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The weight of his hand on my face snaps my neck back and sends my body into a jolt. My whole body shakes and the burning sensation that spreads across my cheek makes my head throb. Massimo grabs my right hand and forces my fingers between his to hold the pen before placing it on the paper and dragging it in a blurry motion that doesn't even come close to resembling a signature, but it satisfies him.
“I liked doing that,” he hisses, very close to my face. “Give me more reasons, Gabriella, and I'll like it more.” I feel as if all my pieces were falling apart, but just as I didn't give him my yes, I don't give him my tears, because they only have one owner.
Even though that owner renounced them.
***
The horror on my face doesn't even come close to the one filling my chest. No words I can use seem enough to describe the extent of my devastation.
Armed men guard each of the entrances and exits of the church with its luxurious and ancient architecture, where images of saints and golden arabesques are bathed in the colorful reflections of the skylights installed in the ceiling.
The side walls are completely taken up by transparent windows and the galleries have paintings of angels and holy women. Standing at the altar, facing the priest, I watch as in the completely packed dark wooden pews on the left side of the church, my fate is decided by men I have never met.
An auction. Massimo Coppeline is auctioning off my hand and at least thirty men are competing for it. Whoever has the most interesting move leaves this church married to me and, until the precise moment I understood this, I had never regretted my own cowardice.
I didn't need to get to this moment. I lost count of how many times I stood still, at the edge of the railway line, while a train approached. The times I came closest to not backing down don't matter. How many seconds have separated me from death? The only thing that matters is that my lack of courage all those times led me to this moment.
I look at the altar, then look up at the priest. How can he do this? How can he witness it? Allow it? Shouldn't he be a divine channel on this earth? What God is this? What faith is this? The images surrounding me in paint and marble suddenly become as empty of meaning as I am.
Hands reaching towards me, holding a rose and a dagger, shine in my mind and I regret another one of the moments when I wasn't able to choose. Pain and violence. When I finally created the necessary courage to touch La Santa's hands, I didn't decide whether I was giving or taking, I should have taken. If I carried her violence, I certainly wouldn't be going through this.
If I bore her violence, I could do more than just wish the death of every soul occupying this space. If I carried her violence, I could go beyond staring at the priest with all the hatred I never knew I felt and wishing I had the power to bring about his death with just the strength of my thought. And I do that.
I face the man allowing an end to be put in my life even though my heart continues to beat. I blame him and judge him without caring whether or not my look is enough to at least embarrass him. I want to see his blood dripping onto the floor, because it seems fair to me that since I'm being raffled, his existence should be too.
“I wish for you to die,” I say the words out loud, addressing the priest and when his head explodes, staining my face withthick drops of his hot blood, I don't regret it, even though I'm sure that mine will be next.
CHAPTER 67
________
Vittorio Cataneo
The ringing in my ears is nothing more than a figment of my imagination, unlike the oppressive force pulling me inside the church located in Chicago, in the United States. After finding out where Coppeline hid, finding the rest of the information was easy.
An auction. The bastard had the courage to organize bids, up close and personal, for the heir to his business, trying to capitalize on the best resource to destroy me. Putting together this operation wasn't easy, it cost me favors that won't be easy to repay, but nothing has ever been as cheap as whatever it costs to get my girl back.
The sound of sniper bullets, scattered across the terraces of neighboring buildings, shattering the church windows, multiplies my heartbeat and when the release signal is given, I move forward.
My hands wield a machine gun and are driven by a demanding determination that fuels each of my steps with the sole objective of wiping off the face of the earth every son of a bitch who had the audacity to lay eyes on mybambina.
I smash the wooden doors and go through what's left of them. Splinters stick to my clothes and the chaos already installedinside the church is like music to my ears. Screams, gunshots and crying.
I drink them, advancing and shooting, clearing my way to the glowing spot beneath a table at the altar, guiding my eyes like a beacon. And the truth is that I would find it even if I had become blind.
My men spread out through the halls, protecting my rear, wreaking chaos and destruction, staining the walls of the unholy church with the blood of those who once worshiped it.
They break down doors, turn over benches, dig up rats and exterminate them. With Coppeline's security guards having been eliminated by the snipers, the only resistance left is the guests' self-defense weapons which are no match for our heavy weaponry.
My feet skate in the slippery blood, pooling on the floor. With each mass of flesh and bone that my bullets pass through at close range, my suit becomes more damp, hot, sticky and dignified.
Each shot I fire relieves the count that seemed infinite and pressed on my chest. I found her, I finally found her. Shot, breath, check. Shot, breath, check. I do it, again and again until there's not a single soul left between Gabriella and me. Huddled under a table, she has her back to the door, hugging her knees, not seeing anything that is happening.
I turn around, observing the already controlled situation around. As per my orders, there is only one man standing who is not mine: Massimo Coppeline.
As he is held on his knees in the blood of some corpse, the man stares at me with a promise in his eyes that he will never have the chance to keep again. I smile at him, not a half smile, not a small smile, a wide, all-toothed smile whose manic nature could be compared to Tizziano's.
Then, with a wave, I order them to get him out of my way. I have something much more important to do now.
