Sandro sank deeper into the plush couch, relishing in the feeling of contentment that washed over him. He couldn't help but feel a sense of mirth, his shoulders shaking with dark laughter that threatened to spill from his lips. The condo was a work of art, a masterpiece that blended luxury and simplicity seamlessly. She had redecorated the place herself, years ago, worked so hard to make the perfect backdrop for the worst breakup of his life, and although he usually avoided this condo like the plague, he couldn't help but admire the beauty of it all.
"It could be cute, our secret hideaway... somewhere just for us." She'd growled throwing a book of paint swatches at him
He used to despise how impatient she was, her constant need for urgency, how everything was immediate and an emergency to her. He felt something much stronger than hate towards her. As he sat in the shadows of the condo, Sandro reflected on the memories that once tormented him, he was now strong enough to resist the ghostly presence of her memories. His skin was too thick for the claws of the days when every corner of the condo was filled with her presence. He could ignore her breathy moans or heart-fluttering laughter echoing through the walls. He could withstand his brain bleeding softly from the sharp-edged memories of the soft glow of the morning sun illuminating her features as she woke up in the lake-facing bedroom, surrounded by all the things that strived to be as beautiful as she was, smiling softly up at him as if heaven wasn't high enough a cliff to fall off. There was a time when the world seemed to shrink into her every breath, and Sandro would have done anything to keep her by his side. But now, he refused to let her memory control him any longer.
Instead, he turned his attention to the stunning painting that hung on the wall, admiring the way it seemed to come to life under the moon's gentle glow. As he waited for his guest to arrive, Sandro ran his fingers along the velvety couch, relishing in its soft texture. He couldn't help but laugh to himself as he thought about her planned art heist. He had anticipated her every move and was ready for her, including this unsolicited trip into his home. That impatience that drove him wild just a few years ago, Sandro now found darkly amusing. He'd always appreciated her tenacity and admired her for going after what she wanted, now he waited patiently, listening intently for the sound of the door. He knew that she was coming, that she had fallen right into his trap, that this time he would send her right back to hell where she belonged.
Sandro hears the door, listening intently to the mumbling sounds as she says something to someone over an earpiece; a getaway driver. Probably the same improbably handsome devil from the gala, a problem Sandro was destined to deal with later. He reached for the dark duffel bag on the floor, watching her saunter into his room in the pitch dark as if she'd never left, never forgotten a single detail of its layout and fully trusted that he hadn't changed a single thing in the years since she'd been here. He watched her move closer and closer to the center of the seal of Solomon, knowing that he had her right where he wanted her. He couldn't help but gloat, knowing that he had won the battle and she was about to pay the price for her past mistakes.
As Sandro prepared to strike, a sense of satisfaction washed over him. He flipped the button and watched as white powder fell from the skylight above Awuor. She let out a small gasp as the lights flickered on, disoriented for a moment before hearing Sandro's voice hissing a Latin chant at her.
"Dilecte Deus, divina virtute sigilli Salomonis, hunc daemonium mitte ad inferni foveas, ubi ipsa est!" The gruff voice hissed
In the reading nook where they had once cuddled together, Sandro stood over her, his dark voice sending shivers down her spine. She tried to speak, but her voice was muffled by the dark turtleneck that covered half of her face.
"I thought you never came here," she sighed, her cameras having spotted him in London just half an hour ago.
Sandro eyed her outfit as if calculating why she was there; dark cargo pants, sneakers, turtleneck pulled up to cover half her face, dark beanie-she wasn't here for a coffee. He moved closer, his mouth twisting into a dark smile as he surveyed her. As expected she made a gorgeous burglar.
"You were always too pretty to think," he said, his voice eerily calm.
His gaze fell to her feet, and he smirked to himself. Perfect.
"You weren't exactly Socrates either," she cooed back, her gaze following his to her feet where the white powder had made a pattern around her.
As she recognized the powder as salt, her eyebrows furrowed. Sandro sneered at her, satisfied that he had caught the evil being in his trap.
"That's because I was in love and out of my mind... but now... my mind's never been clearer," he said, his voice full of contempt.
"My condolences to your wife," she tutted, heartless and cruel as ever.
They stood facing each other now, their eyes locked in a heated wordless argument. Sandro could feel his blood boiling with anger as he glared at her, his lips curled into a sneer. Awuor, on the other hand, was calm and collected, her eyes shining prettily in the moonlight as if to tempt him to rip the turtleneck off her face and kiss her. Sandro couldn't decide if it was despite or because of her being a being of pure evil that he found it hard to deny the allure of her beauty. Suddenly, her eyes smiled up at him, as if to reassure him that his hunger for her would never be sated.
"Ti lego agli abissi dell'inferno per comando del sigillo di Salomone," Sandro growled, opening the vial of holy water and spraying it on her.
However, to his surprise, there was no reaction from Awuor, no hissing, no cussing, no foaming at the mouth, turning into purple goo, or smoking as she turned to ash. The Vatican's water wasn't holy enough to cast her out of this realm, probably all that pedophilia had weakened its power. Nevertheless, the seal of Solomon seemed to hold her in place. She hadn't moved an inch since the pentagram settled perfectly at her feet, not even as he poured the holy water on her.
