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But that didn’t mean shit to her father.
I hated Pearl Barsetti for ruining my inheritance.
But I hated Crow Barsetti so much more.
He ruined my life.
I could be with Vanessa right at that very moment, having dinner together at the dining table. I might be her husband right now. I might be sharing my life with her. But that piece of shit took that away.
There was a vacant parking spot across the street from her gallery, so I pulled into the space and parked. I was in a white Fiat, blending in with all the other cars on the street. My truck was totaled, so I would never have that again. I wore a black baseball cap, hiding my features as much as possible.
The lights were still on in her gallery. I looked through the window, waiting to see her walk by. My heart pounded in my chest with angst. The pulse in my ears was like ringing bells. I didn’t want to see her, but at the same time, I couldn’t drive away until I did.
What did I expect to see? What did I expect to accomplish?
She moved into my line of sight, her dark hair done in nice curls. Her olive skin was the same, deep in intensity and soft in appearance. She wore a blue dress, sandals on her feet. My eyes had been so focused on her that I didn’t notice the man beside her.
Italian in appearance, over a foot taller than her, etched in obvious muscularity. I could tell he was a young man who was similar in age. He stood directly beside her, their bodies not touching. They were staring at the painting on the wall.
Before I panicked and smashed the window, I reminded myself that she wasn’t just an artist, but a businesswoman, so she needed to sell her work for a profit. That’s all he was, just a customer.
But even if he wasn’t, it shouldn’t matter.
I watched them for a few more minutes, saw them move from one painting to the next. She should be closed by now, but maybe she stayed open in the hopes of making a sale. Maybe he wanted to buy several pieces.
She wasn’t mine anymore. It shouldn’t matter.
Then I saw something that ripped my heart cleanly in two. It hurt more than saying goodbye to her. It hurt more than the tears I’d shed on that cruel afternoon. Like everything I’d believed had come raining down, the air left my lungs.
He grabbed her hand and interlocked their fingers together.
Pain. Unbearable pain.
Betrayal.
Hot rage.
I felt a tumult of emotions, ranging from anger to jealousy to emptiness.
Then she rested her head on his shoulder.
The affection was clear. They examined her paintings together as a couple, not as an owner and a customer. He probably worshiped her work, and he was telling her how talented she was at that very moment. It wasn’t clear whether this was a new relationship or one that had been going for a while. The fact that they were alone together in her gallery when it was closed told me he wasn’t a stranger.
She knew him well.
Had probably already slept with him.
I wanted to smash the window of my car.
Smash the windows of her gallery.
Strangle him until he choked to death.
The same rush of adrenaline burst through me, the very kind I experienced before I killed someone. I wanted to kill this man, and I was grateful I couldn’t see his face so it couldn’t haunt me later.
I had to remind myself that this was inevitable. She couldn’t be alone forever. Whether she waited a few weeks or a few months, it shouldn’t matter. I knew she loved me. I knew what we had was real. If we couldn’t be together, she should be happy.
Be happy without me.
Maybe this was the man she wanted, someone her family would adopt into their ranks. Maybe he wasn’t a murderer like I was. Maybe he was clean-cut and boring, respecting her like a gentleman and taking her antique shopping.
Maybe he was better than me.
Maybe he was better than I’d ever been.
No, I couldn’t be angry with her. I couldn’t be jealous either.
This was how it was supposed to be.
I was a bad man, a killer and a criminal. I got off on spilled blood. I got off on putting bullets in my enemies. I was a man of the shadows, of the underworld. I liked booze, women, and bullets. I liked paying for sex so I could get exactly what I wanted. I liked not feeling anything, besides murderous rage.
She was a flower, a flower that belonged in the sun. She needed to be pampered, to sway in the wind under the sky. She was innocent, pure, and beautiful. She wanted a husband, a father for her children. She wanted to have dinner with her family every Sunday night underneath the olive trees. She wanted everything that life had to give, all the beauty, hope, and serenity.
