Page 58 of Corrupted Heart

…Who isn’t so much a mystery anymore.

A few days ago, I only knew Kratos by reputation. Since then, thanks to the internet, I’ve become an expert on him.

It’s done less than nothing to quiet my shaking nerves.

Through random searches online, and by stalking the social media of some of his siblings, I’ve learned more about him. Like how he’s into boxing and underground fights. How the car I destroyed wasn’t just some shitty old truck. It was a 1980 Land Rover Defender 110 with “European specs”, whatever the hell that means.

It also had a price tag north of three hundred grand, after all the retro mods, vintage parts, and work done on it. Which brings my total bill for destruction so far to—checks notes—seven hundred thousand dollars, between the car I didn’t want to torch and the cocaine I neither lost nor sold.

I’ve learned that he’s close—really close—with his family: three brothers, and a sister who’s only a few years older than me. I’ve discovered how the Drakos family is now closely connected to the Kildare Irish Mafia family, both via Ares Drakos’ marriage to Neve Kildare, and through Calliope aka ‘Callie’ Drakos being married to Castle Kildare himself, the head of the whole Irish family.

I know he likes to cook, through a bunch of gushy posts on Callie’s Instagram, and that he’s pretty good at it. I know he’s gotta be smart, since he went to Lord’s College in London. That’s no small thing.

Lastly, I know the man is built like a Greek god, also courtesy of Thirst-gram. I mean Instagram.

And I do mean a god.

He’s over six and a half feet tall, and all muscle. Callie posted some random photos from a trip to Greece she and some of her brothers took a little while ago, and there were pics of Kratos in a bathing suit lounging on the beach.

And sweet fucking Jesus.

The shoulders and arms of a Marvel superhero—Thor, specifically. A rock-solid, chiseled chest and abs, even those stupid V-lines that you cannot ignore that drive down from his hips into the waist of his very well-fitting bathing suit.

Tattoos all over. Eyes like blue icebergs. And a look on his face that somehow straddles charmingly friendly and captivatingly intense.

And the longer I look at pictures of the man who told me the other day he was going to “eradicate” my lines, the more I realize something: not a single one of the photos I’ve found of him online is really him.

It’s like I’m looking at photos of a fake Kratos. A fraud, who’s doing his best to look like the middle Drakos sibling.

Someone behind a façade.

Because I’ve seen into those eyes in the real world, through the neon X’s of his mask. I’ve seen them glint and surge with energy. And none of those first-hand glimpses I’ve caught of him looked anything like this smiling, charming, nonchalant man on a beach vacation.

Which is curious, to say the least.

But again, it’s the waiting that’s the worst. Not lying to Dante, or Dad, or Carmy and Nico about what happened. There was no denying that I had something to do with the car—I mean the guilt was all over my face, and Dante could smell the gas and smoke on me, even after my attempts at washing it off. But I white-lied it, and told them I’d gotten caught up with some girls from ballet I shouldn’t have, and was pulled along for the ride. Well, I mean, that’s kinda true.

Let’s be real: Carmy and Nico, and even Dante, used that “I just happened to be there, Pop” bullshit with Vito throughout their entire adolescence and young adult years. I don’t know if my dad ever totally bought it, or is buying it from me now. But I think he recognizes that I didn’t do anything maliciously. Plus, I think he remembers giving his sons leeway whenever they used that excuse, and realizes I deserve the same courtesy.

Just the same, it’s not good. There’s been no word at all from the Drakos family, which is…unsettling.

There’s also been no word at all from him, via the Club Venom site.

And the waiting is driving me insane: the constant, needling feeling up the back of my spine. Like waiting for the pop of a balloon as it blows up bigger and bigger, or constantly expecting that a hand will reach out of the darkness to grab me.

Part of me even wants to walk out into Central Park alone one night and just scream for him to come get it over with, whatever he’s going to do to me. But a week after the car incident, I haven’t, and there’s still nothing.

“Bianca…”

I flinch when I hear Alicia’s voice behind me in the dressing room. I thought I was the last one here, but apparently that’s not the case.

Turning, my chest tightens as I meet Alicia’s scared-looking gaze.

“What,” I mutter quietly.

She’s tried to get me alone almost every day this week, with the same petrified, scared, contrite look on her face that she has on now. I mean, I get it: bitch or not, I think seeing her boyfriend stick a gun in my face and drag me into a car probably has her seriously shaken up.

Still, I’m the one who had the gun in my face, all because she dragged me out to a fucking drug deal I never wanted any part of. So I’m fresh out of fucks to give about how bad she’s feeling, or how sorry she is.

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