Ceifador X: The Knight’s Rose Prequel

by Vice, Demi

“It went down to my hips, and I used to braid it. A. Lot.” I giggled, nervous.

  Antonio watched intently as he let the hair fall through his fingers.

  “I also didn’t use to be this pale,” I mumbled, breaking the silence with sad reality.

  I had lost a lot of weight in the past month, and I could tell Antonio noticed, but he said nothing. Maybe it was easier for him not to ignore it. I didn’t blame him.

  “Do you want to see it on—”

  Antonio forcefully grabbed my wrist before I could touch the wig. He let out a heavy sigh and dropped my hand gently back to my side.

  “I’ll wait.” His tone, dry and cold. “I’ll wait for the real thing, Bianca.”

  There wasn’t going to be a real thing, but we pretended.

  “Okay, but it’s going to take years to grow back.”

  “I’ll wait,” he said again in the same tone.

  I stared at the mask and paint, finally asking, “Why do you wear a mask? And paint your face?”

  Antonio pivoted and grabbed something out of his pocket. A switchblade. An exact replica of mine.

  “Ci-fay-door X?” I read the engraving facing me. “Mine is ten. Shouldn’t yours be eleven? XI?”

  “Say-fah-dur,” he corrected. “The engraving is not my weapon’s name. It’s mine.” He pulled out his matte black lighter and showed me the side. Ceifador X.

  “What do you mean it’s your name? Isn’t your name Antonio Castillo?”

  “All Castillos have two names. Our birthday name and the name we earn.”

  “What does Ceifador mean?”

  He placed his weapons back in his pockets and straightened his spine to his glorious height.

  “Grim Reaper. Grim Reaper the Tenth,” he spoke with dread.

  I swallowed and tightened my jaw.

  “You’re one of my father’s Knights. The one that earned the name, Grim Reaper.” My heart hammered so rapidly I could feel the bruises form on my ribs. “Papa told me the men who work for him are dangerous. Monsters, demons, and unholy beings. Men who should be feared. Men who would hurt me.”

  I swallowed again, only this time, my heart never dropped.

  We defined time, and I took a mental shot outside my body where I honestly felt I was. The girl dressed in pink and the man dressed in black wearing a metal skull for a face, both lost in a white and pink closet.

  “What’s a Knight, Antonio? And why did you earn the name, Grim Reaper?”

  Antonio slowly moved toward me. His leather grip found a place around my neck as he carefully pushed me back into the tall cabinet. He didn’t choke me, but he held me in a vulnerable spot under his firm grip.

  “I love the way you look at me, Bianca.” His gravelly voice thickened his accent.

  I became weak and heavy, and the inside of my legs burned with heat and need. I’d been horny before, but only with Antonio did it reach a whole new level. And at this moment, with his leather hand around my neck and his mask a few inches from my face, it felt out of this world.

  “You’re petrified, but you still look at me with pure devotion like I’m your god.” His jaw ticked, and his hand slightly tightened around my neck. “For that reason, I should tell you how I became a Knight. Tell you about the fun games I play in the basement. And tell you why I wear a mask and paint my face like a corpse.”

  I braced my hands around his toned forearms. I could easily breathe, and Antonio wasn’t hurting me, but I wanted any excuse to touch him.

  “But I’m not ready to give up the way you look at me. I’m too greedy, Bianca.”

  My breaths quickened, and that should’ve been Antonio’s cue to remove his hands, but he didn't. He slowly pulled the tube out of my nose and dropped it. My breaths and anxiety took hold of my body, only this time, Antonio wasn’t caught off guard.

  “Veja. Look,” he demanded, moving his hands to my cheeks. “In, out.” He inhaled and exhaled. He repeated, and I followed. Antonio taught me to breathe, bringing me back to normal. “Better?” he asked, thumbing my cheek.

  “Much.”

  “Good. Now, give me a goodbye kiss.” He tapped his leather finger on his sharp metal cheek, and I didn’t hesitate.

  The cold steel burned my lips and left them with a tingle.

  “Boa menina.” He caressed my face, but sadly, his admiration couldn’t last. He made his way to the door.

