Blood Always

by Ramsower, Jill

  A chill tore through my body.

  Maria didn’t want Stefano dead because of her brother. She wanted him dead because she had been one of his victims.

  In my thirty-five years, I’d known rage on a number of occasions. We’d become intimate friends when my mother was killed and were again reunited when Laura was taken from me so quickly. I had believed there was no part of the consuming emotion I wasn’t familiar with until I stared down at the pathetic form of the man who had assaulted my wife. Molested her when she was only a child. Everything suddenly made so much more sense, and I realized there was yet another level of rage I had not yet known existed. Not until the moment its calming influence iced my veins.

  The simplest form of anger was energizing, pushing a person into a fit of emotion. But when rage became concentrated—compacted and compounded like the fibers of a piece of coal—the result was pure, unmitigated hatred. Flawless and everlasting.

  “I see you’ve figured it out,” Stefano murmured quietly, his voice suddenly devoid of emotion. “I assumed when you sought me out at her sister’s wedding that she’d already told you.”

  I pulled my gun from where I’d tucked it into the back of my pants and fired straight at his groin. He let loose a blood-curdling scream, flexing and straining against his bindings. Tears and saliva poured from his face. Blood blossomed outward from his crotch, staining his pants and dress shirt.

  I had no pity for him. In fact, none of it felt like enough. I couldn’t even draw joy from his pain, knowing he would always deserve worse. There was no punishment fitting of his sins. I wanted to drag out his death for months, years even. My fingers itched to rip at his flesh—to flay his skin from his body one inch at a time and show him what it was like to be preyed upon by someone stronger than yourself.

  I paused for a moment, wondering if it would be more fitting for Maria to dole out his punishment. To end his life or cause him whatever suffering she might choose. Then I remembered how the whole thing started—how she had begged me to kill him because she didn’t have the strength to go near him. There would be no greater honor in this world than ending the life of a man like Stefano. I would do it regardless of who the victims were, but for Maria, I would do anything.

  Stefano calmed his cries once more, his head lolling around on his neck like a newborn. “Look … I know I’m never making it … out of this room alive. But I have one more bit of information. If I give it to you, will you make it quick?”

  “Go on.”

  He nodded as if accepting that these would be his final words and forged ahead. “Sal didn’t just know about the woman down the street. He knew about Maria. He figured it out somehow. He knew exactly what was happening and never stopped it. He deserves every bit of what I get and more.” He finished his last words by spitting insolently onto the ground beside him. Apparently, there was no love lost between Stefano and Sal.

  I walked to the cart and tore off another piece of tape, using it to reseal Stefano’s lips shut. His eyes blazed with injustice as he tried to shake his head and flail.

  “I never agreed to anything. And even if I had, I’d still owe nothing to a piece of shit like you.” I spit right between his eyes and walked from the room.

  If I gave into the seething violence that ached to break free, I’d lose a piece of my humanity. I wasn’t about to let him off easily, but I would need to hand off Stefano’s punishment to someone who didn’t have so much emotion invested in his death. Maria and our child needed me, and I would not return to them with a darker smudge on my soul than I already possessed.

  Filip waited for me outside with the others.

  “Strip him. His dick goes first, whatever’s left of it. Then his tongue. Then his eyes. Make it last till nightfall, but no longer. He deserves worse, but I want to know that his filthy breath no longer contaminates this city by the end of the day.”

  None of them said a word, sensing the dark instability of my mood.

  What I’d done had been as easy as breathing compared to what needed to be done next. I walked purposefully to my car, steeling myself for whatever fallout I would face when I confronted Maria with the truth.

  Chapter 23

  Maria

  “Mommy, I don’t wanna go to Aunt Vica’s wedding. Please don’t make me.” I stared at the fancy white dress she’d laid out on my bed, unable to force myself any closer.

