Turning Point||Book 2

21: Romano.

In the grip of terror, my body froze solid as a rock, yet it was that stray thought that ignited a fire inside me, a reality so intense it scorched my mind: she was gone.

Her room lay open, her belongings untouched, but she was gone.

She fled because she knew I was onto her deceit, escaping before my return. My old man always warned me: covet cars, houses, power, and kin, women, but never a woman. Even in death, he proved a sage, though I wished he'd never erred on this matter, sparing me this anger of turning a deaf ear, sparing me this hopelessness.

God, I worshipped a woman who could never be, upon whom my sanity hinged. I'd known my share of vices—alcohol addiction and womanizing, precisely—but in her presence, addiction took on a new meaning. Meeting her revealed the entirety of addiction to me. With whiskey, I'd drink until I lost all sense of direction, until drunkenness engulfed me to the brink. But with Xenia, no amount of her presence sufficed to satiate my longing. It was an insatiable craving, like needing a fix to remedy the need for another fix. Bloody hell.

Another revelation of this wildness was revealing itself to me now. Despite Angelo's blabbering about his involvement with Xenia, I couldn't bear to face her, yet the mere thought of her absence seared my mind, my flesh, my reason.

The mere whisper of another man laying hands on my woman typically ignited a primal fury and a series of expectations. Step one: eliminate the scumbag without a second thought. Step two: cinch the woman's fate tight in a vise, a harsh lesson etched into her very bones. And step three: discard her from the mind with the swiftness of a shooting star vanishing into the night.

I'd followed that modus operandi when  Lorenzi had touched my ex-wife and she had enjoyed it. None of them existing in my current world.

But who was I shitting? I was a lost cause now, I had found myself incapable of squeezing the trigger on Angelo. Even the notion of inflicting pain upon Xenia was unbearable as the thought of her in my cousin's arms. And as for forgetting her? That was a task destined to stretch on for an eternity, far beyond the fleeting twinkle of any distant star.

Back in the confines of my room, I found myself staring out into the gathering darkness, yearning for the ability to command my own emotions as effortlessly as I wielded influence over others. My muscles throbbed with lingering pain, my eyes as sore as my joints, the stench of dried blood clinging to my skin like a sinister cloak, yet the luxury of a cleansing shower remained out of reach.

Giving in to the overwhelming urge, I dialed Max's number. He was out on the streets, probing for any traces of her, a routine that dredged up memories of our previous hunt.

After besting Ivan, I had descended into the depths of the basement in search of Xenia, only to find emptiness staring back at me. For six endless days, Ottavio and I had scoured every inch of our axis, consumed by the desperate quest to reclaim her. I swore I wouldn't endure that bloody cycle again. Despite the animosity festering between us as a result of our damnable choices, I still longed for her presence, refusing to let her fall into the clutches of another man.

"She bought stuff from the shop here and then," Max relayed, "she hailed a cab, but beyond that, I know nothing. She could be anywhere."

Bought something... "What was she wearing?" Perhaps she wanted to meet April or...God forbid, Angelo, or someone. Thoughts, questions, possibilities, they all gnawed at me.

Max relayed my query to his surroundings before responding to me, "Killer shoes and a red dress."

A red dress. Another damned omen. I entertained the idea of burning down her wardrobe until not a trace of crimson fabric remained. It seemed that every time she adorned herself in red, trouble wasn't far behind. She was slipping away once more. But why the killer shoes?