  “Are you ever going to visit me when you’re not drunk?” I asked, following close behind him until my face slammed into his muscular back. I rubbed my nose. “Will you, Antonio?” I pressed.

  “Never.” His tone, cold and non-negotiable.

  “Why not?”

  Antonio shoved his hands into his pockets and pivoted around. He stalled his answer, delaying to break my heart.

  “Because I hate you, Bianca. When I’m sober, I hate you for being my boss’s daughter, being too sick, too young—” He paused and let out an exhausted sigh. “The reasons are endless.”

  I stepped back and held my tears as I dropped my head.

  “Hate’s a strong word.”

  “And I’m a man with strong feelings.”

  Antonio’s seamless black leather shoes faced my small naked toes. His shoes were the only things that were different from the last time I saw him. Even his toxic scent was the same. He pinched my chin and pulled my face up to meet his hollow eyes.

  “Ask me if Drunk Antonio likes me?”

  I sniffed and rubbed my eyes with my palms.

  “He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.”

  Antonio let out a little chuckle. “Ask, gorgeous.”

  “Does Drunk Antonio like me?”

  “Oh, Bianca, he can’t get enough of you. He’s even crazy to think you’re his Rosa.” His thumb brushed my bottom lip. “He loves that you’re sanely insane, the best kind of insanity. He loves that you paint in black, choose switchblades, and start fires. You are the purest form of chaos and passion, and you do it so innocently.” He pressed his silver forehead into mine and switched the thumb on my bottom lip to his index finger. “Shhh, don’t tell anyone but I have a plan.”

  “A plan?” I mumbled through his leathery finger.

  I could hear his smile. This one far more devilish than all the others combined.

  “It’s the craziest thing I have ever thought. But in three years, when you turn eighteen, I’m going to steal you.”

  I gasped as my heart tried to break free from my ribcage and join his beating chest.

  “Told you it’s crazy.” Antonio chuckled and walked away.

  “Wait, wait, wait, wait. Are you going to visit me again? In less than a month, please.”

  He turned the doorknob but paused to look around my room. “I might want another gift or two.”

  Click, click, click.

  I ran to the door and slapped it. “Hey, wait, I have a question.”

  “Ask.”

  “You said Antonio hates me—the sober one—but does he remember me? Our talks?”

  “Every second, every touch, every thought, every word. He remembers it all.”

  “Alcohol changes a person’s personality. Are you different when you’re sober?”

  Antonio huffed a laugh. “I hope you never have the misfortune to meet me when I’m sober, Bianca. I might not see that look again.”

  I giggled nervously as a response.

  “Go to sleep. Goodnight, Bianca Di Vaio.”

  The sound of his footsteps left me empty but knowing he’d come back filled me with joy.

  I ran to my bed and smacked the mattress in a starfish shape as I screamed with joy in my covers. I rolled over to see the time on my nightstand. It had only been an hour, but it was enough to make up for the fact that I was grounded for a month, unable to visit my library or breathe my fresh air because of the fire I set.

  I slipped into my bed and tried to go to sleep, but I was too excited to do anything but smile until my face felt numb.

  Three years, I can do that.

/>   Unfortunately, I spent most of my time in bed the following weeks and months. Antonio didn’t visit me for two months, and when he came back to me, he had more blood on his skull, more smoke on his clothes, and more booze on his breath.

  His gift was a ripe peach.

  Mine was a hard slap.

  II

  Antonio

  * * *

  One day, you’ll be bound with a key

  in an empty room with no escape.

  - Lorenzo Sergio Castillo

  Chapter Four

  I headbanged and shook my body, ridding the excess water off like a dog. I raked my wet hair back and swung the glass door open. I never used a towel. Air drying was the only way to go. Swinging the bathroom door wide open, “SexyBack” by Justin Timberlake came in loud and clear through my speakers.

  My black Prada suit hung on the hook behind my door for later today, and all I had to do was wait. I checked my phone. All I had to do was wait… five hours.

