Prologue
Carmine
Alone with my thoughts—an arguably dangerous place to be—I sit at my desk, feening for a cigarette. Thankfully, I spot a half-empty pack of Parliaments near my computer. I reach for the pack as I feel for the lighter that I keep in the pocket of my black and white pinstriped suit. Wasting no time, I take a smoke out, gliding the filter along my lips, wetting it slightly as I light the end.
The crackling flames of the fireplace echo in the study as I lean back in my chair, taking a long, much needed drag. With each puff of smoke that I breathe in comes a brief ping of relief. Though, I’ve learned relief through vices that aren’therare fleeting. Every high fades just as quickly as it comes. It’s simply a band-aid on my damned soul.
The bittersweet sting of obsession has poisoned my bloodstream. Visions of her taunt me, permeating my bleak heart. My living flesh betrays me, because inside, I am already dead. I have money, power, endless connections, but I crave more …I crave her. All I want is for her to know I exist.
The man who still holds her heart hostage is a weak fool. In time, she will see that her shattered soul is best suited as my prisoner, not his. I may be a stranger to her now, but I am confident I can corrupt her just enough to convince her it is me, Carmine Moretti, that she belongs to.
As I exhale, I watch the smoke ominously gather in the direction of the black box sitting on the bookshelf. It’s a haunting reminder of what was risked in order to be where she is today …alive. If she only knew what is inside that box, she would, no doubt, see me as the monster I am. Although, I hold on to the hope—delusional as it may be—that in time, she will find solace in the shadows that define my existence.
I have always considered myself to be a man of few words. Yet, lately, I am overwhelmed by the incessant urge to put onto paper the thoughts that consume my mind. It’s unsettling for my dimmed conscience to feel as though it is being jolted back to life by this peculiar combination of guilt laced with desire. This unfamiliar concoction of emotions is taking over me. It grabs hold of any free space my mind allows me to have, when it isn’t obsessing over the moment, I can be a shadow lurking in the dark no longer.
The cigarette dangles from my mouth as I twirl the crimson ink pen in my hand, trying to conjure up the words to say. The idea of me writing anything is comical. I write checks, not poetry. Words have never been my thing,violenceis. But I fear that if I do not release these words into existence, I will embark on a vicious rampage that I may not be able to come back from. As I impatiently wait for the moment that I can claim the one my aching soul yearns to callmi reina, I will settle for pen and paper.
I must write a letter to the one my soul has been knocking at my flesh to join. Here comes a poem for the broken-hearted. An anthem for the lover who lost the battle but is determined to win the war ahead. A letter to the one I desire, with every fiber of my wicked being. I will make her mine, even if it’s the last thing I do, because every breath I take without her next to me is a burden I can no longer bear.
Fuck it. Here goes nothing.
Mi Reina,
Life without you is purgatory. My heart is a ticking time bomb, locked in a holding cell with bated breath, anticipating the moment my tattered hands will have the privilege of touching your flesh. Life with you will be like a game of Russian roulette: unpredictable and impulsive. Together, we will live on the edge of greatness that our broken souls know nothing of, but desire immensely. Through pain, grief, flames, and dust, it’s plain to see that you and I are meant to be.
El que tiene las respuestas
I drop the pen, holding the letter in my now trembling hand. Adrenaline filling my veins. She is the one I need to stand by my side, sharing this grey area of life I reside in with. Maybe then our demons can be acquainted, as we spend the rest of our days dancing in a burning room, while the world spins on past us.What a wonderful nightmare that would be.
The path to her will be tricky, for revenge is on the horizon. There is no telling the bridges I will burn, the risks I will take, the countless lives I may need to steal to get to her.
She is a perplexingrag doll,scarred and broken. I want nothing more than to mend all her broken pieces and revel in the masterpiece that is her fractured beauty. Soon, she will have no choice but to succumb to her fate and realize that to truly live is to die in myskeletalgrip.
Chapter1
Sienna
12 YEARS AGO
October 30th. Devil’s Night.
I admire the dark October night sky as I walk amongst the rows of headstones that surround me, trying to find a spot to lay my blanket down to sit. I find myself coming to the cemetery a lot more lately. There is something about being surrounded by those who have lived and died before me that makes me feel less alone.
Most people view cemeteries as morbid and absent of life. While that’s true, I’ve always found solace in the peace and quiet that comes from being surrounded by the not-so-subtle reminder of just how fragile life is. To live is to know that one day, death’s grim grasp will seal your fate, forcing us all to succumb to our end. In a world of endless differences, it is the one common truth we all share.
The stillness that fills these grounds is a sobering prompt to stop and live life before it’s too late, because death does not discriminate. Death is not easily impressed by how much money or power one possesses. There is no bargaining your way out of death’s inevitable grip. It’s a bleak fate that we must all face, one way or another.
As I continue to walk farther, I am grateful for the full moon that lights up the pitch-black sky. The way it shines down on the slate gravestones not only illuminates their still beauty but, since I forgot my flashlight at home, it is the only light I have guiding me through the otherwise dark cemetery.
I spot a section of gravel underneath a tall tree that the moon has practically hand-selected for me, with its gleam making a visible path to follow. I pick up my pace, heading toward the section of rock and stone not yet covered by sod, when I feel my left boot snag on something, pulling me back slightly. Irritated, I try wiggling my foot free from whatever it’s caught on when I hear a crunching sound. I bend down to try to feel with my hand what I have stepped on, when my fingers are met with more crunching.
I sigh when I realize the noise is from a wrapper to a bouquet of flowers left by whoever’s grave I am standing by. Carefully, trying not to destroy the bouquet more than my foot already has, I remove the cellophane stuck to the buckle of my shoe and place it back by the headstone.
A rush of guilt hits me as I head toward where I am going to set up tonight’s spot. No matter how many times I have come to this very cemetery, where I watched my parents’ caskets descend beneath the ground, I can never bring myself to revisit the harsh reality of their passing. I’ve never left flowers or visited them just because. Even with tomorrow being Halloween night, the two-year anniversary of their death, I still can’t bring myself to do it.
Well, their murder, to be exact. Death implies it was due to natural causes, a tragic accident, or an illness. But it was none of those things. It was the cold, calculated attack on one of New York’s most prominent “businessmen,” my father, Matteo Ricci, and his beautiful wife, my mama, Isabel Diaz-Ricci.
I don’t know if I would call myself superstitious. However, I can’t ignore the fact that this night, Devil’s Night, marks the eve of when the sand in the hourglass of my parents’ lives ran out. I know most people expect to outlive their parents but losing them at sixteen just seems unnecessarily cruel.