  “Maria, we’re not going over this again. You and your sisters are going to be flower girls, and you get to wear this beautiful princess dress. Your hair is all done, and the other girls are dressed and ready. Don’t make me get Daddy in here. Put on the dress, now, young lady.” She folded her arms over her chest, waiting for me to follow her instructions.

  My tummy crawled its way up to my throat. Tears burned at the back of my eyes.

  Everything would be okay if she’d just let me stay home. I should have pretended to be sick or taken a tumble down the stairs. Maybe if I’d had a broken leg, she would have let me stay home with a babysitter. I was so angry at myself for not being smarter. For not coming up with a plan.

  I’d known the wedding was coming, but I’d been too scared to even think about it.

  Now, I had no choice.

  “Can I wear my shorts under my dress? No one will know.” It wouldn’t stop him, but it would make me feel just that little bit better.

  “Don’t be silly. Of course not.”

  I chewed on my bottom lip, sliding my shorts down, then lifting my Scooby Doo t-shirt over my head. Mommy picked up the dress and unzipped the zipper before piling the tulle skirt in a mound on the floor. She held open the center for me to step into. As she pulled the dress up my body, I felt like she was encasing me in a plastic bubble, cutting off all my air. My fingers curled and twitched with the need to rip the fabric from my body.

  Mommy would be so angry.

  I didn’t want Mommy to be angry, and I didn’t want anything to happen to Mommy or Daddy. The bad man said he’d hurt them if I ever told. He showed me his gun. I believed him. There was something scary in his eyes. I wasn’t afraid of monsters under my bed anymore because nothing could compare to those eyes.

  Mommy zipped up the dress and gave me a huge smile. “I know you don’t want to go, but you look so beautiful! We’re going to have lots of fun. Now, put on those pretty white shoes we got for you, and we’ll be all ready.” She hurried from my room, leaving me alone.

  Sometimes, I wished there were monsters under my bed or in my closet. If the monsters got me, then I wouldn’t have to see him ever again. Feel his fingers that hurt so much. Smell that stinky smoke that lingered on his breath. I rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I threw up.

  Not much came up. I hadn’t been able to eat for two days. My stomach was painfully empty.

  When the cramping stopped, I used a towel to wipe my mouth and examined my reflection in the mirror. Tears wet my cheeks, and my pale blue eyes were empty. I asked myself the same question I did every time—why me? Why not one of the other little girls? It didn’t matter if it was a graduation party or a birthday or a summer barbeque. It didn’t matter what I wore or if I stayed glued to my brother’s side. The man always found me and somehow managed to get me alone.

  The first time, I’d been at another wedding and wandered off to find a bathroom.

  I never made that mistake again, but it didn’t matter.

  Once he had me, I was his, and he wasn’t ever going to let me go.

  I wiped my tears with the backs of my hands and tried to cram all my fear and hurt down into my toes where I couldn’t feel it anymore. Once I had my shoes on, I walked downstairs and joined my family, convinced I’d never feel safe again.

  I bolted upright in bed, the icy tendrils of the nightmare still coiled tightly around me in the form of gut-wrenching fear and crippling desperation. Not just a nightmare … a memory. My breathing shuddered as I scanned my surroundings, trying to make sense of the foreign room.

  Ma
tteo’s apartment. Our argument.

  I was in the guest room after refusing to explain to Matteo why I’d wanted Stefano dead. I had cried until the sorrow in my heart had drained itself dry and all that was left was a hollow, empty vessel. I’d learned to embrace the hollow a long time ago, take comfort in the nothing. At least in that place, there was peace.

  The reprieve allowed me to slip from consciousness, but discussing Stefano had served as the perfect gateway for him to follow me into my dreams. I’d had more nightmares since I’d met Matteo than I had in years. Not just nightmares. Memories. They were seeping back into my mind like water from a burst pipe bubbling up beneath the floorboards.

  They were exhausting. Not just because of the sleep I missed, but because they were the equivalent of an emotional marathon. The pain from the past left me with little energy to face Matteo and my current troubles, making me unsure and tempted to withdraw.

