Page 22 of Of Murder and Matrimony

I reached for the chair and grasped the back until my knuckles turned white. I heard the whoosh of the leather before the pain exploded across my back. The muscles in my jaw tightened, but I breathed through it. “Harder.”

The whip struck again, expertly crisscrossing with the previous mark, lighting my nerves on fire. I exhaled slowly. “Keep going.”

“How many?” Cosimo asked.

“Don’t know.” I gritted my teeth as he applied another lash. His steady and slow tempo allowed me to experience maximum pain before swinging again. I felt the first trickle of blood, and the crawling sensation under my skin started to bleed out through my wounds. It was the only time I felt truly at ease.

The minutes blurred together, and I almost protested when Cosimo dropped the whip. “We’re done. You’re going to need sutures.”

It took great effort to force my eyes open and focus on the dungeon again. Cosimo spun the chair in front of me around and shoved me down into it so my chest rested against the back. My brother had no qualms about causing pain. It’s why he was the only one who knew about my… coping mechanism. He’d whip me bloody and patch me up without breathing a word to another soul.

“Stay still.” It was the only warning he gave before cleaning the wounds with alcohol. I hissed as my entire back lit up like he'd held a flame to the torn skin. It sent more endorphins shooting through my system, and I barely felt the needle when he stitched my flesh back together. “All done.”

Cosimo disposed of his gloves and the trash, which would all be burned. I stared at the blood-stained floor but still felt no remorse. War was bloody. Death was inevitable.

Perhaps flagellation was how I punished myself for how black my soul had become. Maybe I did it because my father first took his belt to me when I was a boy of five. I’d received my first scars at eight. He’d finally stopped when I reached his height at fifteen. Then he taught me how to hurt others.

Now, I hurt myself, or I forced my brother to do it. Still, it was never enough to keep the snake slithering beneath the surface of my skin at bay for long. I stretched, feeling the pull of the sutures and the bandages on top, then stripped out of my clothing, tossing everything in a pile to be destroyed. I washed my hands and head in the sink and found a fresh suit in the lockers by the door. Cosimo even kept an extra pair of shoes for me.

It wasn’t often that I ruined clothing completely, but it had been a more frequent occurrence since the war with the Russians began. Cosimo’s face appeared in the mirror while I was straightening my tie.

“So, the wedding. Are you ready?”

“Is one ever ready?” I replied flippantly.

My brother didn’t buy it. “There are other ways.”

“None that will stop the war as quickly,” I said with surety, slamming the locker and slipping my phone, wallet, and keys into my pocket. I gave Cosimo a nod and left him to deal with our mess, closing the dungeon door firmly behind me and heading back to my car.

I walked with a little more sway to my shoulders, trying to feel the pain as long as possible. It was the only way I’d get through the following week.

My wedding day came too fast. I stood in my makeshift dressing room at the church, where I’d given Romeo brotherly reassurance only a month prior, but it seemed like a lifetime of shit spanned the interim. I was constantly weary and on edge, but I had more reason to be today. Olesya would be my wife, and there was no way her brothers could ignore the implications of a wedding between our families. I could only hope that they’d find it compelling enough to halt the war.

The whiskey I’d smuggled in called to me, and I took a swig, savoring the burn as it coated my throat. I wasn’t drinking enough to lose my faculties, but nobody could blame me for needing something to calm my nerves. Outside, guests filtered across the green church lawn, the June sun shining down brightly. Suddenly, the room seemed too confining.

I slipped through the door and down the hall, finding the back stairwell and the exit into the private garden behind the church. Air came easier as I walked between the roses, their full, white blooms making the world a little lighter. I reached out, closing my eyes as I touched one of the roses, feeling the soft petals between my thumb and forefinger. The anxiety lessened as I concentrated on that touch, the chirping birds, and the warm sun on my face.

A shuffling sound made me reach for my weapon, only to find Niccolò slowly approaching. His breathing was labored when he nearly collapsed onto the nearby bench, unable to make it to me.

“You know,” he said, breathless. “I stood out here once.”

“If I recall, you were trying to get a jump on the wedding night,” I said drolly.

“It didn’t get quite that far.” He smirked, a bit of the old Niccolò pushing past the trauma that swam in his gaze. “What are you doing out here?”

I wanted to come up with a philosophical answer, but none came to mind. “Just a bit of avoidance.”

“Dante.”

I turned to face him fully. “Is this where you try to give me sage advice?”

“Don’t know how wise I am.” He huffed out a tired laugh. “I couldn’t even avoid a bullet.”

I stared at his chest where he’d taken the hit, practically able to see the blood blooming across his white shirt as it had done in May. “None of us are invincible.”

Silence stretched between us, and Niccolò’s eyes got that faraway look that happened all too often. When his left hand shook, I knew he was living through a memory. It was his tell now since the muscles had weakened from disuse. I could never let him get taken by an enemy. They’d come close enough already.

“You don’t have to do it,” he said quietly.

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