  I rolled on my king-sized bed covered in blood-red sheets as I let out a heavy grunt. Mindlessly, I grabbed my cock and began to stroke. I jerked off in the shower, but I was still horny. In my defense, I’d always been a horny fucker. It’s been a few weeks since I had sex—a rarity—but when I wasn’t feeling it, it showed. Honestly, I haven’t been feeling it for a few months, and the addict in me developed a sick fixation.

  Baby. Blue. Eyes.

  Bianca's eyes, I reminded myself as if I’d forgotten.

  I grunted as I stroked faster, but I never got hard. I tried to think of any woman, but she popped up.

  “Merda,” I cursed under my breath, shutting my eyes tight. Moving my hand away from my cock, I tucked them under my wet head and kept my eyes closed.

  In my defense, fifteen-year-old Bianca never popped into my head. It was the older version of her. Her eyes were lively and wild, her hair was long and rich brown, and her porcelain skin had a little color to it. And she had an ass. If I was going to dream, I might as well dream to my liking. In my mind, all I ever dreamt about was how perfect it would be to meet the healthy older version of Bianca.

  But she didn’t exist.

  Nor would she ever.

  I tried not to think about Bianca, but she invaded my mind the second I heard her swearing in old Victorian curse words. Any empty headspace I had was dedicated purely to Bianca Di Vaio. Even when I begged her not to be in my head, she persisted and appeared, making my whole body feel wrong, like it wasn’t mine to begin with.

  I hated that feeling.

  This feeling.

  The feeling about caring for someone who I shouldn’t have ever met in the first place, let alone think about on repeat, to the point it caused physical pain. All. Over. I wanted so much from Bianca, but she could never give me what I needed. She was too innocent, too fragile, too off-limits, but I dreamt of the day she wasn’t. A day that would never come. Maybe when she turned eighteen—

  I lowly growled, forcing my insane thoughts to crawl back to the part of my brain only Drunk Antonio was stupid enough to enter.

  I slowly began to fall asleep with “Cry Me a River” playing in the background. Half asleep and vulnerable, I felt the worst pain a man could handle.

  “Filho da puta!!!” I screamed at the top of my lungs as I cupped my balls and gasped for air that never reached my lungs. I rolled over my bed, one hand death-gripping the red covers, the other holding my throbbing balls. I snapped my head to Lorenzo, standing at the edge of the bed with crossed arms and enjoying my pain with a smug smile.

  “That’s my mother and your grandmother you called a bitch,” he said in Portuguese. We only spoke in Portuguese to each other to never stray away from our roots. “Watch your mouth.”

  I growled as I gripped the covers and chucked a pillow at him. He caught it and threw it back at me with force.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you? Slapping my balls?” My chest heaved; the pain constant and throbbing. I kick my leg out, but only the tips of my toes grazed his navy suit jacket. He hopped back and cocked his gray brow.

  “You’re slow,” he taunted.

  I mustered out an angry huff of laughter.

  After a minute, I shifted to the edge of my bed as I held my balls and gave Lorenzo a pair of deadly eyes under hooded brows. He rolled his eyes, a natural instinct when he saw me air dry. Or changing. Or pissing. Or shitting.

  Needless to say, Lorenzo had no idea what privacy meant. And just as he had no idea what that meant, I had no idea what shame felt like around him. I loved being naked in my own privacy. Plus, he had seen my cock more times than I could count. For all I knew, he’d probably seen my cock more times than he’d seen his and trust me when I said that idea wasn’t farfetched.

  “Still jealous that Papai was a very generous man and Mamãe had some real fun with him.” I winked and clicked my teeth. Lorenzo scoffed in disgust. He didn’t want any images of his sister having sex.

  When my balls finally didn’t feel like they were still lodged in my throat, I dropped my hands back and widened my stance. I eyed Lorenzo as he paced around my messy room.

  Today, Lorenzo styled his hair back, trimmed his beard to stubble length, and wore his Michael Kors navy suit. Lorenzo loved his American designers, while I loved my Italian designers.

  And women.

  I cleared my throat, hating myself for thinking that.

  “I told you not to fuck the maid.” He picked up my workout clothes from the floor and threw them in the hamper.

  “Wasn't even worth it.” I rolled my eyes. “No passion.”

