Page 92 of Monsters

He considered Mason for a moment. “You’re just like me.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

“Oh, but you are. I see the way the Sinclair girl looks at you.”

Gemma!

My heart began to gallop. Why was he talking about Gemma?

“She looks at you with fear in those pretty eyes of hers. She flinches whenever you’re near. I’ve seen it. I watched the power you have over her. It’s intoxicating… isn’t it, Mason? To have someone simply hand over all control because they’re too weak to handle us.” Borelli lunged quickly toward my mother, and she yelped, flinching away and shielding her face. Borelli laughed, satisfied Mom had unwittingly proven his point.

And then he quietened, the tension thick in the air. Borelli spoke with an eerie calmness that didn’t match his words. “Let me show you how a real man treats his whore.”

Once again, he lurched forward, this time gripping my mother’s hair. She squealed and lost her footing as he yanked her hard against his chest. Mason roared to life and took a swing using all his pent-up hurt and anger to propel himself forward. Size-wise, Borelli was huge, and when a fist connected with his meaty jaw, he barely flinched. Mason, on the other hand, received a violent shove to the chest sending him sprawling on the kitchen floor. Instinctively, I ran to my mother’s aide attempting to pull her free from Borelli’s hold.

“There you are, you fucking little cunt,” the asshole cheered and I realized my mistake. “I knew this would draw you out of your hiding place.” My mother screamed in pain as he tossed her around the room like a rag doll while fielding us both off. Unperturbed, Mason went in for another attack landing two heavy blows to Borelli’s jaw and temple. Wincing only momentarily in pain, the man balled his fist and smashed my mother’s eye in retaliation. He knew attacking her would hurt us more than if he went after us. The force of the blow catapulted Mom backward onto the TV, her head smashing against the wall with a sickening thud. Mom’s limp body sank to the ground, her neck at an awkward angle.

We could do nothing to help.

Borelli had already turned to us.

This was the part he liked. This was the part that made him feel like a man.

Beside me, Mason’s chest heaved, his eyes narrowed in on his target.

“Come at me, boy,” Borelli gestured as if this was a typical sparring match between father and son. It was far from.

“Just take your shit and go.”

“Not gonna happen.” He glanced between us, his challenge clear. “The night is only just beginning.” Borelli, confident and strong, marched toward me and my body froze.

“Run, Lucas,” Mason yelled, desperation written all over his face. Awkwardly, I stepped back, my feet heavy and unwilling to move. I connected with something, my mother’s legs, and I tripped landing hard beside her unresponsive body. As I scrambled to my feet, I could hear my brother bellowing, but I couldn’t hear his words. A large hand, rough with calluses, wrapped around my throat. It belonged to Borelli who triumphantly smiled as he lifted me off the ground, my legs flailing. I was a lightweight compared to him and lifting me seemed to take no effort.

Unable to breathe, I lashed out in desperation, my nails digging into the flesh of his cheek. Thick, dark red blood ran down his face, yet he didn’t flinch. My head was beginning to swell, the world around me spinning. He squeezed tighter the more I thrashed, his eyes wide with a possessed glee.

He wasn’t planning on letting go.

Somewhere in the distance, there was a faint sound of glass shattering. Moments later Mason appeared lunging at Borelli from the side. He was holding a broken wine glass by its base when he plunged its jagged-edged stem into Borelli’s throat. Blood leaked down his neck, the jugular vein missed. Despite the wound having the ability to immobilize most men, Borelli proved his defiance once more. He slapped a hand over his neck like he had merely been stung by a wasp.

Stricken at the sight of me turning blue, my brother dropped his weapon and charged. We were both knocked to the side upon contact, and I was flung hard against the wall, instant pain shooting through my rib cage. At the base of the stairs, Mason and Borelli grappled on the floor. Mason delivered a series of blows to the face, left, right, left, right. He roared with each strike, allowing over three months of abuse to unfold.

Climbing to my feet, I searched for the cordless phone to call 911, but it wasn’t in its usual place. It was lost somewhere in the chaos.

There was a sickening thud, Borelli repeatedly smashing Mason’s head against the bottom wooden step. His arm was hooked around my brother’s neck refusing to let him go. Mason grew momentarily limp, Borelli gaining the upper hand. He twisted and turned until he claimed top position. His giant bear-like hands pummeled Mason’s face with the relentlessness of a professional boxer. Blood sprayed from my brother’s nose in both directions with each hit, his cheek and lower lip splitting open.

“Get off,” I screamed through tears, but Borelli was zoned, focused on finishing what he started.

I kicked and stomped at him, but he never flinched. He was too much of a Hulk, high on adrenaline to feel anything.

Mason was barely conscious, and I was desperate knowing that tonight would be the night one or more of us wouldn’t survive.

“Luc,” my brother only just managed as a fist smashed into his jaw. His gaze landed on something across the room, his weak finger pointing to direct me.

I fell to the floor searching under the kitchen island until I saw what he wanted.

A chopping knife. The biggest in the set.

It, along with everything else, had been knocked to the floor when Mason swiped at the dishes earlier. Reaching out, my fingers curling around the handle and I pulled it from underneath the bench, its blade now glinting in the light. Rising to my feet, I stood behind Borelli. Both his hands were now wrapped around Mason’s neck.

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