Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
And somewhere deep in my chest, beyond family loyalty, is me. My wishes, the hopes I didn’t dare voice even to myself. And here it is, proof of the wisdom of my reticence. I knew there had to be a reason I couldn’t open myself fully to her. Why I couldn’t imagine a future for us. There was never going to be one because she was never going to be better than she is, more than she is. A liar, a nothing. No one. And certainly unworthy of the name De Luca.
I reach down and grab her torn hem, laughing as I do, even though nothing about this is funny. “Look at you. The nerve of wearing a white dress. What a charade. What an absolute joke.”
I take her by the ankle again and haul her across the bed until she’s close enough that I can reach the top of the dress, over her tits. “You don’t deserve to wear this.” One quick tug and the seams give way, but the sound of her anguished cries as I do touches the place deep inside me that needs to make her pay the most. I haven’t begun to take back what’s mine.
“Please, please, Enzo…” Her words mean nothing to me. Now I take the dress in both hands and tear it, growling as I do.
“A white dress. Innocence. I’m sure that was the biggest joke of all, wasn’t it?” It’s shredded now, hanging from her arms as she once again tries to crawl away from me. The ultimate symbol of everything lost today. Hanging in tatters, ruined beyond repair.
It’s a game, and I almost enjoy it. Pulling the dress from her, I leave her in nothing but a white thong and bra I suppose were meant to entice me somehow. And dammit, they would, too. If she were anyone else and my grandfather was still breathing, we would be having a much different encounter in this room. Wasn’t I only just beginning to entertain the idea before—
No. I can’t think about that now. I won’t. I won’t put myself through it when there’s so much more to be done. This lying bitch? She’s nothing, a distraction, just as she always has been. The fault lies with me for allowing myself to lose perspective.
I won’t make that mistake again.
“Enzo, please, listen to me…” She lifts her head, her makeup smeared and running down her face, hair hanging in tear-dampened tangles on either side. This is how she deserves to look. Ruined. The way she’s ruined so much.
“I would have listened to you. You had countless chances to speak up for yourself. To tell the truth. Instead, you chose to lie over and over.”
“What choice did I have? You wouldn’t have killed me if I had told you the truth before now? Please, we both know that isn’t true. I was trying to save my own life!”
“Then you wasted your time because your life isn’t worth saving.”
“I know you don’t mean that!”
I ball up the scraps of fabric in my hands, well aware of the dried blood touching my skin. Grandfather, I let you down. I let everyone down. It’s that thought alone that revives me, that gives me strength in the face of her pitiful state. Her anguished cries. “Don’t you dare tell me what I do and do not mean,” I warn in a growl. “The next time you do will be the last time you breathe, mark my words. You mean nothing to me. I look at you, and I feel nothing inside. Do not fool yourself, whatever your name is.”
“Alicia,” she whispers, but I hardly hear her over the rush of blood in my ears and the screaming that has not yet let up in my head. It still doesn’t feel real. None of it feels real.
“I don’t care. You’re nothing. You are no one. And as far as I’m concerned, you can rot here.” With that, I throw the ruined dress at her, and the sound of her sobs is a twisted symphony as I leave the room and lock the door.
It’s easier to breathe when I’m not in front of her, when the temptation to snap her neck or crush her windpipe isn’t so strong. I hear her through the door—somehow, knowing she’s still weeping, even though I’m not there to watch, pleases me. She isn’t putting on a show for my benefit. She’s genuinely distraught. Good.
As for her distress, it’s nothing compared to mine. As long as I live, I will never get the image out of my mind’s eye. The way he laid there, staring up at the sky, seeing nothing when those eyes of his were so shrewd, all-seeing, all-knowing. The man could convey an entire history with the slightest glance and could go on a vicious rant with nothing but a quirked eyebrow. And now, he’ll do neither of those things again. He sees nothing. He knows nothing. All that’s left is the shell when what I need is the wisdom. The guidance. What’s the next step? How do I make these bastards pay for what they’ve done?