“Luca!” Art calls my name while the knife slides out of my body, and I’m shoved to the floor. My head smacks against the hard porcelain tiles, and I almost feel my brain quaking inside my skull.
Then a shadow looms over me, Mario holding a knife, his bloody face twisted in a murderous grimace.
I hear a snarl before Art appears. He swings his arm, striking Mario’s face with a heavy-looking crystal ashtray. Twice. Mario’s eyes roll to the back of his head as he crumbles to the ground.
Fucking hell! My brat is incredible.
I sit up and look for the Enzino killer, finding it a couple of feet from me—I must have dropped it while pummeling the dirtbag into the floor. I grab it, clenching my teeth against the sting in my side. I kneel near his wheezing body and, holding the blade with both hands, I thrust it right into his heart.
“Five times,” I whisper into his ear, pulling the blade out. “You stabbed my mother five times.” I sink the knife again and again and again and again. Then I give it a sharp twist. “This—is for Art.” And twist the blade again, turning the black organ into a bloody pulp, until it’s done. Until his evil spirit leaves him. This is how a bastard like him ends—in blood and the ashes of everything he destroyed.
I sit and let my head drop back as I take a long, purifying breath. I did it, Mother. I avenged you. The debt he owed you is finally paid—with his death.
Bang! Bang! My head snaps straight, and I spring to my feet as I hear the sound of bullets. Art is standing over Mario’s body. My gun is in his hand, aimed at his brother’s dead body, smoke coming from the muzzle.
“Roaches need a double tap,” he explains, still looking at his brother’s corpse with a wary expression. The gun is out of bullets, but he keeps pulling the trigger a couple more times.
I crouch down and grab Mario’s already broken jaw. I yank at it using all my strength until I feel the crack as I rip it off his face.
“Convinced now?” I toss it on the floor and stand again, wincing as I pull the injury on my side.
Art drops the pistol and closes the two steps between us, to part the side of my jacket and look at the wound.
“Are you okay?” He looks worried. I fucking like that.
I clean my bloody hands on my already dirty pocket square as best as I can and then move a blond lock of hair from his forehead with my thumb as I drown in the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.
“It didn’t pierce any organs—I’ll survive.” As soon as I finish the sentence, Art’s hand delivers a hard slap on my cheek.
“Fuck was that for?” I ask him with a rumble.
“Did it hurt?” He frowns at me.
“Yes, it fucking did.”
“This isn’t a dream, then.” He smiles for a second before the frown is back. “If it is, you are dead meat!” His little hand grabs what remains of my necktie, pulling me down—or trying to.
I grit my teeth—I’m going to lose them all at this rate. “Shouldn’t you have slapped yourself?”
“Can’t ruin my makeup.” He sniffs.
Why the fuck do I find his insanely bratty attitude cute? I grab him by the hair and halt. In this position, the light coming from the window hits his face, revealing new bruises under the makeup. I can only imagine what he had to endure in the last two days.
“I fucking hate it. Hate that I left you alone. Hate that I’d have probably let you go back to them anyway if you hadn’t left by yourself. I hate that I let pain touch you again.” I growl, letting all the disgust toward myself come out. I stop his shaking head and push my thumb over his lips because I need to say more. “I want to tear you apart only to put you back together again. Because I know where all your crazy, annoying, fucking beautiful pieces go, I know the right place for them. With mine.” I savor his shocked expression, those little hands covering that sassy, slutty, skilled mouth. “I am the only one who can fuck you and fuck with you. Nobody else, because if they try…” I point at the dead body on the floor. Dead. I’ll enjoy seeing them suffer beforecutting their chests open and squashing their hearts with my bare hand.
“You killed my brother for your vendetta,” he states, kissing my thumb.
“And for you, a gift for you.”
“Some men give chocolate,” he teases me, not in the least horrified by my gory present.
“Some men haven’t got the size of my cock.” I raise my eyebrow at him.
He crosses his arms, but he isn’t able to stifle his smile. “Such a romantic.” He snorts. “Although I do appreciate your national treasure very much.”
I grab his ass and pull his body against mine—gently. His hands land on my pecs.
“I’m also grateful you killed the sick bastard,” he confesses, looking up at me all vulnerable and lovely.