Xenia Butler
From the moment you enter this world, you must be prepared for its end. Problem was, I'd never been.
Whenever Ivan threatened me with punishment for being different, I'd hide behind my sister, relying on her to come to my defense. Without fail, her assertiveness had a calming effect on Ivan's aggression.
Similarly, when Greg attempted to manipulate me with suggestive remarks, Joanna would interject with her own words, diffusing the tension. Even when men cornered me with less than good intentions, Joanna fearlessly confronted the perpetrators, showing no tolerance for their cowardice
Joanna was my divine consolation for the loss of my parents, and perhaps Ivan served as hers. The crucial thing is, Joanna had been present for every close encounter with death I faced, yet she was never there when Romano was involved. Romano represented my latest brush with mortality, along with everyone connected to him.
The fear of dying had never gripped me as intensely as it did when Ottavio pulled the trigger. The absence of Joanna in that moment caused my heart to seize before the bullet could end my life. Dread drowned me before awareness took its place.
I was dead.
No?
As I pressed my hands against my stomach, expecting to feel the searing pain of a bullet wound, I was met with dried blood—Romano's. The fabric had no sign of fresh injury. A loud ringing filled my ears, forcing me to pry my eyes open.
Tension pervaded the air, thick and suffocating, making it hard to breathe. Without moving a muscle, Ottavio quickly stowed the gun in his waistband with a dangerous swiftness that raised red flags in my mind. I saw the rage burning in his eyes, the determination etched into his features. His fists clenched tightly, struggling to contain his urge to lash out. Refraining from punching someone's face in was an exercise in restraint for him.
Fear had momentarily clouded my vision, but with a few rapid blinks, I managed to clear it. Before me stood Romano in the doorway, his injury tended to with care, a bandage covering the wound along with a black splint supporting his injured arm against his chest. His bare torso revealed a cleanliness from blood, though subtle crimson streaks still marked his skin.
Those lines of red seemed to strengthen his burgeoning aura, as if surviving death had only emboldened him to flirt with danger once more.
In a panic, I thought I'd been shot dead, once again realizing it was the familiar feeling of being in over my head washing over me. I was only just realizing that it had been the sound of the door knob swinging open, not the gun pointed at me going off.
I let out a loud, audible sigh, releasing all the trapped air from my lungs in one go. My eyes darted around frantically, feeling utterly pathetic.
Romano seemed oblivious to the fact that a gun had just been aimed at my head because he held no kind of anger, worry or confusion. Just a blank stare at me. While it might have been a relief for Ottavio, it certainly wasn't for me.
As I realized that Romano had arrived just in time to prevent a bullet from piercing my skull, I lowered my gaze, feeling a mix of gratitude and shame. It was then that I noticed the metallic taste of blood on my tongue. I had bitten down hard on the inside of my lip in anticipation of death.
Romano's gruff, throaty voice with a touch of slur dissected the situation, asking, "What's the reason for your kneeling?"
Taking another glimpse at him, I realized he had used his unaffected hand to effectively push Ottavio aside, ensuring a clear path. Unaware that I was still kneeling, I gathered my resolve and rose to my feet. My teeth gnashed against my lips, unintentionally spreading the blood further within my mouth.
With my tears wiped away, I opted to watch the tension thickening around the men standing before me.
They exchanged glares like daggers, each emanating a different blend of emotion. On one side, anger and resentment simmered, while on the other, there was a mix of rage and confusion. It was as if an invisible barrier, thick with their deadly emotions, enveloped and trapped them in a suffocating space.
Ottavio's narrowed eyes betrayed his anger too readily, but Romano's gaze was a different story altogether. It was like staring into a bottomless pit, where light dared not approach. A darkness so profound, it seemed to tear through the very air around him, viscous and oppressive, invulnerable to any glitter of mercy.
"Why were you kneeling, Xenia? I won't ask again," The unsettling aspect of Romano's question wasn't just its suffocating tone, but the fact that he directed it at Ottavio, not me, but expected answers from the both of us.
