Page 81 of Merciless Oath

“I’ll never move on,” she hisses right back at me. I nod, expecting her answer, and unroll the length of rope I curled around my forearm before I came back down here. Her eyes widen again, and she tries to scamper away from me.

“Enzo, no, please,” she begs, twisting and pulling her limbs against mine. “Don’t kill me.”

“Relax, would you?” I brush her off, not understanding her concern.

My lack of care sets her off, lighting a fire of rage and fear under her. She sinks her teeth into my hand and manages to knee me away from her.

“What the hell, Alexandra?” I yell, trying to get my bearings. I grab the rope, and it makes sense.Shit, she thought I was going to kill her with this.

I lunge after her as she stumbles through the cabin, smashing into things and stepping on broken glass. She’s barely functional, moving at a snail’s pace, and I quickly catch up to her, hauling her down to the floor.

“I’m trying to help you, dammit,” I curse as she bites my arm again. “Work with me here.”

She screams obscenities at me, half in English, half in Russian, but it comes out sounding garbled and unnatural. I grab at her thrashing arms, trying to stabilize myself and calm her down at the same time.

Jesus Christ, when did I develop a conscience again? I could kill her in three seconds and not bother with any of this.

But I wouldn’t. And I always had a conscience. Even when I’m shooting men at point-blank range in my torture basement, I still have a conscience.

“You need help, Alexandra,” I repeat, trying to stop her from clawing at me. “Professional mental help.”

“Oh please,” she growls, flashing an angry glare at me. “You’re going to kill me, let’s not play these little games. Big, bad Enzo, head of the mafia now. I remember when you were just a kid who loved computers.”

“I’m still that kid,” I whisper, loosening my grip on her arms a bit. My fingers leave angry red marks across her skin, and I feel guilty for being so forceful. “But things change. People change. Everyone needs to grow up and move on.”

“Just like you did when you met her?”

“I moved on way before I met her,” I say, hoping it doesn’t unleash a new wave of anger. “You and I had fun, sure, but it wasn’t serious. You need to understand that.”

“It was to me,” she pouts as her eyes well up with tears. “It was to me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t feel the same,” I apologize, sadness and exhaustion seeping out of me. For weeks now, the only goal I had was to destroy The8. Now, all I want to do is help her get through this.

Rafael taught me to gather my rage and channel it at my target, but Alexandra isn’t the enemy. She’s just a lost, confused woman who needs some help, and I can’t possibly end her life because of it.

I stare down at her tear-streaked face, smeared with dripping makeup.

“I loved you so much,” she whispers, her glassy gaze dropping from my face to some point in the distance. Feeling like she’s gone to another world, I take my chances and use her temporary distraction to bind her wrists together.

“I’m sorry,” I say, helping her sit up against the wall. “But once you get the help you need, you’ll realize you probably didn’t love me. You’ll get healthy and go on to live a much more fulfilling life. Maybe find someone youtrulylove.”

“What about the love notes?” she asks again, seeming genuinely confused. “And the flowers? All these years, you’ve been sending them to me. I don’t understand.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I always knew they were from you.” She shakes her head, laughing sadly. “Even back then. You don’t remember coming to my room after class and seeing all the gifts? You’d ask who they were from, and I’d always tell you it was a secret admirer, but I knew it was you.”

“Right,” I say slowly, putting the pieces together. “Alexandra, they weren’t from me. I always thought you were seeing several people, you know… that we weren’t exclusive.”

“But you signed them, Ivan,” she laments. “Don’t you remember that discussion we had aboutIvan the Foolone evening? You thought he’s smarter than anyone gave him credit for?”

I freeze, wondering what the hell she’s talking about. How could anyone remember a random two-minute conversation they had over half a decade ago?

Insanity, that’s how.

“I didn’t… I mean, I barely remember that conversation,” I stumble over my words, trying to find a way to explain that it wasn’t me. “I would never do that… write poetry and all that, that’s not me.”

“But you did,” she pushes, fully convinced. “You did for me!”

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