Page 25 of Devious Roses

Every single punch represents the countless he gave me as a boy. The many beatings I endured at his hands.

My knuckles split open from how brutal and hard I smash his face in. Yet I don’t slow down and I never show mercy. I go harder, I slam my fist into his ugly, taunting face again and again, pummeling him ’til I’ve broken apart his face. ’Til it’s nothing but a pound of shapeless, bloodied flesh.

He died punches ago. It dawns on me only after several minutes. His teeth lay scattered on the ground, knocked out or swallowed. His eyes swollen and dislodged. His skull dented and bashed in. He doesn’t even look human anymore.

Fitting that he wouldn’t in death. It’s what he deserves.

The stench of death crawls over the cell and joins the other rancid smells living inside here.

Slowly, I rise up and admire my knuckles. For a second, it’s a pleasant sight that brings a barbaric grin and sense of pleasure.

Then a hollowness emerges and eclipses any feeling of satisfaction. I expected the moment I killed him to be a crowning moment. It was supposed to be my biggest victory.

Yet, the pit in my stomach deepens. It’s the realization that nothing’s been solved. He’s gone and I didn’t get any answers as to what the fuck is going on.

In a way, he’s won.

The cell door cranks open and Stitches enters. He stops only a couple footsteps in.

“Lucius,” he croaks. “You… killed him?”

“Yeah,” I answer, turning away. “Have somebody clean this up and pulverize the body. Dispose of him in different places across the city.”

“Psycho…”

“Now.” I stride out of the cell, ignoring the shocked look on Stitches’s face. I’m too busy mulling over the last ‘fuck you’ Lucius ever gave me—what he called the ace in his back pocket.

7

delphine

Over the courseof the next week, I focus on developing a steady work/life balance. Eight hours becomes my standard workday. I make time for late afternoon runs in the city park, dragging Stitches along with me since he insists on providing security. He whines and clutches his side every step of the way, but doesn’t dare slow down—if he does, I’ll leave him in the dust.

My evenings are spent decompressing with the cats and testing if I can stay up late enough for Salvatore to make it home. Some nights, I succeed. I’m nodding off as he walks through the door exhausted from another day dealing with the rising tensions between the families and complications with his operation.

On two separate nights, he’s home for a shower and a quick moment with me. Then he’s gone, returning to Nirvana.

It seems there’s a piece he’s leaving out. Something that he’s not telling me.

His energy darkens. His behavior shifts, where he’s less playful and attentive the few hours he is home. I can sense he’s bothered by some sort of issue he won’t vocalize. Perhaps it really is the tension between families…. or maybe there’s some other threat looming that he hasn’t told me about.

I think of the firearms he brought me and wanted to stash throughout the loft. All for my protection. He called it an emergency situation in the event I needed it. The loft, the whole compound is heavily guarded 24/7, so I can’t imagine what scenario where I’d be trapped in the loft in need of a weapon….

What exactly is he afraid of?

I do my best not to question him much about it—he insists that any mafia-related complications remain outside of our home life. Though after hearing about the shooting, when I showed up to the club ready to do what was necessary, I’m grateful for it. I love Salvatore and will be by his side no matter what, but the danger of his profession can be overwhelming.

So I focus on staying calm and keeping my anxieties at bay. No nightmares, no panic, no confusing sense of discomfort like I’d experienced seeing Sasha Newton at the group therapy session.

It’s a name I don’t hear again until I’m sitting down among leafy plant life and bright flowers for lunch at Garden House. Medjine shows up with Carlos at her side. Since I’ve been working from home today, I haven’t seen either all day long.

The two are polar opposites in their greeting. Medjine, in a magenta shift dress, smiles brightly, while Carlos mutters hello with a scratch of his thinning head of hair.

“Stressed?”

“You’ve no idea.”

Medjine chuckles. “I told him we need to order him some kombucha with an extra shot of ginger.”