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It’s a miracle he’s even alive. All of his men died. So did Brenda.
Lucius received a full blast of the explosive Salvatore had Omar make. He should’ve suffered the same fate as the others.
I’ve heard from a few of the guards that he wishes he had. He’s mumbled—part of his tongue is missing from biting into it during the blast—that he’d like to be killed.
Of course, his wish hasn’t been granted.
Though Salvatore hasn’t said what his plans with Lucius are, I have a feeling he’ll be taking an approach similar to mine with my rapist.
He wants him to suffer as long as possible.
Lucius slurs an answer to Salvatore’s question. He flops over onto his back and lifts up his stub for an arm. I catch the words ‘fucking’ and ‘shit’.
Salvatore walks over, his arms behind his back, and stares down at him. “You’re pathetic. You told me I didn’t know what kind of hell you’d bring to my life. And you were right—you brought a lot of hell to mine. You almost broke me, Pop. But you failed. Now I’m going to break you. In every way imaginable.”
I stand back along the outer edges of the room, a silent observer.
Salvatore can be terrifying in moments like this. A cold, homicidal mask on his face, he’s a man fueled by the violence he yearns to cause and the blood he thirsts to shed. The other side of me couldn’t feel more different as I observe him; my darker impulse stirs, as destructive and hungry as his when I let it free.
We’re truly a case of perfect symmetry in this way.
“Last chance,” Salvatore says from over his shoulder. He produces a knife from the pocket of his jacket. “Phi, if you want to leave.”
A moment of tense silence passes, where my gaze falls on Lucius writhing on the floor. Then it rises to the love of my life, who stands over the man who abused him so many times, it’s an atrocity of the deepest kind.
I stop censoring myself. I let the dark impulse overtake me. It crawls over me like a second skin, changing my expression into one of focused bloodlust.
One last time.
“I want to help,” I say simply.
* * *
Dawn chases away the night sky by the time we make it up to our bedroom. We shower, scrubbing our skin clean, watching the red-tinted water slip down the drain, and then towel off.
I’m yawning, dropping down onto my side of the bed. Salt leaps up and curls himself into my lap. Never one to be left out, Pepa follows suit, wedging herself wherever she fits. I scratch their little furry heads and notice Salvatore hasn’t joined me.
He’s gone to the window to peer at the street outside. Much like he had last night when I woke up after midnight.
I frown. “Jon, please come to bed.”
He’s shirtless, his muscled back exposed for my view—the many scars he’s sustained still mar his body like a map of pain; the only difference being the translucent film that’s placed over his back right shoulder, covering the tattoo we got a few hours ago.
Something’s still bothering him.
“Jon?” I say when he doesn’t answer me. My stomach sours with worry.
“I don’t want to be like him.”
“What…? Jon…”
“Phi,” he interrupts, his tone one I’ve never heard before. Regret? Shame? Guilt? “You’re a good person. You have a good heart. Stitches told me about how you insisted you and Brenda free the other captives at the Mill.”
I narrow my eyes staring at his back, confusion scrambling my features. “I’m not following. What does that have to do with anything?”
He sighs. A deep one that carries a sound. “What if I do? What if I become him?”
“That would never happen. You’re nothing like him.”
