"Yes, I do, don't I?" I mutter drily, realizing exactly what I have to do.
I don't think I've ever felt worse betrayal than seeing the woman I love—loved—purposefully fucking another guy while keeping me on the sidelines. But of course, I was her little project.
Let's charm the beast...
Gianna and her friends must have had a nice laugh over me. Why, I can already see them daring her to seduce her ugly ass bodyguard and turn him into an adoring pup—joining the other army of fools who fall at her feet.
And I had.
By God, but I had.
I'd literally been ready to worship the ground she walked on. And for what?
A cruel smile pulls at my lips as all sorts of thoughts filter through my mind.
I'd been victim to her fucked up pranks once in the past, so I can only assume she had been trying to win my trust for another one. I can imagine the moment when she would have made me a laughingstock in front of everyone, bragging how she'd fooled her mutt bodyguard into thinking she was into him.
Why, she'd probably go even further and laugh at me for imagining we could have had a life together.
"You really think I could stomach looking at that," she'd wave her hand to my face, "for my entire life?" she'd laugh derisively, inviting all her friends to do so too.
Because that's just who she is.
A fucking mean bitch.
And it's no one's fault but my own that I'd bought her lies and that I'd let her wrap me around her little finger.
To think that I'd been about to betray the famiglia for her—for a faithless whore.
I shake my head in disgust.
Ah, but it's never too late for revenge.
Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice? I go for the fucking kill.
Chapter Fifteen
I don't know how I make it out of Cisco's office without killing someone. And as the video replays in my mind without pause, I feel a thirst for blood simmer in my veins, my head pounding with unreleased tension.
I let her make a fool of me.
You'd think my pride would have taken the biggest hit at being played so deftly by a slip of a woman. But no. It's not my pride that's bruised and bleeding.
It's my heart.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I can't believe that the first time I let myself feel something for a woman—even going against my own self—and it ends up being a complete hoax.
I fell for an illusion.
Because that's the reality. The Gianna I fell in love with didn't exist—has never existed. She was just a projection she used to ensnare me. And maybe partially it's my fault too, since I'd been so infatuated with her, I'd grasped at any morsel of humanity she'd displayed. I'd taken every positive perceived trait of hers and magnified it in my mind until she became incomparable.
Until she became uniquely mine.
Like an idiot, I put her on a pedestal. I excused all her past behaviors by blaming them on her circumstances, because it was better to believe she was abused and misunderstood but deep down a good person than what she really is—a spoiled little bitch that thrives on causing unhappiness.
Just like my mother.
Cisco is right that I should have been the last person to succumb to her charms. Not when she's the epitome of everything I loathe.
And as I close my eyes, the crippling disappointment I feel in my heart mixes with the terror I'd felt at seeing my mother's body fall to the floor, blood seeping from her a wound in her forehead.
The ground seems to shift with me as memories I'd long thought buried start to surface.
"Be a good boy and wait outside the door, ok?" She'd patted me on the shoulder, giving me a wide smile as she instructed me to wait outside her bedroom.
Taking an unknown man by the hand, they'd both headed inside the room, closing the door in my face.
I'd stood still, as I usually did, my attention focused on my surroundings. After all, my mother had told me that she counted on me to tell her when my father got home.
I'd taken my responsibilities very seriously, because when my mother asked for something, I delivered. I was, after all, the man of the house when my father was away. It hadn't been the first time but it always gave me a sense of importance when she delegated such tasks to me.
That time, though, I'd been curious. For the first time, I'd wanted to see what was happening behind the closed door and why my mother was taking strange men to her room.
Knowing I couldn't get caught or I'd risk a scolding, I'd tiptoed around the hallway until I was in front of the door. Sticking my ear to the cold surface, I'd tried to listen to the noises inside.
At first, I couldn't make out much. But as I strained my ears, I heard the first scream. It shocked me. More than anything, I'd been petrified about what was happening to my mother.
When more screams permeated the air, I couldn't wait any longer. Without even thinking, I'd burst the door open, dashing inside and ready to defend my mother.
It hadn't mattered that I'd been all of eight years. Or that the man she'd been with was maybe three times my size. Or that I was just a child playing adult games. No, nothing like that had mattered. It hadn't even registered in my mind.
All I wanted was to rescue my mother. And as I'd burst into the room, I'd found her being suffocated by that man.
He was on top of her, fully naked—just as her. He was doing things to her that couldn't have been good. Not when she was yelping in pain and scratching at his shoulders.
I'd imagined myself some sort of little soldier, ready to defend the honor of the fair maiden. So of course I'd launched myself at her attacker.
"Get off her," I'd yelled at him, trying to kick and punch with all the strength of an eight year old. It had only enraged him as he'd flung me off him, kicking me to the floor.
"Leo, don't," my mother had yelled, but just as I hadn't stopped going for him, he hadn't stopped hitting back.