If you were to take a knife and slice through the air, you could practically divide the suspense and lingering rage into two equal halves.
One part of me urged to respond hastily, even if it meant lying. I bit my lip, the words struggling to form. "I... Romano, we... The..." I exhaled sharply, releasing the tension suffocating me. "Ottavio was—"
"Shut up!" Ottavio hollered, his attention dead on Romano.
"And you'll never speak to her that way again. Not ever, Ottavio Morelli."
My eyes widened to saucers as I glanced between them. Ottavio stood mere inches from shoving Romano's chest, affirming his dominance.
"Oh, so now we're on last name basis?" Ottavio's tense laugh was smothered by Romano's unapologetic one.
"You're familiar with the saying about using last names - it's either a sign of respect or a warning that someone's in for trouble." Romano's jaw ticked. "In your case, I think you know which it is."
"Over a girl?" Shock entered Ottavio's expression and stayed there. "Over this girl?"
Romano's silence was a dead affirmation. No nod, no yes, no glint in his eyes, just dead silence that could not have possibly said yes any better.
I inhaled sharply, attempting to dispel the sinking sensation in my stomach. The direction this was heading felt dangerously destructive. Would they simply engage in a silent standoff, staring each other down until one relented and threw the first punch, or worse, drew a gun?
This was were I lost my bearings. No, no, no—my mind reeled with that warning. Gathering my courage to stop the madness I began, "It wasn't Ottavio's fault—"
"So it was yours, then?"
I waved my head in protest at Ottavio's accusation and closed the distance until I was standing just a foot away from Romano. Against my better judgment, I reached out and touched him, but he refused to cave.
"I thought you understood me..."
"No," Ottavio returned his gaze to his perceived threat. "I thought we understood this"—that was clearly me and Romano—"couldn't be an item. And yet, she's there when you're shot, she's your little spy, the center of your attention, the reason why you're hardly at the club or with your wife—"
"Jesus, Ottavio. You're talking too much," Romano's voice was a hiss of irritation. "You just open your mouth and let the nonsense flow, don't you?"
Just like that, the tension reached its peak and dissipated just as quickly. Romano turned, and I instinctively stepped aside. I battled the urge to believe he wanted me to remain hidden, yet perhaps secretly pleased by that possibility. If Ottavio was already angry with my minimal involvement in the situation, how much more would he react when he realized I wasn't going anywhere soon?
Romano made his way to the sink, rinsing his hand by placing it just under the tap—clearly avoiding the lingering tension. "This place reeks of fucking blood," he muttered under his breath as his throat scratched.
He tilted his head forward and retched into the sink, his body leaning heavily against the ceramic.
"You need to lie down," I finally interjected. I considered moving closer to emphasize my point, but refrained. It seemed I was being ignored from both sides.
I couldn't tell if it was the effects of the anesthesia or the regressive nature of the moment that left him so drained. He appeared incredibly frail, so much so that I noticed his body sagging as he finished rinsing himself.
As if Ottavio sensed Romano's weakening knees and imminent collapse, he wheezed past me and caught him just before he hit the ground completely. Romano hung limp against Ottavio's shoulder as Ottavio struggled to support his weight. Seeing their struggle, I rushed to lend a hand.
Together, though I was surprised Ottavio didn't protest, we managed to carry Romano back to the room and gently lay him down on the bed.
Are you going to be okay?" I murmured to myself, kneeling on the bed beside him, one knee pressed against the mattress. I gently stroked his face and, to my surprise, received a response from behind me.
"It'll pass. Just disorientation from the drug, nothing he hasn't endured before," came the unexpected reply, offering a surprisingly polite reassurance.
"Watch him. Security will be here in a minute," he added abruptly, stopping as if remembering something important. Before I could even protest, he emphasized, "Don't. Fucking. Slack off."
