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Maybe I was wrong to do what I did. Maybe I could’ve talked her out of accompanying me to face off with Vitale. But if her presence at the Temptress told me anything, it’s that she won’t sit quietly behind. And I…I couldn’t bear to be in her presence any longer, not when I know I can’t have her. I can’t touch her. I can’t claim her. I can’t love her. It is an impossible task, one that only makes the end of this investigation and thus, our relationship, that much more tragic. We knew this day would come. We knew that being together wasn’t possible. Perhaps it even goes without saying that we knew we couldn’t be friends. Even that innocent of a relationship could draw my enemies to her. But now I fear an even more permanent separation may be necessary because I don’t know how to exist in the same world as her. I don’t know how to walk down the streets of the French Quarter and not search every shadow for her. I don’t know how to let her go, even though, after this morning, she may be ready to do just that.
I pull the razor from my face and bring it to my wrist, gritting my teeth as I hold it over my throbbing veins. My hand shakes as the voices in my head argue over what I should do next. I need her to hate me. I should be happy I finally gave her a reason since my business and blood weren’t enough to turn her away. I should be relieved. And yet, relief is the last thing I feel in her absence. The sounds of her cries and the look on her face as I held her before the drug took effect make me desperate for an escape. Iwantto feel the pain of the blade slicing into my skin, because at least then I can escape this unrelenting mental torment, this disease of conflicting emotions. At that, I give in to my urge, unable to restrain myself any longer. Yet, as my blood escapes through the tiniest sliver of open skin, my thoughts of Ariana only intensify.
I think back to the first night I met her, the night I saw her scars. That was the moment my soul succumbed to her. That was the moment her safety became my responsibility, whether I liked it or not, because the marks on her body let me know no one had ever protected her before. I remember wondering if she’d hurt herself, if the pain of her life’s tragedies had gotten the best of her, but it didn’t. No. She…she remained strong.
I pull the razor from my flesh and throw it with all my force. It crashes against the slate wall of my shower, and the handle separates from the blade, both pieces falling among the bloodstained clothes piled in the corner. I throw my hands out and rest my weight on the vanity before me. I lower my head and do my best to calm my breathing, inhaling what’s left of the eucalyptus steam. She was strong. Sheisstrong. She will survive this, just like she did the loss of her mother, the bullies of her childhood, and the man who used his own grief as an excuse to rape her, the man I’ve made certain will never hurt another soul again.
Ken Clarke, handcuffed and still wearing his orange prison jumpsuit, fights against the grip of the officers on my payroll. “What is this place? Where have you taken me?” I stand with my back pressed against the hard cinderblock wall of the abandoned building that serves as ground zero for my drug business. He can’t see me. The room is large and empty, a decoy in case anyone comes looking for things they shouldn’t. All the windows have been boarded up, casting the entire space in darkness. The only light comes from a single fixture hanging above the bottomless metal chair, which my men strap Ariana’s rapist to. The light illuminates his graying blond hair, the sunspots on his pale, weathered face, and the ice in his crystal blue eyes. Prison has not been kind to him. Though, I imagine he will long for the comfort of his cell and the company of his cellmate once he becomes acquainted with me. Little does he know, mine is the last face he will see.
He’s spent over a decade of his twenty-year sentence in prison for his assault against Ariana, who was then just seventeen. Her age at the time of the crime is the only reason he received the maximum penalty. And yet, he is still eligible for parole as early as next year. That simply won’t do. In no universe will I allow him to live alongside her.
“Please. This has to be a mistake. You’ve got the wrong man.”
“No,” I say, emerging from the darkness. “You do.” He doesn’t know who I am, but he knows he should be afraid. As his lips part and his eyes widen in fear, a wicked smile tugs at my lips. It’s rare for me to take joy in inflicting pain, but today I will make an exception. As I reach into my suit jacket, he flinches. Pussy. From my coat, I pull a white envelope filled with cash and instructions on what to do with his body after I’m finished. I hand it to my inside man. “For your trouble.” He gives me a nod, takes the money without saying a word, and the two of them leave the way they came.
“Wait! Wait, you’re just going to leave me here? What is this? Corrupt bastards!” Clarke yells. Man, you’d think over a decade in prison would’ve taught him a thing or two about keeping his mouth shut. I suppose it’s never too late to learn. At that, I sling my fist into his cheek as my men disappear through the exit. Blood spurts from his mouth, spraying across the concrete floor. The blow silences him, giving me a moment to remove my suit jacket and adjust the sleeves of my button-down.
“Who…who are you?” he asks, gargling his own blood.
“Wrong question,” I say, throwing my fist into him again. To be honest, I’ve got more creative ways of punishing him than with my fists. But, after this morning, it feels good to punch something. “Would you like to try again?” I cock my brow, wiping the blood on my knuckles onto my shirt. He shakes his head. I nod. He’s a fast learner. Unfortunately for him, I’m not done reorganizing his face.
