Deviant Prince [Romano Brotherhood, #2]

7 | Massimo

I catch sight of myself in the mirror in my hallway, and I don't recognize the man there. His chest heaves. His eyes are wild and his face is set in cold determination. Hands reaching—either to brace myself against the wall to keep my body inside, or go find Vivienne. 

I can't fool myself. I know what was about to happen. 

I was on my way to kill her. Without consciously making the decision. Just another minute and I would have found a way into her home. 

Looking back at the chair my body left without my explicit permission, I realize I don't remember actually sitting there. How long was I sitting there? I turn my head woodenly to the window, taking in the pitch-black skies, and suddenly I can't remember. I can't remember what I've been doing all day or when it got so dark or anything at all about the last twelve hours.

Numbly, I go to my phone's security app and pull up the camera footage from today. My ragged breaths are the only sound in the apartment, suddenly deafeningly loud to me, and I swipe a thin sheen of sweat from my forehead.

I fast-forward rapidly through the day's footage but there's no point. It's all the same. It shows me sitting in that chair, staring unblinkingly at the wall for hours. 

Then, something catches my attention. A sudden inhale, a decisive movement. In the video, I stand and reach under the couch cushions. Then I watch myself walk out the door, a gun gripped tightly in my hand. 

♛

"Could a side effect of my medication be... disassociation?"

Adamo frowns at me around the rim of his coffee mug. The man drinks at least six cups a day—at all hours of the night, too. I've been telling him for years that it's wildly unnecessary and unhealthy.

"What exactly do you mean?"

"Disassociation," I say dryly. "Disconnection and lack of continuity between thoughts, memories, surroundings, actions, and identity."

"Yes, thank you, smartass. I'm the licensed therapist here," Adamo grumbles. "I meant what exactly are you experiencing?"

"I am experiencing disconnection and lack of continuity between th—"

"Alright," Adamo groans, rubbing a hand over his face. He seems more tired than usual, and I make a mental note to ask him if everything is alright with Sasha after this. "You're a therapist's nightmare, you know that?"

I wait in silence for him to get to my question, resisting the urge to drum my fingers on my thigh. I'm restless and more disturbed than I'm comfortable admitting, so I opted for an impromptu call with Adamo. It's past midnight, far later than we usually call, but I told him I needed to talk. 

The memories from earlier today returned, as they usually do. I have no way of knowing everything I did or said to Vivienne. But I know I threatened her. I know I interrupted her in the middle of heating up a pathetic looking frozen dinner, cuffed her, and shoved my gun down her throat. That's what I remember, along with snippets of our conversation.

"Vivienne, it doesn't have to be this way." 

"Tell that to your hand holding the fucking gun that's about to blow my brains out!"

"I told you to stay out of my business. You proved incapable of such a simple ask."

Blurry. But more of her voice. That clear sound underpinned with a soft layer of rasp whenever she raises her voice at me. 

"I don't know how you think people generally work, but the fact that it's happening next door instead of ten feet closer to me really doesn't make any difference. Now get your dirty gun out of my fucking mouth, Massimo."