Awuor smiled softly through the fury of the wet turtleneck, pursing her lips and subtly taking in a deep breath. She should be grateful, if it wasn't for the cool splash of water she would've done something she had no right to, something she was bound to regret.
"Give me the painting Alex..." She starts, her voice calm and soft. "You'll never have to see me again."
Their eyes still locked in a tense gaze, Sandro felt something shift within him, causing him to feel nauseous. Even when he only knew her face in his nightmares, even when it was just her silhouette haunting his dreams her beauty was something to write epic odes about.
"I hate you," Sandro said, his voice low and deadly.
He removed his tie and threw it off, his movements were precise and controlled, almost like he was trying to intimidate her.
"I know," Awuor sighed, nodding her head. "It would be weird if you didn't."
Half her face was still trapped under the turtleneck but Sandro could see the sincerity in her eyes, which hurt him far worse than any hurt he'd hoped to spark in hers. He didn't believe that she was capable of being sorry. She had made him love her, made his life impossible to live without her and then hurt and abandoned him with neither rhyme nor reason. He'd been lost at sea since, his grip on reality faltered completely. Even his worst enemy wouldn't have conjured a pain as diabolical as the one she'd plunged him into. He could orphan the devil's son, someone cruel and destined for evil, and still their revenge on him wouldn't make a monster as cruel as the woman dismissing his pain with a mockery of understanding.
She knows?!
She didn't know, couldn't know just how much worse than hate his feelings for her were! He hadn't even kissed her, and yet he felt as if the ground beneath his feet was shaking, threatening to pull him down to his knees as the two of them stood there in silence, locked in each other's gaze.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he said huskily, his voice low and deadly. "You know that? Visto che sai tutto, cazzo!"
His stomach knots; prolonged exposure, Sandro reminds himself. Prolonged exposure was deadly. Awuor bit her lip, refusing to say anything back. She knew he was capable of anything when it came to her, and his intense gaze was enough to make her heart race. But she also knew that giving in to him would only lead to more pain and heartache. They were both trapped in a dangerous game of love and hate, and it was only a matter of time before someone got hurt again.
With a swift motion, he pulled down her turtleneck, his voice dry and dark as he spoke. "I don't want your money, princess."
He then turned his attention to the top button of his shirt, all the while his desire for her palpable.
As Awuor's gaze drifted towards the bed, she couldn't help but wonder if Sandro was truly going to go through with it. He had purposely placed the painting in his bedroom, and now she was left grappling with the thought of what he might want in return.
"The only thing I want..." his eyes fell to her lips hungrily, fire, infernos and urges so amplified in his veins he couldn't tell you how he was managing to temper them.
One night.
Was that the price of the painting?
Her apprehension only grew as she looked into Sandro's unwavering gaze. "Please, Alex," she implored softly, hoping for mercy. "Just give me the painting."
But Sandro was not so easily swayed. Too many past hurts and disappointments governed his actions. As he stepped closer to her, Awuor couldn't help but feel a shiver run down her spine, unsure of what he had in store for her.
"is to smile each time I see this painting, knowing that I have it and you... don't." he tipped her chin up to level their gazes
"I don't love you anymore." Awuor's voice shook with emotion as she stood before Sandro, her fists tightly clenched and her eyes shut tightly. She had been rehearsing what she wanted to say for days, but the words still felt foreign on her tongue.
But Sandro, who had been reading a book, didn't seem to take her seriously. He looked up and grinned, teasingly asking "What? Did I forget to put the toilet seat down again?"
Awuor took a deep breath, steeling herself against the pain that was sure to come. "I'm serious Alex, we should break up." she finally said.
Sandro's shoulders slumped, and he put down his book. "We've tried breaking up, what four?five times before," he said, his voice resigned. "It never works."
But then, his face brightened with a hint of mischief. "Maybe we should try something new this time," he suggested, walking towards her with a sly grin.
Awuor didn't find his teasing funny, but she couldn't help but feel a small smile tease at her lips. "Like what?" she asked, her curiosity piqued, her fists uncurling and her eyes opening to reveal the tears that had been threatening to spill over.
Sandro didn't say anything for a long moment, he ran a hand through his hair, reading something in her teary eyes but finally he let out a deep sigh and pulled her into his arms.
"Like... divorce." He said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The word felt foreign to Awuor, and she shook her head. "We'd have to be married to get divorced," she pointed out.
Sandro grinned teasingly. "Was that you... asking me to marry you, princess?" he asked, grabbing hold of the little fist banging against his chest
"Your so bold my little princess, proposing to me without a ring or anything." He cooed, Awuor couldn't help but laugh, despite the pain she was feeling.
"There's other options." He contemplated "Identity theft..." he pressed his lips just under her ear "framing each other for international war crimes." He pressed his lips into the nook of her neck, she moans.