I could afford to wait a while longer, but any further delay would land me in hot water with my people. I gave him a nod of acknowledgment. "Hey, Ottavio."
He halted once more and reeled again, his jaw clenched, eyes coldly fixed on me.
"I would never hurt him. This wasn't me. I understand things are complicated, but this situation isn't within my control. I'm not asking for your trust, alright? I'm asking you to at least consider the logic behind it." I spoke slowly, battling the tightness in my throat. "If I discover Ivan's involvement in this shooting, I won't keep it to myself."
For what felt like an eternity, there was no reaction, no rejection, no approval—just a heavy silence that hung in the air, thickening the atmosphere.
"Consider what I've said. Think about disappearing and sticking to your decision," he finally uttered, before leaving me to ponder throughout the night.
Hours later, not minutes, the promised security finally arrived. Two unfamiliar men entered, checking on Romano and inspecting my blood-stained shirt with suspicion. However, they left the room not long after without causing any trouble. I could grow accustomed to the presence of the enemy's guards circling around me without experiencing the feeling of being a target. Maybe.
The men stationed themselves outside the house, warding off potential threats while I struggled to stay alert, pacing the room's length and focusing on my breathing. Romano slept peacefully like a baby, as if he had never experienced a moment of rest in his entire life—remaining in one position for over an hour, occasionally grumbling as he attempted to change positions. This routine continued until I eventually decided to clean myself up.
I discarded the top, not wanting any reminders of the moment I had nearly lost him, rather than being unable to wash away the gore. Romano had a few old clothes in his wardrobe, so I rummaged through them until I found a white T-shirt.
Glancing at my phone again, still on airplane mode, I noted the time: 3:18 AM. I decided to stay the night, resolved to come up with something to say in the morning to Ivan or Joe. Some might call it a bold move, but to me, it felt more like a cautious one—I needed to be there in case he woke up and needed something.
Since I couldn't take up a gun to seek revenge on whoever was responsible for this, I chose to make myself more valuable in other ways.
###
I left the cabin later than planned, lingering in hopes that Romano would awaken. However, when he still hadn't stirred and my patience wore thin, I finally departed. Luckily, Joanna had yet to return from the bordello when I arrived at the house. According to Mac, one of Ivan's men, Ivan himself was away from Bologna on business. Joanna's absence was likely due to Ivan's. If he were in Bologna, she'd be back early from work. I learned Ivan had left the previous evening and wasn't expected back just yet. Thankfully, Greg was accompanying him on the beautiful trip.
The revelation sparked my curiosity. If Ivan had been behind Romano's shooting or had orchestrated it, I suspected he would have stayed back to ensure the attack had a lasting impact, or at least the desired effect. However, it wasn't entirely out of character for him to leave abruptly either.
With the opportunity to move freely around town without the watchful eyes of the others who only cared because Ivan demanded it or Joanna's unwavering concern for my well-being since the incident she believed I'd endured, I felt safe to continue my deception. In fact, I even regretted returning so soon. I mean, no one had even noticed or cared for my absence.
I quickly freshened up and changed into a new pair of ripped jeans and a black top, avoiding any bright color that could easily retain something like the gore of last night. With a plan to return to the cabin before midday, I stopped by a takeout restaurant to grab some food just in case
As I reached the cabin patio and was granted entry by the two new guards stationed outside, I confidently strolled in. However, before I could even get my bearings, I collided with a solid chest. My initial instinct was to yell in shock, but a firm palm covered my mouth, stifling the scream. Reflexively, I gripped the food bag to prevent it from falling as I was pulled back onto the patio.
Unable to gauge whether it was a guard or one of the men from their family who had caught hold of me, as he was significantly taller, my head remained unable to lift due to his firm grip to keep me stable.
I found myself back on the patio, a strong hand pulled me to the side and releasing me to nearly tumble miserably. I found my footing quickly. It was only then that I realized who had been holding me all along—Ottavio. My eyes widened in surprise, but before I could voice my confusion, he pressed a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. Then, he discreetly pointed ahead.
