? Nothing else,” Seb says, and I know it’s the truth because he never lies to us. But then he looks Marco’s way.
“What the fuck? Did you do that shit to me too?” Marco’s shocked voice gives me a little satisfaction.
“What? You thought you were immune to Seb’s mind games?” Not liking if the shit is done to him?
“I tried but you are too hard-headed to let anything take root,” Seb tells him, before turning to me again.
“Since my father died, it has been harder to soothe you. That’s why I made you take care of Art.
I thought kidnapping Enzino’s son would help with your impatience and restlessness.
Would make you feel closer to your vendetta’s finale. But you exceeded all my expectations.”
I can never for a moment forget that Seb is a cold, vicious, scheming motherfucker?
“Expectations? What am I, your guinea pig?” I advance toward him with the uncontrollable intention of punching him.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t show any fear. He keeps talking. “You’ve been existing almost all your life, Luca. But lately something is different.”
“You look more grounded, more excited,” Fly interjects.
“Are you really telling me you want to go back to that empty life?”
I’m taller than Seb, and looming over him feels fucking good. I have my fist reared back. Ready.
“It was never empty. I have a purpose.”
“Feeding your hatred isn’t a purpose. Art—”
“I hate him!” I cut Seb off with a hiss.
“I saw something else very clearly,“ he gives back, cool as a cucumber.
“You don’t know what you are talking about.” My fist is trembling, eager to hit something. Seb’s unperturbed face. But I don’t.
“What is he talking about?” Marco sounds curious.
“You haven’t joined the dots yet.” Seb sighs with boredom, still not taking a step back. I know how much he hates it when people invade his personal space. He’s all tensed up. Is he enduring it for me? Fuck! My fist lowers.
“Dots?”
“There are no dots to join,” I snap at Marco, grabbing the plastic bottle from the kitchen island and throwing it at a glass wall. It cracks, splashing water around. Fucking Seb and his creepy omniscient ability.
“I joined the dots!” Fly’s abrupt exclamation is emphasized even more by his pointing finger aimed at me. “You and Art!” he adds, remaining in Marco’s arms.
“That’s a crock of shit.” There’s no me and anybody.
Pushing someone away is not easy, but for me, letting someone in is fucking grueling. Art? Impossible.
“You were having sex,” Seb feels the need to say.
“Oh, you took the word torture to a new level, didn’t you, dickface?” Marco sneers, and I flip him off.
“It was just fucking.”
“But you did it more than once.” Fly studies me as I take another cigar and walk back to the windows. “Art never goes for seconds.”
I clench my jaw. Pushing away the memories of his sunshine and apple scent surrounding me while I sank my cock all the way inside him. He was an amazing fuck.
“And he also left you this note…” Fly continues, lifting the wrinkled paper. “Can’t you see what it means, or are you pretending not to?”
“How he tricked me, you mean? Over and over,” I snap, taking a long puff from my cigar. He could have left, really left but decided to stay to fuck with me.
It’s Marco’s turn now. “Well, you kidnapped him and treated him like shit.”
“He liked it,” I growl. Art liked it so much that he came on my cock every fucking time, begging for more.
“Anger is unproductive,” Seb deadpans.
Marco huffs. “For some, it’s invigorating.”
Fly takes a couple of hesitant steps my way. “I know Art can be difficult. Carless, sassy, incredibly annoying, flaky, and crazy.”
“He is a brat! His attitude…”
“You like it. I saw it with my own two eyes,” Fly interrupts me, and I snort. “You know what I love about him? How he gives the world the middle finger without caring about anything or anyone. How he makes me look at things from a different angle.”
His resilience, his wit, and his brightness.
“He brought out a new side of you, a lighter one,” Fly adds. He did, didn’t he?
“Watching you banter was…interesting,” Marco smirks. “It reminds me of the good fucking times, when we were kids.”
Fuck. No matter how many lines I’ve drawn, Art just stepped over them, with that sassy attitude and those shamelessly flirty grins.
“I feel like you are slow-walking me to an epiphany,” I sniff. But it’s still too hard for me to believe it.
“I’ll speed up.” Marco puts his body in front of me. “Do you really think the sins of the father fall on the son? …The younger son, since the older one is the psycho who killed your mom.”
That’s a counterpunch right in the gut, and it lands hard.