Page 66 of Till Death Do Us Part

Themanbeforemeweeps. Tears stream over his reddening cheeks, his breaths coming in near pants as he fights against the chain around his neck. They always fight. Always think they can break free.

I knife his stomach, the blade gliding through his skin as if it were butter. The bitter scent of copper fills the air as blood pools to the surface, coating the blade in my hand. More breathless whimpers spill from his gritted teeth, his eyes drooping as he struggles against the lack of oxygen.

I loosen the chain, watching in amusement as he sucks in a deep breath. The blood seeping from his wounds slides down his body, falling into a puddle of crimson on the floor.

There isn’t a much prettier sight, truthfully.

The only thing that has ever come close isher.

The first time I saw her, she was only sixteen.

She was leaving her father’s house, her chestnut brown hair falling into waves down her back. A simple black dress covered her body, stopping mid-thigh, the material loose and flowy. Her face was bare of make-up with a natural flush spread over her cheeks as she laughed at something her sister Elisa said to her. Even then, long before I knew what it meant, the urge to protect her crawled into my skin.

I saw her again at seventeen, dressed in jeans and an oversized hoodie while shopping for Christmas presents with her oldest sister, Sofia. Her hair fastened into a messy bun on her head. The urge grew stronger.

And then at eighteen. Her first night out.

Dressed to the nines in a short red dress, the bodycon material clinging to every inch of her lightly tanned skin. Her hair was pin-straight down her back, the brown shining under the fluorescent lights. Men circled her like vultures, her sister Rosa encouraging the attention—but she was too lost to the alcohol working its way through her body to pay them any mind.

That was the first time I let her see me, though I’d been watching her for years.

The urge to go to her was too strong to resist, and I stalked through the crowd of moving bodies. She looked up at me, her deep brown eyes eager with excitement as she travelled the lines of my face.

That was the moment I knew she was mine.

No words were spoken between the two of us in that moment.

But I made a promise that night.

Pippa Marchesi deserved the world, and I’d give it to her.

No matter the cost.

She doesn’t remember the interaction, her brain too addled with alcohol. But she remembers me, deep down. I saw it when I stepped into St. James church in London two months ago.

In her white dress, with fearful eyes as she took me in when I walked down that aisle. The glimmer of mischief in her expression when I stood beside Antonio. The ghost of a smile when I caught her gaze. The swipe of her tongue when I let my eyes travel over her. The way her heart pounded when I held her in my arms on the dancefloor.

Tiny interactions on the most important day of her life . . . important not for the reason she thinks.

The sound of a door slamming pulls me from the memories, a hurried voice following after.

“Leo,” Nico breathes, waiting for me to turn to him.

I tap the man in front of me on the face, my knife nicking his skin beautifully before I pull the chains taut to his neck again. Turning slowly, I drop my knife onto the table beside me. My brow raises at Nico, waiting. “She’s gone.”

“Well, Gio, it’s your lucky day,” I say to the man behind me with a chuckle before I grab my knife again. He looks at me with wide hopeful eyes. The poor bastard. For years I’ve been working against Antonio. Turning his men away from him silently. Their loyalty becoming mine.

The fact Antonio hasn’t figured it out yet tells me exactly why he doesn’t deserve the throne. The writing has been on the wall for years, but he only saw what he wanted to see. Idiot. Gio was one of the last few. If he truly thinks I’d let his stubborn ass free, he’s more of a fool than I first thought.

The moment my arm comes up, he senses my intentions and tries to shrink into himself, but the bindings on his arms and legs make that impossible. Slicing open a man’s neck is harder than it looks on TV. They make it seem so easy. A simple swipe of your knife, and they die.

But that’s fictitious.

Layers of thick muscle come first, and you have to break through all of that before you can reach the carotid artery. It’s a gruesome task. For many, they’d rather take the easy route. A bullet to the head is preferable in this world.

I don’t like easy.

His head lolls, blood pouring from the open wound. A satisfied smile pulls at my lips as the life seeps out of him.

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