Page 73 of Bitter Poetry
She hates me.
I hate her.
But she loves my hands on her, and my dick pounding her cunt. Last night, while her husband was getting blown at the club, I had my tongue inside her. Then I wrapped my fingers around her throat and fucked her hard.
“Sweet young pussy.”
She might not suspect it—my brother certainly doesn’t—but at some point during the last year since she married that fuckwit who pretends at being a don, I’ve claimed her.
CARMELA
Le Petit Café.The name is French; it serves Colombian coffee, and the owners are third-generation Italians. It sounds messy, but the coffee is excellent, and the bistro-style decor has charm. Also, it’s considered part of the family, and I’m allowed to come here for my coffee fix and dose of normality.
Normality… What does that even mean? I don’t think I’ve experienced a normal day in my whole life. But as I stare out the broad, slightly foggy window at the rain-slicked sidewalk, I see it passing in the form of everyday citizens going about their lives.
“Is this seat taken?”
I turn from my people-watching, confused as to why a stranger would be speaking to me, and make eye contact with a handsome man in a business suit. Probably an actual businessman and not… well, he looks regular, for want of a better word.
“I was waiting for someone,” I lie, politely.
He smiles. “Well, he or she is not here yet, are they?”
Maybe his playful persistence usually wins him some points. It just leaves me faintly irritated. I spot Christian leaving his regular place at the counter, and my irritation shifts to unease. “You really should leave.”
“But we haven’t even exchanged names.”
His megawatt smile finally falters as he turns to see a man wearing a suit—this one not of the business variety—bearing down on him.
“Which part of fuck off did you not understand, asshole?” His deceptively soft voice bears a faint hint of amusement.
“Christian—” I start.
“I was only speaking to the lady.” The businessman-turned-asshole fronts up to Christian, giving him an up-down look of distaste. “I don’t believe that’s a crime… or any of your goddamn business.”
I wince.
Christian smiles cheerfully. “Start praying.”
Mr. Persistent finally picks up on the vibe and takes a hasty step back—too slow. Christian fists the lapels of his suit and jerks him toward the small counter.
Tony doesn’t utter a word as Christian manhandles the former customer around the counter and out through a door into the rear of the shop.
Silence. The few other patrons pointedly go back to their business.
My chair makes a sharp screech across the wooden floor as I stand.
“Mrs. Gallo—” Tony steps forward, like he might block my path. When I keep going, he quickly steps aside, lifting his hands. He, at least, knows better than to touch me.
That doing so is signing his death warrant.
Speaking to me without my husband’s permission is apparently not much better.
I slam through the door just as Christian slams his fist into the man’s stomach. The rough grunt as the blow takes the wind out of him is followed by a crack as Christian yanks the man’s head down to meet his rising knee.
Blood splatters.
“Chris!” My voice is high and filled with anxiety, and his head whips around.
