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Rage fills my veins, and I grab her neck, pressing Pax hard against the bed while I move on top of her. She doesn’t struggle but keeps staring into my eyes like she sees someone else.
“Who? Tell me who the fuck he is, and I’ll kill him.” Pushing her into the sheets, my knees on either side of her body, I want the fucking truth.
She shakes her head as tears stream down her beautiful face. “Your son,” she whispers struggling to breathe. “Ignatius is your son.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I pull my hands back. After a long pause I ask, “My son?”
“Iggy is your son, Jonathan.”
I grab my chest, and for a second there I forget to breathe. I feel sick, leaning forward I put my head between my legs. Resting my forearms on my knees, I try to breathe out hard through my nose. The bed dips and I feel a hand on my back. Goosebumps cover my arms and I pull back, snapping out of my trance. No one touches me without permission, not even her.
She has a far-off expression on her face, and somehow managed to put on an oversized shirt when I was losing my shit. “Jonathan, is that your name?” she asks, sitting back against the pillows
I nod. “Yeah, I wasn’t lying,” I grunt, swallowing hard. “But Salvatore is the name my father gave me.”
“You’re Italian?”
“I am,” I nod, catching her shocked gaze. “What is it?”
“Iggy wanted to move to Italy, and we spent the last few years there.”
“How did you escape me every time?”
She swallows hard. “I asked a friend.”
“You asked a fucking friend!” I shout, starting to pace the room, muttering Italian swearwords under my breath.
“I did it to protect Iggy and me. I thought you were coming after us,” she sounds so hurt, and I want to slam my head against a wall, but instead I punch my fist in the plywood leaving a dent. I didn’t want to hurt her, but in the end I did it anyway.
“To do what?” I growl, pulling at my hair. “I told you I would never hurt you.”
“Only fuck me, is that it?” she asks, crossing her arms.
I reach for her, but she shoots to the end of the bed and grabs a switchblade I missed before pressing it against my chest. “Tell me the truth, why did you fuck me?”
“Because I wanted you,” I tell her sincerely. What is she getting at? She is mine. The one, the only one I ever had. “I didn’t fuck another if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Excuse me?” The hold she has on the blade faltering.
“The Catholic in me couldn’t,” I grimace shrugging. “I might not have a fucking soul, but I promised myself to protect you when you became mine.”
“When I became yours, are you crazy!” she shouts, throwing the blade on the other bed. She clutches her face in her hands, and while she starts to sob, her whole body shakes. I know she’s not going to kill the father of her only son, fuck, my son, I have a son.
I’m not good with emotions and damn I have no idea what to do. Should I hug her? Should I go down on her? Thinking about my son, the same feeling slices through my chest, what the hell is that?
I swallow a couple of times before I ask, “Is he like me?” Praying to the great spirit in the sky he isn’t. I know there’s something wrong with me. I like pain, I like to kill men who deserve it. I liked fucking her until she was a sobbing mess. I like control, the bruises I gave her when we fucked are a testimony to that fact. I’m the boogeyman, John Wick without a fucking soul.
She shakes her head and looks at me with big, red-rimmed eyes. “No, I mean yes. He has your eyes, but he loves so deep. Iggy cares about everyone. He wants to be a veterinarian when he’s older.” She breathes, rambling on. “But I’m scared, Salvatore,” she says, nibbling on her bottom lip, “that he likes violence as much as you do.” Tears rush to her eyes.
“Has he?” I ask my voice sounding a little hoarse. “Has he killed anyone?”
“No,” she frowns. “He’s still a kid.”
“I was eleven when I killed my first man of many, and it’s Sal.”
She keeps looking at me, the corner of her mouth hikes up a little. “When I look at you, I see him; he has your smile.” Then anger flashes through those blue-green depths like she is waging a war with herself.
I run an awkward hand through my hair. Suddenly self-conscious. I wanted her for myself, now I have to share her. Fuck, I don’t know what to do. What do normal people do in situations like this? “Do you have a picture?” Not knowing if a monster like me deserves to even have a child.