Following his gaze, I spotted a car that didn't belong to Romano, Ottavio, or any other man in the TIF, as far as I was aware. Most of them typically drove black or other muted-colored vehicles. Ottavio's car was blue, while Romano's was black. However, the car before me stood out—a pink convertible elegantly positioned near a row of towering, leafless trees. The splash of pink lent a touch of vibrancy to the scene, but my instincts immediately hinted at the reason for its presence and owner.
Certainly Romano's wife.
"She's here?" I couldn't help but mutter out my apprehension before I could stop myself.
Ottavio shot me a look that practically screamed, "Yes, get your ass out," and it tightened my chest uncomfortably.
"Oh?" I forced out, swallowing hard.
I felt a pang of disappointment. Logically, I knew they weren't likely making love, considering Romano's injury. She was probably here after hearing the news or at Ottavio's behest, possibly for his personal and vindictive reasons. But irrespective of my knowledge of this, jealousy still coursed through me, from my spine to my gut.
He took the food bag from me, but instead of tossing it into the bushes as I feared, he inspected the contents of the first box, almost as if he were sniffing it, before giving a sarcastic frown. "He's not fond of eggs in any form."
"That's my food," I shot back defensively. I may not have known Romano's likes and dislikes entirely, but I certainly couldn't fail at the simplest of tasks, especially after he had taken the time to list a few things he couldn't stand eating the day he had taken me out for a meal.
I remembered how Romano had practically stared at my food with almost disgust throughout the course of that meal simply because I had ordered Mushroom Frittata.
"Ugh, Dio," he had faked a retch, eyes disgustingly glaring at my chewing mouth. "I hate the smell of eggs, the sight of mushrooms, and would never be caught drinking flavored kombucha, because I hate the taste of it."
As Ottavio's brows furrowed and drew together while inspecting the second box, it remained clear that he was hoping to find something that would justify tossing the entire meal away.
But to his disappointment, there was nothing.
With a resigned sigh, he closed the box and shoved the bag back into my waiting palm. "Wait out here, she's leaving soon," he instructed before disappearing back into the house.
Feeling surprised that he had even given me that kind of consideration, my lips formed a small smiled, and I quietly made my way down the side stairs of the patio, opting to hide myself from view in case she happened to leave.
A short while later, my phone chimed in my pocket with a message from...speak of the devil.
Urgent: Ottavio says you're outside.
This was the moment where I was supposed to express my concerns about the situation, acknowledge the madness and immorality of it all and quit, but instead, I chose to type something simple.
Me: I am. He kindly asked me to wait.
Urgent: Why would he do that?
Me: Uh... you've got company, remember?
I had intentionally avoided using "wife" for obvious reasons. Jealousy.
Urgent: Xenia, ugh...fuck. Come. In!
My breath caught in my throat. He must be joking, right? Certainly, that wasn't real. Suddenly, my earlier dream made perfect sense. If he had this kind of audacity, I wouldn't be surprised if I ended up with a bullet in my chest from a scorned woman soon enough.
In fact, if she recognized me and knew about the death sentence hanging over my head for over a month, she'd likely take that information to the person who needed it most, and he would use it to secure journey to hell. But above all, the reason I ignored that message and chose to wait was because it would be foolish of me to stride in as if I were the wife and she the mistress. I understood my position, and although not satisfied with it, I saw no benefit in assuming a different role as it was.
Shortly after, I caught snippets of voices rising and falling in a tumultuous exchange. Before I could find a better vantage point to reassure myself that the argument hadn't erupted because of my presence, the female voice grew louder and more distinct—it was because she had arrived at the entrance.
"It's all about the whores, isn't it!" I heard clearly, ducking near the wall. My heart pounded fiercely. "You avoid your wife because of them! Instead of coming home to me, you'd rather stay out here in the middle of nowhere because of a stupid bullet wound - like it's the first time you've been shot."
