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“I would never,” Rocco says with a grin, and another burst of laughter ensues.
“Let’s go play cards and relax. Rocco, send your woman home.” My father-in-law stands up, motioning for the rest of the men to follow. And just when I thought I couldn’t feel worse, his next words prove me wrong. “Did you know that my son got his wife in a game of poker?”
I can’t take it anymore. Grabbing my purse, I rush toward the other side of the dining room. I don’t stop when I reach the foyer, just continue at the same pace to the front door where Alessandro is standing by the wall in his usual stance, spine ramrod straight and his hands clasped behind his back. I grab the knob and, without waiting for him, dash outside. Only when the cold fresh air hits me, do I find the ability to draw a breath. When Alessandro comes outside, I’m already standing by his car, shaking from the cold. I completely forgot to grab my coat on the way out.
I expect him to ask what the fuck is wrong with me, running out like that. He doesn’t. Instead, he takes off his coat and holds it out for me. My eyes start to twitch, tears are threatening to spill as I glance at the coat he’s holding. I’m shivering from cold but I don’t dare take it. If Rocco sees me accepting my bodyguard’s offering, Alessandro will be as good as dead.
“Ravenna.”
My heart skips a beat. It’s the first time Alessandro has used my name. I tilt my head up and find him watching me, his eyes focused on my cheek. He raises his hand, cupping my face, and brushes away the stray tear with his thumb. Tiny hairs at the back of my neck lift at the sensation of his skin touching mine. I can feel every callus on his palm as he strokes under my eye one more time before removing his hand.
“Now, Ravenna.” His voice is deeper than usual, and there is a strange incensed tone to it, almost as if he’s mad about something but trying to hide it. Snowflakes are caught in his black hair and on his suit jacket. I hadn’t even noticed it was snowing until this moment. He raises the coat in front of me again.
I look toward the house and only once I’m sure there’s no one in sight, I turn around and slip my arms into the sleeves. On Alessandro, the coat reaches his knees. It swallows me up to my ankles.
I shift my gaze to Alessandro’s hand, holding open the door to the back of the car, then walk around him. Tugging on the handle, I hoist myself up onto the passenger seat, shutting the door behind me. Then, I wait.
A few seconds later, the driver’s side opens, and Alessandro slides behind the wheel. He doesn’t say anything. Not then, and not during the hour-long drive back to the mansion.
The only light in my bedroom is from the laptop in front of me, throwing the pale glow onto the notes and picture-covered walls. I stare at the photo of Natalie, absorbed in her warm brown eyes that seem to return my gaze. Looking at this image has always calmed me. Hurts as well, but it helps me stay focused on my purpose. Every time I fall asleep, her face is on my mind.
The day before I set foot in the Pisano mansion, I visited her grave and reaffirmed my vow that I’ll avenge her death. An eye for an eye. Rocco Pisano’s wife for mine. I swore to it.
However, looking at Natalie’s picture now stirs different feelings in me, the same ones that have been brewing in my soul. Remorse. Shame. Guilt. They’ve been eating at me for a while because it’s not the brown eyes I see when I fall asleep anymore. It’s the green ones. Instead of dreaming about killing Ravenna Pisano in cold blood, I’m imagining how it would feel to have her under me, moaning as I take her, declaring her mine.
Earlier tonight, when I watched Ravenna walk next to her husband, his arm around her waist, I nearly exploded in anger. The urge to remove the motherfucker’s hand off her was barely containable. I wanted to grab her and shout, “She’s mine!” for everyone to hear.
It’s madness. And this madness needs to stop.
I click the icon in the upper left corner, and the camera feed from outside Rocco’s house fills the screen.
When I came into Rocco Pisano’s household, the plan for his demise was already set in stone, thought out to the smallest detail. I imagined my vengeance plan as a big rock fortress rising toward the sky. Solid. Unshakable. Unless an unintended variable arises, making it necessary to act sooner than intended, the plan stays in place. No exceptions.
The printed-out timeline of every fucking stage, all steps strategically spread over the course of two months, hangs above my bed. The garage was phase one. The second is destroying his construction business and making him look like an incapable fool in front of the don. Roco’s finances would be the next. Only after I have finished with the material stuff, had I planned to move forward with phase four—playing with his head.
Constant fear for one’s life, knowing that there is a threat lurking in the shadows, is the most intense torture. The uncertainty. Looking over your shoulder all the time. The plan was to make Rocco believe someone is trying to kill him and to drag that stage out for weeks until the mere pop of a wine cork makes him shit his pants. Offing his father would come after that. And at the end – his wife. Just before killing the fucking Rocco Pisano and burning down his pretty house to ashes.
On the screen, Rocco’s white convertible enters the camera’s frame and parks on he driveway. I glance at the detonator at my side. The signal from the bomb I placed under his sports car is still active, ready to be activated remotely. If executed well, being blown into oblivion is a very quick and rather painless death, unfortunately. And the demise I have in mind for Rocco Pisano is neither quick nor painless. I’ve planned to blow up this car in two weeks, as a scare tactic. And when I put a plan in motion, I never deviate from it.
My thoughts drift to Ravenna, seeing her stand on the snow-covered driveway while the wind blew a few strands of hair that escaped from her bun. I shake my head trying to get rid of the image. Instead of disappearing, the scene continues replaying in my mind, looped on her sad face and the tear sliding down her cheek.
My rock-solid fortress starts shaking. Long thin fissures appear on its sides, and one big chunk of its fortifications breaks off.
Its distant thud thunders through my mind as Rocco exits the car and heads toward the mansion. I feel the aftershocks as I pick up the detonator and place my thumb over the red button.
Eight years of searching and planning . . . compromised. All because of a tear from the woman I swore to kill.
A drop of water upon a stone. Tenacious.
Rocco climbs the stairs, reaching the front doors.
Drip.
I press the button.
The car blows up, its sleek sporty body propelled a few feet into the air in a torrent of fire, smoke, and debris.
A smile pulls at my lips as I watch the orange glow on Rocco Pisano’s terrified face while he lies sprawled on the ground. It might be from the blast, but I’d bet it was from the shock. I wonder if he pissed himself.
