A Thousand Cuts (Underworld Kings)

I wasn’t expecting the crash, the hand moving quickly, pain exploding across my face as he struck me with the butt of the gun. I had never been hit. Not once. Mama had threatened us with a wooden spoon countless times in our lives, but even she was not willing to hurt her children.

So I fell to the floor. Hard.

Even presented with the violence in front of me, I hadn’t expected the blow. It surprised me. I knew it must’ve hurt. It must’ve, because the blood from my mouth splattered on the pristine marble floor my Mama was so proud of. But I didn’t feel anything. Because I was completely paralyzed, numb. Yet I knew, beyond a doubt, that I was going to die today.

He gripped a handful of my hair, yanking at it so my neck stretched to the point I was sure it was going to snap.

“You’re going to tell me, dolcezza,” he snarled. “After I’ve had my taste.”

And then, it began.

My dress was torn off me. The beautiful white dress that was now covered in blood and filth. His hands went everywhere, went inside the places that Cristian had loved so reverently not twelve hours ago.

He was trying to erase that from me. The memory of Cristian, of happiness, pleasure and hope.

I held on to it. Even when my fingernails bled. Even while tears streamed down my face and dirt entered my bloodstream. I held on to Cristian until the end. I clutched onto the fact that I was saving my brother with every last breath.

Cristian

When I drove up and saw the gates were open, I knew something was wrong. The Don took the security of his estate seriously. Very fucking seriously. I knew that we were in peacetime, but I also knew that there was no way Vincentius would put his family at even the slightest risk. The blood splattering on the gatehouse told me something was wrong. Really fucking wrong.

My pulse spiked, heart in my throat, fear thrumming through me like a living thing.

I sped up the driveway, taking the winding turns at over fifty, skidding onto perfectly manicured lawns, praying to the Lord that they were okay. That she was okay.

No other cars were parked at the entrance. The Don’s Mercedes was always parked front and center if he was home, an announcement to any and all entering.

Maybe they were all gone. But the party was due to start in less than an hour. I knew that Mrs. Catalano would demand that Isabella be getting ready. She was the one I feared in the house, the one whose approval was still pending. She would know by now that I was planning on marrying Isabella. There was no way she would’ve left her alone. Not when she could try to talk some sense into her. For once, I hoped that Mrs. Catalano was there, trying to convince Isabella not to love me. I pitied whoever went up against her if they were trying to hurt her family.

My gun was drawn the second I screeched to a halt, bursting out of my car. There was training I should’ve remembered, tactics that Vincentius had taught me about approaching a potentially dangerous situation. I didn’t know who was in the house, friend or foe, the enemy could be right inside, ready to run a bullet through my head. But I didn’t think of that. I only thought of her. So I did not creep inside, keeping my eyes on corners, points where I could be ambushed.

No, I walked right in.

There were bloody footprints, and even though I had no reason to think this, I knew they were hers. There was nothing but a dull roar in my ears as I followed them through the house that was the only real home I’d ever known.

Then I found her, the only girl I’d ever loved.

Naked.

Covered in blood.

Full of holes.

My gun clattered to the ground as I fell to my knees beside her, my hands shaking.

“No. No. No,” I whispered, my voice sounding foreign and broken to my own ears.

I didn’t want to look at her. To have this image of her in my mind. The last time I saw her she was smiling, her face flushed with love, excitement and the memory of my touch. She’d smelled of vanilla and strawberries and me.

Her face was covered in blood. One eye swollen. Her hair matted and splayed messily on the floor.

I couldn’t look at her body. I fucking couldn’t. Couldn’t even touch her. I was too much of a coward. Because I knew that she wouldn’t be warm or soft. She’d be cold, lifeless. The girl I loved was not there anymore. She’d died a violent, wretched, unthinkable death.

Then there was a noise.

A low whimper. A creak.

I moved quickly, barely thinking, everything human about me ruined, shattered. I felt like nothing but a feral animal, intent on tearing apart anyone who had a part in this. I wanted to eat their fucking flesh.