The back of his hand had caught my face, splitting my lip into two. The blood had tasted bitter as I'd continued to flay my arms, trying to land a hit on him while avoiding getting hit too.
"Leave my mother alone," I'd yelled.
But just as soon as the man had raised his arm to hit me again, he'd dropped to the floor, a deafening sound making me place my hands over my ears.
I'd watched, stupefied, as blood poured out of his body, his eyes open and unfeeling as he'd stared at me.
"Bastiano," my father's voice had rang in the room, and I'd turned my head to look at him. To say I'd been shocked at what had transpired had been an understatement.
I was young enough to not realize what my mother had been doing with that man, but I'd been old enough to know the blood on the floor meant he was dead.
That my father had killed him.
"He was hurting my mother," I'd stood up straight, pointing at the man's body and telling my father everything I'd witnessed.
"Is that so," he'd turned towards my mother. "He was assaulting you naked?"
"Lorenzo, please," her pleading voice had become embedded in my memory as she'd kneeled in front of my father, still naked, her eyes filled with tears.
"It's not what you think, I swear. He... he was raping me," she'd accused. "Bass was helping me, isn't that right, amore?"
I'd nodded. It was true. He had been attacking her.
"Does your son even know what a filthy whore you are?" My father had scoffed, all but dragging my mother by her hair out.
"Stop!" I'd gone for his hands, trying to get him to release her.
"Lorenzo, not with Bass here, please," she'd asked, all the while I'd started crying, begging my father to let her go.
"Fucking whore," he'd spit at her, throwing her to the ground.
My mother had scrambled back, a terrified expression on her face.
Her mouth had been open in shock as she'd just looked at my father.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
I shake myself, my hands going to my eyes to try to erase the image from my mind. Easier said than done when all it takes is to close my eyes and I can see her face—her hauntingly beautiful face—pale and devoid of any life.
That was the first lesson my father had given me.
My mother had been a faithless whore and she'd paid the ultimate price. In my young mind, I'd been split between condemning her for what she'd done and mourning her for the mother I'd lost.
But as my father withered away and died as a result of her escapades, I'd started seeing things more clearly.
It wasn't just the fact that she'd slept with half the male population, or that she'd lied and cheated to do so, going as far to use her eight year old son to cover for her affairs. No, the worst had been the deceit behind all those actions. The selfishness as she hadn't cared who she'd hurt as long as she got what she wanted—as long as she was happy.
Just like Gianna.
She doesn't care who she hurts or humiliates as long as she can derive some sort of pleasure or amusement from it.
But this time around, it's going to be her on the receiving end.
I don't even realize when the blood spatters all over my face, bathing my clothes in red. I don't even know how I got here in the first place, or how my hands seem to be buried in brain matter as I punch and punch, shattering bone and erasing any semblance of humanity from the man's face.
With the detailed lists Cisco had given me, I'd tracked down at least three of the men, all working for the same underground casino in the area that Guerra manages.
And as I take in my surroundings, I realize that in my rage I'd simply burst in through the back, finding the men and beating them to death.
Well, at least two out of three.
I throw my gaze across the room, spotting another man huddled in a corner as he tries his best to get away from me.
My lips twitch in a cruel smile as I stride towards him.
Not so strong now when they can't hold me down.
And as I look into his cowering face, I realize exactly who he is.
The one who cut my face.
"Well, well," I drawl, crouching down in front of him. "Who do we have here..." I say as I look him up and down.
He's so scrawny and sickly looking, and as I take a closer look at his arms, I realize that he's full of scars.
A junkie.
I purse my lips in annoyance, since where is the fun in killing someone who is already weakened? I've never seen much to brag about winning over someone who is clearly inferior in every aspect.
But alas, I'm here, and I've already killed his friends. It wouldn't be fair to let him live. It wouldn't be fair to me either since I'd probably regret it later.
Grabbing him by his shirt, I drag him to the table in the center of the room, picking up a bloody knife on the way.
And as I pin him to the table, I take a moment to survey him.
Maybe I don't have to kill him.
After all, isn't he already one overdose away from the grave anyway? With how many needle marks he has on his arm, he won't last much longer.
But to satisfy my own morbid craving, I hold tightly on to his neck, positioning the blade to the start of his hairline.
His screams are music to my ears as I drag the knife down, blood pouring out, flesh opening up like a spring flower in bloom, the flaps of flesh letting me know just how deep I've dug it in. And when I reach his eye, I take it one step further. They may have spared my sight, but that doesn't mean I will return the service.
After all, in my world, it's not an eye for an eye. It's an eye and you're done for.
The tip of the blade reaches the white of his eye. In spite of his screams, in spite of the way he's trying to move his arms and legs, my hand is uncharacteristically precise. I dig the blade in until the eye comes out with a pop. Cutting all the connective tissue, I fling it to the side, enjoying the way his socket is filled with blood, his throat already hoarse from all the screaming.
But he's not out.
