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I slammed my fist into the side of his head, his skull slamming against the dumpster once more. He groaned but didn’t fight back. I wanted him to. I needed him to. And it pissed me off that he was being submissive because he knew who I was.
I growled low and held his thick, sweaty neck in my grip, squeezing tightly, doing to him what I wanted to do to Kirill back at the club. I used force to walk him backwards so his body slammed against the chain-link, felt his hands claw at the back of mine, his nails digging at flesh, and all I did was stare into his eyes.
I crushed his trachea in my grasp, listening to the garbled sounds of him trying to breathe. I watched as the blood vessels burst in the whites of his eyes, the muted glow from the streetlight giving me a front row seat to his death.
And how I fucking reveled in it, like flames with accelerant, an addict with his next hit, a lungful of oxygen after not being able to breathe.
I’d never claimed to be a good guy. I was the villain in every story, the boogeyman under beds. I was the grim reaper greedily coming to take that next life.
And I’d never apologize for it. Because I’d never stop. This was me. A monster who wore that title like a fucking crown.
11
Amara
The wedding
Ididn’t know how long we stood there, seconds, minutes… God it felt like an eternity, but then the double doors were being pulled open, a man on each side holding them, their tuxedos pressed and sharp. Their expressions were stoic as they glanced our way.
My father had his hand curled around mine, which rested on his forearm. But I wasn’t foolish enough to think it was because he was trying to reassure me. No, he was doing it so I didn’t run. Not that I would get very far in these stilettos or with all the security.
I closed my eyes and breathed slowly.
The day had finally come. I was about to wed Nikolai, heir to the Desolation Russian mafia. A man who was by all accounts… bad.
And he was to be my husband, for better or worse.
My father’s body was tense beside me, almost forbidding. I chanced a glance at him out of the corner of my eye, my veil making his visage cloudy, hazy in appearance.
He looked over at me for just a second. I could see the softening on his face, or maybe it was wishful thinking, a little girl looking up at her father, hoping and praying that he would tell her everything would be okay.
But that wasn’t who Marco Bianchi was. He was cold and hard like a block of ice, and when I saw his jaw tense, a muscle under the freshly shaved olive toned skin flex, I felt… nothing. No disappointment, no sorrow, only let the absolute hopelessness that nothing would get better fill me until it’s all that consumed me. I accepted it, dare I even say embraced that this was who and what I was and nothing could change that.
I faced forward again, stared at the large oak double doors. Bodies lined the pews, each one standing up as the traditional wedding song started playing.
My heart was racing overtime when I saw Nikolai’s dark and imposing form at the end of the aisle. He waited for me, waited to take ownership of me.
For better or worse. For better or worse. For better or worse.
It was my father tugging me forward that had me blinking back into the present, breathing out slowly, thankful for the veil, in fact, because it hid how nervous I no doubt looked.
If I hadn’t been holding onto my bouquet with one hand, and gripping my father’s forearm with the other, I knew my fingers would be shaking.
The walk down the aisle seemed to take an eternity. I felt everyone's gazes on me, their stares like a heavy presence, a weight that kept pushing me further down, down, down. And then it was as if someone pressed fast forward.
Everything was a blur as I was handed off by my father to my soon-to-be new husband, as Nikolai led me up the two steps to the altar, as words spoken by the priest. I was aware of the heavyweight of my hand in Nikolai’s, and the only thing I could hear was the heavy rush of my breathing moving through my ears.
In and out. In and out.
And then I felt Nikolai give my hand a squeeze before he positioned me so I was fully facing him now. He stared down at me for long seconds before he lifted my veil. Everything felt surreal, as if I were wading underwater, everything so thick around me I couldn’t find purchase, couldn’t get to the surface. But the longer I stared at Nikolai, the more everything seemed to fall into place. To settle.
Reality crashed into me, noises bombarded me. I smelled the spicy scent of his cologne, and felt his body heat surrounding me.
“I do,” he said low and deep, his Russian accent seeming so thick in those two words.
And when it was my turn I was on autopilot, murmuring those two words as I stared into his blue eyes.
More words were said by the priest, phrases in Latin, followed by traditional religious proceedings that had us going through the motions.
