Unholy Intent (Unholy Union 2)

He gets up and walks away. “Is on his way. Unless he’s a complete idiot, which honestly, he could be.” He’s back in front of me again. “Don’t worry, we’ll wait for him.” He leans toward me. “I wonder…” He trails off and pokes his finger in my belly, pushing me off balance.

I try to reach up for the rope as the noose tightens when gravity takes control, and for the first time in my life, I know—really know—how terrified my father must have been. I know how he must have felt in those final moments.

No, not moments.

Minutes.

Benedict Di Santo dragged them out.

“Gotcha,” he says, catching me. “Let’s take a selfie for my brother.”

I’m trying to get my hands back around the noose, trying to loosen it when the flash blinds me.

“Aww,” he says, checking the photo. He vacillates between madness and rage, and I’m not sure which is scarier. “You weren’t smiling. But I guess it’ll have to do.”

He hits send on the image, and it’s not even a second later that his phone dings with a message, then rings and rings and rings. Lucas finally shuts it off and sends it flying against the far wall, shattering it.

“He’s on his way,” he says to me more calmly, that rage sounding like it’s in check, but I know better. “We should get you ready.”

He grabs me by the waist, pulls me close, then sets me on my knees on my father’s chair.

“Please don’t do this. You don’t want to do this.”

He jerks me once. “How do you know what I want?”

“I don’t. I don’t, but I know what Damian wants. He told me. He told me everything.”

He doesn’t speak, but his eyes grow intent on mine.

“He doesn’t blame you. He loves you. And he wants you back. The way you two were.”

He snorts, but in his eyes, I swear I see a flash of someone different. Someone younger. Someone afraid. And I know he wants to believe me.

“He told me you were born holding hands. Your father poisoned you against each other, but it doesn’t have to be like that. Not anymore.”

Dark eyes search mine and I wonder if I’ve gotten through. If this is salvageable. But then a moment later, he chuckles.

“You know what’s really funny? And sad, actually. I think you really believe all that. I think he does too.” He tugs me close again, so close I feel his warm breath on my face when he speaks. “The thing is, I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it. Besides, he had a chance to stop all of this. He had a chance to put me out of my misery and to save you and you know what he chose? To save himself. He didn’t choose you and he didn’t choose me. He chose to save himself from a lifetime of guilt. Now get up.”

He lets me go and I shrink back, kneeling on my father’s chair. I remember how big it used to look to me. His favorite chair. Worn leather. The scent of the cigars he liked to smoke in here still clinging to the leather beneath that of the gasoline slowly creeping in here.

“I’d kiss you!” I cry out, desperate to stop this. I twist around so I can see him. He’s moved behind me, but the words come out choked because he’s tightening the rope.

He pauses. “Would you?”

“I would because you’re not a monster. I know it. I see it.”

He cocks his head, considers. “Really?”

I don’t understand. I can’t read him.

“I think you need glasses then,” he adds and starts to pull the rope.

I try to scream, but I can’t. I look up to watch the length of it move through the beam. Tears stream down my face as I stand, the chair moving beneath me on its wheels.

He’s going to hang me.

He’s going to hang me like his father hanged my father.

The chair stills.

“I got you, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

I try to drag in a breath.

“Don’t worry. Get on your feet now. Up. That’s it.”

I can breathe. There’s some slack in the rope. But as soon as I’m on my feet, he tightens it again, and that slack is gone, and I’m on tiptoe again.

If he moves, if he lets the chair go, I’m dead.

I look down at him and he looks up at me.

“You don’t want this,” I say, words choked.

“No, you’re right. I don’t want it for you. But I can’t let you go. Don’t you see? It has to end. And you’re the sacrifice. One way or another, you were always going to be the sacrifice. I’m sorry, Cristina.”

I think it’s the first authentic thing he’s said to me. And behind the madman, I see him again. I see that boy. The scared, hurt little boy.

But I also know it’s too late. Too late for him. Too late for me.