The pain must be a lot too since his entire body is shaking—although it may be from his drug addiction.
Still, I don't stop as I do the same honors to the other eye, taking it off his socket and letting him wail some more.
A smirk of satisfaction is painted on my face as I take a step back, watching my work of art.
There are already people banging on the locked door, probably drawn to his hellish screams of pain. But before I leave, I cannot help myself as I pick up the discarded eyeballs, placing one in his hand, and one in his mouth as it opens on a deafening shrill.
The timing is just right as he clamps down his teeth on the eyeball, the jelly-like consistency exploding in his mouth.
Satisfied with half of my revenge, I leave the room, some of the murderous rage simmering inside of me exercised on those good for nothings.
Still, the prospect of going back to the house and knowing I'm one wall away from Gianna does not help. At all.
How am I going to not fucking kill her?
It's the dead of the night when I get to the house, going straight for my room and pulling at my bloodied clothes.
My knuckles are stained with red, just like the rest of me, and I reek of all the destruction I'd wrecked.
I reek of death.
Flinging the shirt off my back, I make to undo my trousers when I hear the creak of the door.
My head snaps towards the direction of the noise, noting small, dainty feet step inside the room.
She's dressed in her pink nightgown. The same one that always gives me wet dreams, and visions of sinking deep inside of her.
But now, as I see her—the real her—the only thing I want to sink inside of her is my knife.
Maybe after she chokes on my cock.
The treacherous bitch has the gall to look shy as she gazes with trepidation at me, her lower lip trembling as she scans my body, her eyes widening at the sight of blood.
A small gasp escapes her, and it takes everything inside of me not to pay her back for the fool she's made of me right here and now.
Already I can feel my rage returning tenfold, along with my barely buried feelings. But all the love I'd felt for her—and it had been love—has already turned to deep, gnarly, festering hate. Much as I'd like to deny that I'd ever had feelings for her, I can't. Not when she's the only woman who's made me feel like that, the only one I would have considered opening up and sharing all of myself with—my strengths and my weaknesses. And because of that deep love, I'm now dealing with the polar opposite. A loathing so strong my entire body is rebelling at trying to keep myself from harming her.
From fucking her so bad and hard I'd erase all other men from her body. From finally getting the heaven her body promises before ensuring she never sees heaven again.
I can already see myself, cock buried to the hilt, my lips on hers as I breathe in her treachery, making hate to her duplicity. All before I bring my knife to her lovely throat, cutting from ear to ear and feeling as life leaves her body, her blood painting me red—the red of her betrayal.
Fuck, but she's driving me crazy even now, when all I want is to watch the life leave her body—punishment for her Judas' kiss.
"Bass?" she asks tentatively, that soft voice of hers doing wonders to my cock even in my murderous state. The bastard would take her anyway—Jezebel or not.
Ah, but who wouldn't?
"What are you doing here?" My tone is flippant, but it's the best I can muster all things considered. That I'm not already pinning her to the wall and fucking her to oblivion shocks me—it fucking astounds me.
"I..." she trails off, wetting her lips. Her eyes are still on my bloodied torso.
"Did you kill someone?" She asks, and I note a small
tremor in her voice.
"Why?" I take a step towards her.
She's stuck to the spot, but I can tell her body is rigid as she keeps herself still.
"Do I scare you?" I ask, almost mockingly.
But I do. I definitely scare her as her eyes flicker over my face, slightly widening when she gets a better view of the red that's seeped into the ridges of my scars. I must look like a true Halloween treat.
"I was worried," she adds, once more going for that insecure tone that she knows gets me every single time.
"Were you," I drawl, taking another step towards her.
This time, the fear is clear on her features as she backs away from me.
I continue to tease her like this until her back hits the closed door.
"What happened, Bass? Are you hurt?" She feels the tension rolling off me and she's trying to de-escalate.
"No," I answer curtly, my hand going to the top of her gown as I brush past her erect nipples. The reaction is immediate as a shiver envelops her body, goosebumps appearing all over.
She's primed for fucking. One touch. Just one touch and she's begging for cock.
Her eyes are already glazed as she looks at me, biting her lower lip in a come hither way—not unlike the one she used on the other man.
The thought is sobering, and without even thinking, my hand wraps around her neck, my fingers caressing her pulse point.
Ah, but it would be so easy. One squeeze and I'd snuff the life out of her.
But I can't. Not yet. Not when the worst is yet to come.
And no matter how much my cock is begging for me to just lift up her dress and fuck her like the common whore she is, I can't.
Not yet.
Because I know that one thrust and I'll crack—I'll show her exactly what she deserves for cheating me.
No, I'll keep that last step for the final humiliation. When I show everyone what a fucking devious slut she is.
"Why did you come here, Gianna," I lean down, whispering in her ear. Her breath hitches, her pulse throbbing under my fingertips.
Frivolous: A DARK MAFIA AGE-GAP ROMANCE Page 23