Page 90 of Bitter Poetry
At least he used to be. Now, he’s a shell.
If I think about the kitchen incident—as it is now known—a lot, I also think about my recent conversation with my father.
“It won’t be forever.”
How I wish I could believe those words, could stay strong for just a little longer. But it’s getting harder every day to pretend my life will contain some utopian resurrection when the best I can look forward to is Christian’s hate fucks. The two of us are like warring planets circling, doomed to collide over and over. One time will be one time too many. We’re getting more reckless. Well, Christian is, and it’s not like I put much effort into stopping him.
I don’t know if he would stop if I did.
He said he would, but I’ve never once tested him.
My belly dips and my pussy squeezes over the memory of him inside me. Why does the thought of him not stopping arouse me so?
Does he sense I don’t really want him to stop, or does he simply not give a damn?
I’m nineteen. The first eighteen years of my life left me woefully underprepared for reading the intentions of the monstrous and the unhinged.
I exit the bathroom, cross my bedroom, and head downstairs for breakfast. If I’m lucky, Ettore will already have left.
As I reach the bottom of the sweeping staircase, I can hear his voice coming through the small gap in his office doorway. Depression slips its arms around my shoulders and bares down, adding ever greater pressure with every step. How can a mere voice fill you with such dread and loathing? How can it leach the very memory of happiness away?
“I’m delighted with your decision,” Ettore says. “Helena will be thrilled.”
My footsteps slow in the hopes that I can catch more of the conversation. Anything that delights his bitch sister is usually bad for me.
“I appreciate your patience, Ettore. The role of capo was new to me. I felt I needed to prove myself first.”
Dante?
My heart squeezes in my chest. My mind is full of white noise, and I cannot process that it’s really him nor unpick what they might be talking about beyond it involves Helena. I stumble, my heel catching on an imaginary lump in the perfectly laid carpet, and a small gasp escapes me.
The study door opens wider and Ettore steps into the gap. My face feels like it slams through a confused jumble of emotions I can only pray he takes as the pain of my twisted ankle.
“Apologies, I caught my heel in…” I trail off—the memory of him slapping me in the bedroom chooses that moment to resurface. My mouth is suddenly dust dry. My thoughts cartwheel. The mask of fury that came down over him when I lifted my hands to protect my face from the second blow.
“You let another man touch you again, and I will kill you. Do you understand?”
He smiles. But the memories are pinballing around my head so rapidly that it takes me several seconds to realize the moment carries no threat.
He takes my hand, leading me into his office. “Come, congratulate Dante.”
My legs feel numb. Somehow, I put one foot in front of the other.
His scent hits me first. His strong presence next. “I’m a little behind,” I say, unable to so much as glance in Dante’s direction. “What are we congratulating Dante on?”
“His marriage to Helena,” my husband says.
My ankle is throbbing—the pain is the only thing centering me, stopping me from doing something stupid. “Congratulations,” I stammer.
I’m still wearing his necklace. I barely take it off other than when I’m going somewhere formal with Ettore, and when keeping it on would draw questions as to why I never wear my husband’s gifts to me.
I’m wearinghisnecklace, andheis marrying someone else.
“A wonderful match,” Ettore continues right over me. “My goddaughter will benefit from a strong father figure in her life. Given Helena has been married before, I know she would be happy with a smaller, intimate wedding. The sooner, the better.”
He says more. Dante replies, his voice, unlike Ettore’s, stirs a warm sensation inside me.
I don’t hear a single word.