  There was only one thing that would help. One thing I turned to when my own dreams rebelled against me. I rose from bed and tiptoed in the dark apartment for the kit I’d stashed away in my office. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and took the supplies back to my room. Laying out the towel, I sat cross legged on my bed and lined up my gun cleaning supplies next to the thirty-eight-millimeter pistol I had crammed in my purse.

  Opening the gun oil, I inhaled deeply, letting the smell ease the tension in my coiled muscles. Holding the cool metal in my hand helped me remember that I wasn’t a helpless child anymore. That I hadn’t allowed what happened to ruin my life. To ruin me. I was powerful and capable and worthy, even when I lost sight of that.

  For a solid hour, I scoured every surface of my gun, allowing the mechanical motions to calm my nerves and reestablish order in my brain. Once I’d relaxed enough, I was able to slip back into a dreamless sleep, only waking after the sun was well into the sky.

  It was one of the few mornings I didn’t spend bent over the toilet. In celebration, I went to the kitchen in search of coffee. On the way, I peeked into the master bedroom to find an empty bed. Matteo was gone. No note.

  Guilt gnawed at me relentlessly. Why couldn’t I just tell him the truth? It sounded like he’d already figured out that I’d lied about the ring. It had been the best excuse I could come up with to give him some kind of logical grounds for killing Stefano. We’d never been able to prove where the ring had come from, so Stefano was as good a guess as any. Why did Matteo have to keep digging? Why couldn’t he have taken me on my word? I wouldn’t have asked him to kill someone who didn’t deserve to die.

  The entire scheme was disintegrating before my eyes. Once he knew I’d lied, Matteo would see me as manipulative and disloyal. The anger and distrust he should have aimed at Stefano would, instead, be directed at me, just like all those years in the past. When I acted out as a child, no one looked past the behavior for a reason. Instead of digging for a problem, they punished me, only fueling my rage.

  But I wasn’t a child anymore. I could speak for myself and explain my actions. I harbored no crippling fears that Stefano was going to hurt my family. Matteo was not the type of man to tolerate a child molester in his midst. So why was opening my mouth so difficult?

  It was so hard to unleash the words. I knew none of it had been my fault. I understood there was technically nothing broken or soiled about me, but my emotions clouded those certainties. Fear whispered that Matteo might not see me the same. Shame murmured that he would question why I hadn’t told anyone when it happened. It may not have been the best course of action, but it felt safer to keep my past to myself.

  Every time the words danced on my lips, each time my heart wept to share its burden, I reinforced my walls of self-control with another layer of bricks and added more locks onto the cage containing the ugliest of my secrets.

  ***

  I tried to work that afternoon, but by the time the front door opened, I had little to show for my efforts. The sound of the deadbolt turning had my nervous system surging with adrenaline, unsure if another fight was in my future.

  As if he bore an invisible string tethered to my heart, Matteo’s presence drew me from my office in search of him. What I found unnerved me. Matteo stood at the kitchen counter, arms propping himself up, head hung low. Dried blood splatter dotted his right forearm and the front of his shirt.

  “Rough day?” I asked quietly, feeling an unrelenting need to reach out to him—if not with touch, then with words.

  He lifted his head, and the look in his eyes assaulted me with a storm of emotion. The tumultuous winds stole my breath, knocking me back a step.

  “What’s wrong?” Panic unlike any I’d experienced in a very long time shot liquid electricity through my veins.

  His lips thinned as he debated his answer. His arms stayed anchored to the granite, and the storm continued to rage in his eyes. “I know what happened, Maria. I know what Stefano did all those years ago.”

  What I would have given for the world to swallow me up. For the ground to open in some great earthquake and devour me whole. Then I wouldn’t have to face the words that flapped in my head like a great flock of angry crows.

  He knows. He knows. He knows.

