Page 21 of Stolen Vows
As if the things we’ve accomplished—the allies, the new business products and protection contracts, the contact points with premier dealers in the harbor—werehisdoing.
When I was young, he’d slice my hands open with whatever sharp object was within reach: a broken beer bottle, a butcher’s knife, a box cutter—anything he could wield easily and use to carve me up. But only on the palm, where it’d be easiest to hide with bandages.
Sometimes, he’d just hold the fresh cuts in an open flame. I hated the fireplace in my childhood home for that reason.
Friends and family thought I was sick or clumsy since I always came around with my hands bandaged. The damage was worse on my left palm than the right, because my father didn’t want me needing too much assistance for simple, everyday tasks. Nor did he want to arouse suspicion.
The problem was he started grooming me to be his muscle—the intimidator who’d convince people to do his bidding by sheer force. Even at a young age, with one hand’s mobility compromised, my impulsivity and bloodlust were insatiable.
I was everything he’d never be, and that only drove me to domore.
I wanted his fear. I wantedeveryone’sfear so I’d never be in a position to suffer again.
But even when you gain the upper hand, you never lose the feeling of vulnerability. You don’t forget what it was like when you were helpless.
You never forget who made you feel that way.
The third bullet leaves the gun before I answer my father, the popping sound deafening in the ensuing silence. Everything unfolds in slow motion after that: crimson springs to stain the shoulder of his crisp white dress shirt, his hand moves to cover that spot, and blood seeps between his fingers. Delightful agony twists his face, heightening as I round the table.
A river roars between my ears, drowning out the others’ shouts of disapproval. At least one Elder draws their own gun—though, once again, nobody shoots. I can’t help wondering if they react out of a sense of duty and secretly want to see Flavio suffer as much as I do.
My father lets out a string of vulgar Italian phrases when I grab his shoulder, gently digging two fingers into the gaping, gushing wound there. Warm flesh and muscle give way with the pressure as more blood pumps from the hole, soaking his sleeve and the carpet beneath.
Maybe this wasn’t the best idea, but it doesn’t matter now. Sure, the eyes of our men are on me, judging, even if they don’t have the balls to act. If I kill my father here, I’ll have to kill all of them, too, just to keep up appearances with the De Tores who aren’t here.
To pass this off to the rest of the family and business partners as someone else’s doing, we’d need more than just Frankie and me as witnesses. We’d need an established alibi.
Time.If I want this organization to crash and burn, to pay for this grievance against me, I can’t do it all right this second. Just because no one’s made a move to stop me yet doesn’t mean they’ll let chaos reign forever; even made men have their limits, and bloodshed isn’t typically what they opt for when there are other potential solutions.
So, even though every fiber of my being screams in protest, I reel myself in a bit, putting a forceful pause on the spiral my mind drifted into, thinking about my father’s hands on my wife, touching her,hurtingher.
This is only the beginning. Now that he knows what it’ll do to me, he won’t stop.
I thought keeping her locked away in a tower was the safest option, but I’m afraid it’s only made her a sitting duck.
“Don’t be stupid,” my father grits out, his breathing labored. He glares up at me, a few strands of sweat-slicked hair falling into his eyes. “You keep on like this, and you’ll lose every ounce of support you have. The Elders won’t put up with someone who can’t control himself. Think about what you’re throwing away—and for an ugly, boring Ricci slut, no less.”
My resistance wears thin. I push my fingers deeper until I feel bone beneath my glove. “Aw, what’s the matter, old man? She didn’t accept your slimy advances? Had to hit her to make yourself feel better?”
With my dominant hand, I press the mouth of the gun to the top of his thigh, pulling the trigger before he answers. A bloodcurdling noise chokes out of his throat, and his eyes roll to the back of his head briefly; he refocuses as the conference room erupts into shouts and threats, the other associates now squabbling with one another or fleeing.
My father’s sanguineous smile greets me as I lean down, smashing the pistol into the fresh wound, watching as blood pumps from the area.
He spits, painting my collar and face red. “Guess I should’ve fucked her right then and there. You always did learn lessons the hard way.”
“Wonder where I got that from.”
He snorts, and more bright red liquid spews from his nose. “Blame me all you want, Son, but killing me won’t end this for you. There will always be someone ready to take my place. That little slut of yours will never be safe as long as the De Tore family lives and breathes in Boston. As long as you’re a part of this.”
I bring the gun beneath his chin, shoving the barrel so his head is forced back at an unforgiving angle. “Then I suppose I’ll have to correct that for her.”
This time, when I pull the trigger, my finger barely seems to move. Time itself suspends, as if putting distance between me and my actions.
Chaos descends around me. This wasn’t what I meant to do, and yet, standing in the midst of it all while my father’s brain matter splatters on the windows behind him, I don’t feel an ounce of regret.
10
STELLA
