CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: MAXIMO
Ikilledhim.
No, I remind myself. He’s still alive and breathing, his breaths causing his chest to bump against mine as we stare at each other, but…
I could have killed him.
I wanted to.
I wanted to kill the one man who has proven to be more loyal to me than my own blood.
Because he fucked a woman that I’ve fucked countless times myself, with and without him. It’s not reasonable, I know it isn’t, but frankly I don’t give a fuck.
Enzo is mine.
He doesn’t have permission to share himself with anyone else. Even when we engage in sex with others, I know who the fuck he’s trying to please and it certainly isn’t the man or woman that he has his cock buried in at the time. It’s me.
It’s always me.
Until now.
Because once again, Winter Chastine is causing fucking problems.
Enzo wasn’t the only one I’d been pissed about giving their body away. Winter is like Enzo, she’s supposed to do what I tell her. I don’t give a fuck about her fucking my brother or even Bianchi, most of the time.
But Enzo is off of limits. His dick only dips where I tell it to, and that includes Winter’s tight cunt.
I bury my fists into the wall, right next to the bullet hole that I’ve just put in the panel. Plaster explodes under my hand and I feel something crack in my hand but I don’t give a fuck.
I slam my hand into the wall again, making another hole.
Pain shoots up my arm but I pull my hand back again.
A hand wraps around my wrist and my gaze snaps to Enzo. His head is still on the opposite side of the bullet hole. He hadn’t even flinched when I’d let the shot off, even though I’m sure it nearly burst his eardrum, if it actually hadn’t. At the least, I’d expected for one of his episodes to hit, but he’d remained eerily still, his eyes watching me the entire time.
I could have killed him.
Now, his stupid eyes are full of concern as he holds onto my wrist, trying to keep me from causing further damage to myself.
Pissed off enough to yell at me, but not enough to let me self-destruct.
I snatch my wrist away from him, burying my fist into the wall one more fucking time for good measure. Something’s broken, I can feel it, maybe a knuckle or even a whole finger but I revel in the pain, letting it control me.
“I’ll call the doctor,” Giovanni says from behind me.
I turn, finding him still clutching the gun he’d snatched from me after I’d fired the shot. I couldn’t tell if the shock on his face was because I’d nearly killed Enzo or because I didn’t.
The fucking audacity.
He just fucking drowned Winter last week and now he’s looking at me as if I’m the one who’s a psychopath just for shooting a little too close to Enzo’s head.
“I’m fine,” I tell him.
“You’re not,” he says and his face is much softer than I’ve seen it in a long fucking time. It's the same look he’d give me when he’d take care of me after our father beat me.
He purses his lips, something moving over his face before he turns around heading for the door. He pauses, turning around and coming back over to me. He kneels down and I’m not surprised when he grabs my secondary gun that I keep at my ankle. He stuffs it into his suit pocket.
He pats down my pockets, taking my knives. “You got anything else?” he asks.