22 | Drown in her own shame and misery
The stench of blood, sweat, and fear clings to the cold air of the abandoned warehouse. A curel place where many people have died by my hands.
I inhale deeply, letting the sickly cocktail of despair and retribution fuel the slow, measured steps I take toward her.
The woman is tied to the cracked cement wall, her arms stretched out like a martyr, though there's nothing holy about her. The dim light casts jagged shadows on her face, highlighting the bruises and the dried blood that streak her skin.
Aurelia's mother. The woman who dared to lay a hand on my wife.
"Luciano," she rasps, her voice barely above a whisper, raw from hours of screaming. "I'm Ciara's mother. Don't you care about me? I saw you cry at her funeral. I know that deep down you loved my daughter, she would be so sad if you killed me..."
I stop in front of her, my gaze cold and unyielding as I meet her bloodshot eyes.
"Aurelia is my wife now," I say, my voice low but sharp enough to cut through steel. "You shouldn't have put your hands on her. And you shouldn't have abused her, almost selling her off to some disgusting old man like she was nothing."
Her lips curl into a smirk, defiance burning in her gaze despite the pain she's in. There's no trace of guilt, no hint of remorse. Just pure malice.
"Aurelia can go to hell," she spits. "I just wanted to protect my baby, Ciara. My daughter. I don't care about anything else but Ciara. She's my sweet little girl, and she'd still be alive if it wasn't for Aurelia. If it wasn't for you. If only you had married her!"
Ciara. She wasn't the angel her mother paints her to be.
Yes, I mourned her because my father would have done it, too.
But she wasn't blameless. She stood by and watched Aurelia suffer, turning a blind eye to the abuse, the neglect, the misery.
She was complicit, and no amount of flowery memories can change that.
"You don't get to use Ciara's name like that," I say, my voice like ice. "Because she also hurt Aurelia."
Her smirk falters for the briefest moment, but she recovers quickly, laughing, a grating, hollow sound that fills the space like a curse. "You think you're some kind of savior, don't you? You think marrying Aurelia makes up for the fact that you let my daughter die? YOU LOVED MY DAUGHTER!"
I don't answer her. She's not worth the explanation. Instead, I walk to the corner of the room where a metal bucket waits, filled nearly to the brim with crimson liquid. It's filled with human blood, and it's enough to send a message. Enough to remind her what it feels like to be humiliated.
The sound of my boots against the concrete echoes ominously as I lift the bucket and turn back to her. She sees it now, the realization dawning on her face, and for the first time, a flicker of fear passes through her eyes.
"This," I say, my tone steady and devoid of emotion, "is for humiliating my wife. For throwing wine on her. For every slap, every word, every goddamn ounce of pain you inflicted on her."
Her laughter dies, replaced by a tense silence as I approach. And then, without another word, I tip the bucket, pouring the thick, cold liquid over her head. It coats her face, her hair, her clothes, dripping down her body and pooling at her feet.
She gasps, choking on the metallic taste, her bravado finally crumbling as the reality of her situation sets in.
I set the bucket down with a deliberate clank, wiping my hands on a cloth as I step back to admire my work. She's a mess, drenched, trembling, and stripped of her arrogant facade.
It's a far cry from the woman who dared to raise her hand against my wife.
"You wanted to humiliate Aurelia," I say, my voice calm but heavy with meaning. "Now you know what it feels like."
She doesn't respond, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. Good. Let her sit with it. Let her feel the weight of her actions, the consequences of her cruelty.
I turn to leave, my steps slow and measured, but her voice stops me before I reach the door.
"You think this changes anything?" she calls out, her tone wavering but still laced with bitterness. "You think this makes you a hero to her?"
I pause, glancing over my shoulder. "I'm not a hero," I say simply. "But I am Aurelia's husband. And you made the mistake of forgetting that."
With that, I step out into the cold night air, leaving her to drown in her own shame and misery.