  “It’s been months since I’ve seen your floor.”

  I deadpanned.

  My room wasn't that bad. I wasn’t a fucking slob. I just didn’t know what to wear some days and my clothes found their way from my walk-in closet to my bedroom floor, and a pizza box, and a few glass bottles of Coke. Okay, maybe it was messy, but I stayed in denial.

  He picked up my white briefs with a pinch and full arm’s length.

  Dramatic much?

  “I raised you better than this,” he scowled.

  An exaggerated laugh left my lips. “Booze, drugs, sex, and violence raised me. Not you.”

  Lorenzo stopped midway from picking up my blue shirt and stiffened his posture.

  “Can you never forgive?”

  With a dead face, I blinked once.

  He let out a heavy sigh. “Your grudges are going to kill you, Toni.”

  “Good thing I’ve been dying since the day I was born, Lori,” I smirked.

  He went back to judging my room but never cleaned anything else up, and I went back to judging him.

  Lorenzo was darker than me, had brown eyes, and loose curly gray hair like Mamãe. He looked like every other attractive Castillo man, and like every Castillo, we aged like fine wine. He was early fifty-something and he still got as much action as he did when he was a teen.

  We didn’t look alike though. I was better looking. Call me biased, but I stole the best features from Mamãe; big eyes, thick curled lashes, full lips, and the Castillo premature gray hair. And I stole the best features from my German father; dark blue eyes, sharp features, and my fat cock.

  Although Lorenzo and I didn’t look alike, we had the same six-foot height and slender athletic build. We worked out together, running five miles in the morning or when I decided to wake up from a hangover. We were both madly competitive, so in our last hundred meters, we sprinted. Today I won, but I had to give the old man credit where credit was due.

  Lorenzo moved over to the iPod and pulled it out, filling my room with silence. I gritted my teeth. He knew how much I hated when people touched my things.

  “What’s this I hear that you’re going to be late for the funeral?” He spoke to the iPod in his fist, making his way to me.

  “What have I told you about touching my shit,” I growled, snapping to my feet. Snatching it out of his hand, I threw it in the nightstand drawer next to my bed and slammed it shut. “Don’t,�
� I snarled, pushing on his firm chest.

  Moving my bare ass out of my large bedroom, I headed toward the kitchen.

  “One of those moods, I see,” I heard from behind.

  Lorenzo and I lived in the basement of the Di Vaio mansion. Half the basement was our apartment, the other half was our playpen meant for business only Lorenzo and I conducted. No one came to our place unless we invited them, not even Jonah himself. He gave us what we wanted as long as we did our jobs.

  We only stayed on call, stuck in the basement with boredom clawing at our skin, when Jonah’s street men were on the prowl in Manhattan. That’s when Lorenzo and I put on our outfits and masks, preparing for torture on my behalf, and repairing on Lorenzo's behalf.

  Lorenzo was better at mending. And I was better at making others suffer. Myself included.

  I wasn't really into saving men, which might or might not be why Johnny died. He was somewhere he shouldn’t have been, got shot, and by the time he bled from Manhattan to Jersey City, there was only so much I could do. Hence, Johnny's funeral.

  Idiota.

  I moved past the living room and snaked into the kitchen where I grabbed a snack from the fruit bowl. A peach. I always had them on hand, just in case. I tested the firmness of the peaches I bought a few days ago and grabbed the one that was severely bruised, saving the better ones.

  “It’s been almost a year. When are you going to get over it?”

  Never.

  “It’s been nine months,” I corrected him. “He would’ve been born by now,” I sighed, letting my exhausted tone take over my anger.

  We both went quiet.

  Lorenzo and I wanted the child, but The Mother didn’t. And maybe that was for the best, considering I didn’t even know her name or where we fucked. All I wanted from her was my son.

  “It’s been nine months, so when are you going to get over it?”

  Again, never.

  Lorenzo didn’t know that this was the second time I had to pay for an abortion I desperately didn’t want. But it wasn’t my choice. It was hers. And I wasn’t going to trap a pregnant woman in the basement and force her to have my child. Even though the thought itself crossed my mind plenty of times.