Something Wicked 🏳️‍🌈 (bxb)

8: Why is Dante Russo so amazing?

He sat back against a gargoyle and wedged his wooden box under its stone claw. His evening had been ruined by me going crazy and smashing Sylvia's mirror, and now I'd interrupted his little morning ritual of looking at Steph's engagement ring.

"Sorry you had to...deal with my shit yesterday." I sat heavily on the platform and kicked my legs out in front of me, no less reckless even after almost tumbling off the side of the tower. "Can't rest. You try resting with four scared cats. They hate me."

Dante smiled that heart-stopping smile of his. "You just gotta keep calm around them."

"Of course, you're amazing with cats. Is there anything you're not good at?" I slid my palms down my face, itching at stubble. "Sorry. I'm just tired."

"I'm tired too." Dante stretched his arms above his head, vertebrae clicking, his green T-shirt rising to offer me a tantalizing sliver of olive-and-tea, and a tangle of hair. "Sylvia's bed is too soft."

I'd been pissed that he'd insisted on sleeping at Sylvia's place, probably to check that I didn't smash my fist through any more of her priceless furniture during the night. But ten seconds in Dante Russo's quiet-calm presence had soothed me, and I'd fallen into a deep sleep.

"You should take a few days off work. Get some rest."

I threw Dante a little smile. "Don't see you resting, Mr Workaholic. Besides, I can't rest. They gotta pay for what they did to my Mom."

"What do you mean?" Dante turned to me, his face pained. "You're implying that the...overdose wasn't the cause of death?"

"My Mom took prescription drugs, and she drank too much. But she never did illegal shit. Never woulda done coke. Ever. I don't believe that's what killed her, whatever the post mortem says."

I'd expected comforting words from Dante, a few not-so-subtle hints that I was paranoid, kind appeals to me to get some rest. But he simply nodded.

His words were written on his face, like he'd felt the same sense of urgency when Alcor had taken Steph from him fourteen months earlier. He'd been driven to act, to find out who, what, when, how. He hadn't taken time off work. He hadn't rested. So why would I?

Alcor had killed Mamá. She had done it. She'd taken Mamá in revenge because I'd cooperated with the American police.

Ever since I'd started working with Sylvia, I'd been waiting for Alcor to label me a traitor and put a bullet in me. I'd been at peace with the idea of my own death. But I'd been so stupid. She knew that death woulda been too lenient a punishment for my betrayal. She knew what drove me, what hurt me, and what would be an infinitely worse punishment for me. She'd taken from me the only person I loved.

She couldn't use her usual brutal methods in the States; a sniper shooting Mamá in the head woulda pointed the finger directly at Alcor. But a flimsy coke overdose cover story was just enough for the police to ignore it all, and just enough to let me know that she'd taken her revenge.

A new mission arose from the maelstrom of Mamá's death. Firstly, I needed to kill whatever fucked up trade deal Alcor had with Vogel. Her first big international project for years, and I was gonna wreck it. Secondly, I was gonna get money, and it didn't matter how. A thousand dollars or so, to get to Riyadh and buy cheap weapons. Then I'd stalk into Alcor's compound. I'd find her. I'd kill her. She'd feel my revenge.

For the past three years I'd been terrified of myself. Terrified of waking up covered in the blood of men I'd killed against my will. All these years I'd hated every disgusting vile murderous cell in my body. But now, I wanted to commit murder. I needed to. I fucking relished the thought of ending her life. Of snapping her neck while she lay sated and warm in my arms. And I'd gloat over her corpse.