"He's here for safety, not to heal, understand that," Ottavio's voice interjected. "This will blow over soon, and he'll be back with you. But first, we need to assess the threat."
"A load of nonsense!" she shouted back. "It's not like he has anything meaningful to do at the apartment except flex his huge muscles. Da!"
Flex...what? The statement coldly echoed in my mind, and I nearly screamed. Didn't that imply he abused her? Or...I chose not to get ahead of myself. Though I wanted to see the expression on their faces as they addressed this, I resisted the urge to peek, knowing that if I were caught...well, the rest was obvious.
From Ottavio's silence, perhaps he was aware of her accusation. Maybe... God. Shut up, Xenia.
"Well," Ottavio eventually spoke up again. "Let's just stay hopeful."
"You wouldn't come to me if he's sleeping with other women because you're no different, so I can't believe a word from your mouth." There was some struggling, then, "let. me. go."
In the midst of all this chaos, Romano's voice remained conspicuously absent. I doubted he was even there.
Luciana's voice dropped dangerously low, laced with a threatening tone as she addressed Ottavio, "If he thinks this resistance will grant him a divorce from me, he should act like a real man. I'd sooner slit my wrist than give in."
"That's none of my business," Ottavio retorted.
"Fuck off!"
The sound of her shoe heels hitting the floor echoed through the tense atmosphere. A beep resonated from the car, followed by the forced opening and slamming shut of a door. Shortly after, the engine roared to life, and with a screech, she was gone, leaving behind a trail of dust and fumes.
Emerging slowly from my hiding spot, my legs trembled with fear and rejection. All I wanted was to leave—right now. But I found myself walking in the opposite direction. Nausea churned in my stomach, my head throbbed fiercely at the back of my skull, and sweat trickled down my back.
When I dared to lift my eyes, Ottavio's intense gaze locked onto mine. His nod signaled for me to go now inside. I sluggishly did, and he closed the door behind me. But as I hesitated, waiting to see if he would follow, I realized his distorted reflection in the opaque glass had already faded away as he vanished from behind the door.
Romano's room door was slightly ajar. Carefully, I peeked inside, hoping he wouldn't notice my presence. He lay unperturbed on the bed, uninjured arm tucked under his head, his gaze planted on the slowly rotating ceiling fan.
After a moment, he sat up and reached down to grab something from the floor near his left foot. A bottle of whiskey.
Taking that as my cue, I entered the room. "Food, not liquor," I stated firmly, putting a pause to his gulp midway. His eyes snapped up to meet mine, softening as they dawdled on me.
Regardless of my warning, he took the long-awaited gulp from the bottle, and then waved his hand to beckon me closer. "Goddamn...I'm fucking starving," he pointed out with an appreciative knit of his brows. "Thank you. You're so resourceful."
After unpacking the food, I handed him his box while he sat on the bed. He opened it and paused, as if trying to judge the quality of the food just by looking at it. Then, a small, almost commendatory smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
I dropped my own food, suddenly losing my appetite, and settled into the chair positioned in a confrontational manner before him. "How are you holding up?" My try was soft and unintentional kind.
The words came out mid-bite as he dug into his pasta with his actively working left hand. "Alive."
Though fatigued, he seemed well enough, even somewhat content.
"You get two lunches and then decide to stare at me while I eat?" he chuckled roughly with sarcasm. "Not that I mind your attention," he added, holding my gaze as he curled the fork into his mouth unintentionally, yet with a suggestive air. "I know you're not telling me something."
My heart seemed to stop as time slowed. Where had I gone wrong? My eyes dropped to the floor, and I stood up abruptly, pacing back and forth to try and ease my nerves. Nothing.
"You know I'm not going to do anything to you for speaking, right?"
Truly. I nodded, understanding his meaning, which was why I didn't hesitate before voicing my question. "Do you... hit her?" His expression demanded clarification, so I continued, "Your wife."