  My lungs strained against invisible bindings, unable to pull in an adequate breath. My ears rang with the deafening shrill of panic. Tears that I thought I’d exhausted in the night suddenly poured from my eyes, as if bailing from a sinking ship. My knees began to buckle just as strong arms enveloped me, lifting me off my feet.

  “It’s okay. Breathe, baby, breathe. He’s never going to hurt you again.” Matteo whispered into my hair, holding me close to his chest as he sat on the sofa with me tucked like a small child in his lap.

  I wanted to be angry. I wanted to rage at the injustice of it all, but every scream and attack that roared to be set free shriveled on my tongue like a bit of melted ice.

  Instead, I wept.

  I cried inconsolable tears. The tears of a seven-year-old girl with nowhere to turn. The tears of a fifteen-year-old girl with so much anger she poisoned everything she touched. The tears of a soon-to-be mother who was terrified for her unborn child.

  Only once my hiccupped breathing subsided and the front of Matteo’s shirt was soaked in my salty sadness did he try to talk to me. He used his firm palm to dry my cheeks, then placed reassuring kisses to my forehead.

  “I want you to know that no matter what happened, it doesn’t change the way I see you. You were a child. Innocent and blameless.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. I appreciated his words, but talking about any of it was so foreign that I floundered, saying the first thing that came to mind. “That afternoon of the barbeque, when we announced our engagement, I saw him at one of the tables. It was the first time I’d seen him since I was seven. I’d known there was a chance he’d be there and told myself I could handle it, but when it happened—when my eyes landed on his grey, soulless eyes—I lost it. I felt like a child all over again.”

  He squeezed me tightly, his muscles quivering with barely contained rage on my behalf. “And I had to go be a dick on top of it. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

  I huffed out a laugh. “Actually, you helped distract me. You gave me exactly what I needed.” I closed my eyes and steadied myself for what I had to say next. “If I’m laying it all out on the table, there’s something else you need to know.” I lifted my foot and allowed myself to fall from the cliff, admitting to him my deepest, darkest secret. “When Marco was killed, it started the war between families. I didn’t understand that until later. What I did know was that all family gatherings ceased, ending my torment. I could sense the change had to do with Marco’s death, and I couldn’t help but be relieved. My brother died—the boy who let me crawl in his bed when thunder shook the house and who snuck me cookies when I got in trouble—and my treacherous heart found joy in his loss. I didn’t care that there was also grief and guilt. Any happiness I found in his death felt like the worst kind of betrayal. My adult mind tells me that my relief wa
s understandable, but it doesn’t erase the shame.”

  My humiliation was a magnifying glass, exposing the defective parts of me normally obscured by caked-on attitude and a liberal dose of sarcasm.

  The whole time I spoke, Matteo’s fingers drifted through my hair. He hadn’t ejected me from his lap, so I took that as a good sign, but I was still mortified that he’d seen the worst parts of me.

  “You’ve never told anyone else?” he asked, hands still absently soothing my aching heart.

  “No, but there was one other person who knew.”

  He pulled back, searching my face. “Someone else knew?”

  I nodded, peering up at him through my lashes. “The first time it happened. We were at yet another wedding, and I’d gone looking for the bathroom, never making it that far. While Stefano had me, Angelo interrupted. He stared at us, at my pleading eyes and Stefano’s suddenly rigid posture, and told him to make sure he cleaned up after himself. From that day on, I hated him just as much as I hated Stefano.”

  Matteo’s hand absently gripped my arm until a whimper slipped from my lips. “Shit, I’m sorry, beautiful. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It just pisses me off I waited as long as I did to kill that bastard. I wish I could do it all over again, but this time much slower. Much more painfully.”

  I could see the rage in Matteo’s posture and his venomous gaze. He would have done it. He would have killed his boss for me—tortured and maimed for me. Warmth pulsed in my aching chest, helping to stitch back together the wounds that had been ripped wide open with my confessions.

  “I’m sorry I lied about Stefano and the ring. It was the only thing I could think of to convince you to kill him without having to tell you about my past.”