As I pound my fist into his flesh, I black out. I lose myself in the blood, in his screams, even in the silence once he is no longer able to speak. I’m not sure how much time passes before I come to. When I do, Ken Clarke is unrecognizable. He is nothing but bruises and blood and even that is not good enough. It will never be good enough to make up for what he did. As I take a step back, once more wiping the blood from my fists, I step on something—a tooth. The sight of it prompts me to inspect the floor surrounding Clarke, which is where I find more teeth, pools of blood, and suddenly become aware of the smell of urine. The scene is enough to steady my hand and allow myself a moment to catch my breath. I turn away from him and return to the wall from which I came to grab the broom propped against it.
I didn’t get to take my time with Avery Gallagher. Had he raped Ariana, I promised him he would suffer in kind, and I meant it. I think it only right Ken Clarke suffer the same fate I had planned for Gallagher, since he did, in fact, rape the woman I love, my defenseless, sweet, Ariana. He was supposed to protect her. He was supposed to care for her, provide for her. No, he wasn’t her real father, but he was a father figure. She was under his care, and he not only failed her, but abused her. Perhaps that, just as much as her mother’s murder, is why Ariana struggles to open up to people. She is afraid of being abandoned, afraid of being betrayed by those she trusts. Her scars are more than just physical. She is haunted by what he did to her both in her dreams and in her daily life. This man will never know the pain he’s caused. Just as the men who committed the same offenses against Cara will never know the true consequence of their crimes. Perhaps there is a bit of peace to be found in her death. She wasn’t forced to live with the pain of what happened to her, at least not for very long.
I lower my eyes to the ground and return to Clarke, broom in hand. He doesn’t move as I approach him. His chin sags against his chest. I kick his leg to draw his attention. I want to know that he hears me, that he understands why this is happening to him. And I want him to look upon the broom with fear just as Ariana was forced to watch him stalk toward her, just as she was forced to lie on the ground, restrained, waiting in silent agony for Gallagher and his men to rip her clothes off.
“My name is Alister Amato,” I say through gritted teeth. “And you raped the woman I love.”
“I…I never…” I kick his leg once more as he struggles to speak.
“Ariana Valentine!” I yell. If he can’t speak, at least he can listen. “She was seventeen and she was in your care and you…you hurt her in the most unspeakable of ways.” I lean forward, jabbing my finger into his chest as I speak. Finally, I have his attention.
“It was only one time,” he says. He’s so quiet, I can barely hear him. Yet, his sentiment is impossible to miss.
“It was only one time,” I repeat. His words dumbfound and enrage me, so much so I have to force myself away from him for fear I’ll kill him before he has a chance to truly suffer. “One time.” I pace the floor in front of him, though my anger quickly consumes me and draws me back to him. I step forward and take his face in my hands. “We aren’t playing baseball with women’s bodies, you sick fuck,” I yell, mere inches from him. “You don’t get three strikes. You get one. And, unfortunately for you, you used it on the wrong girl.”
“Ariana,” he whispers.
“You don’t get to say her name. Say it again and I sew your mouth shut.”
I tighten my grip on his shredded cheeks. That is, until he notices the broom still clutched tightly in my hand.
“What is that?” he asks, his eyes shifting from me to it.
“This? This is going to hurt.” At that, I release him and—
Ariana may hate me. I may hate myself for breaking her heart. But at least I know she’ll be safe—safe from Ken Clarke, safe from Vitale, safe from me. In that, I find respite from the raging war inside. That is, if I can get my shit together and finish this. I take a deep breath and allow my thoughts of Ariana to settle. When I return my gaze to the mirror, I’m pleased to find it empty of her reflection. Vitale has had twenty years to plot his revenge against my family. No doubt he’s stockpiled weapons and recruited extra soldiers off the books. There is no room for distractions today nor weakness.
I wipe the remaining shaving cream from my freshly shaven face and make my way to my closet where I opt for tactical attire instead of my typical suit. I slip into the black cargo pants, tucking my black T-shirt into them, and, doing my best to keep my face void of emotion, make my way downstairs to find Gio, Sophia, and Cassio waiting for me.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, Sophia’s sadness is undeniable. She looks at me with pity rather than the worry I half expected. She must’ve heard Ariana and I last nightandthis morning. Cassio stands next to her sharing her expression while Gio stands across the room, dressed similarly to me, none the wiser. I move my eyes to the floor and clear my throat.
“Are we ready?” I ask.
“Yes, Boss,” Gio says. “Cassio’s men are waiting for us in the vans along with more weapons than Christio Vitale could ever imagine. We’re ready.”
I nod. “We have one stop to make first,” I say, lifting my eyes to Gio. His brows furrow in confusion. I always entrust Gio with planning our missions. Everything from entry to exit, to transportation, to our formation, to the kinds of weapons we use. But, even with the element of surprise and Cassio’s surplus of high-tech gear, Vitale has us at a disadvantage. I can’t be sure he hasn’t turned some of my private soldiers to his cause, which is why I’ve kept them at arm’s length for weeks now and haven’t entrusted them with Gio’s and my plans of attack. We will be outnumbered. But there is one person I can trust outside of Gio and Cassio, one person with an army of his own who has just as much motive as me to see Vitale brought to his knees—Alessandro Gagliano, Ariana’s father.
