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“I thought we were friends,” Luca calls after me, and I take the time to slowly turn around. “You could have delegated this job to Lucian or Vito, yet you chose to come down here and punish me yourself. Why?”
I look at the man I’ve known all my life and smile.
“Because weakness is the ruin of men, and I like to test myself against it,” I answer him honestly, as I head out the door, ordering my father's men to untie him and let him go.
“That scratch an itch, boss?” Vito smirks as he holds the door open for me to get into the back of the car.
“Not nearly enough. Take me to Wingates,” I order him as I check my phone and open the app that's linked to the cameras in my home. I smile to myself when I see Madalina sitting on the couch with her feet up, she’s enthralled by whatever it is she’s watching on the TV and looks right at home. Just as she should. I stare at the screen watching her until the car stops and Vito opens the door for me.
“I won’t be long, I assure him as I step through the doors to the clinic and smile at the nurse sitting at the reception desk.
“Mr. DeMarco, we weren’t expecting you.” She smiles as she picks up a folder and if she’s curious about the blood that I’m decorated with she hides it well.
“What room is he in?” I ask, already making my way down the corridor toward the private rooms.
“Ermmm, room three, sir, and you’ll be pleased to hear that he’s going to make a full recovery. Dr. Grendal scanned his brain and he’s sure, that once the swelling goes down, no permanent damage will be done. It really is a miracleconsidering.” She smiles up at me as I open the door. “As you can see he’s even conscious,” she points out proudly, before leaving me and heading back to her desk.
I close the door behind me and step toward the bed, staring at the man with the swollen head who took it upon himself to call my wife a whore.
“I hear you will make a full recovery.” I look into his half-swollen shut eyes and manage to keep my voice calm. “That’s very lucky considering what you went through tonight,” I point out.
“My father never wanted it to go as far as Luca and his accomplice took it, for that you have his apologies.” I watch the slight nod his head makes as he accepts it, then smile as I wrap my hands around his throat. His body starts to thrash and I push my thumbs deep into his windpipe.
“You called my wife a whore,” I remind him as I apply the pressure of my full body and crush the life out of him. I wait for him to stop struggling and his arm to fall limp before I stand up straight and take a breath. I leave the room feeling no remorse and when the nurse on the desk smiles at me on my way out, I nod my head at her.
“Home, boss?” Vito checks.
“No, we have one more stop to make, this time to a different type of clinic, head for Roosevelt Street,” I tell him, checking the reply I’ve received from Dr. Walsh and smiling when it tells me my prescription is ready to be collected. “Then home.” I check the cameras again and see that Madalina has taken herself to bed, and knowing that I’ll be with her in under an hour, soothes a little of the anger that's still festering inside me.
MADALINA
Ihate that I’m sitting here in bed worrying that a man, who shows me no empathy, is not home yet. It’s been over twelve hours since Dario left, and I could tell that it was over something serious. He’s not answering his calls, nobody here seems to have any updates, and the fact I find myself concerned about him is beyond ridiculous.
I try to read, watch TV, and even speaking to Lorna on the phone doesn’t stop me from thinking of all the things that could be wrong. It reminds me of that night Nic didn’t come home three years ago, and how he’d lain under some old bridge, bleeding internally from the beating he’d taken.
Nic is always getting the shit taken out on him, our previous district was full of small-time gangsters who didn’t want to be managed. I’m hoping that my being married to Dario will change that, and the new district will be easier for him and my father to maintain.
What the hell is wrong with me? I hate the man, and I mean it. I reallyfuckinghate him. He’s intolerable and unreasonable and the fact he knows how to pleasure a woman makes up for none of it.
I shouldn’t be worrying if he’s okay. I should be praying toGod that he isn’t. At least that way all my troubles would be over. I’d much rather be his widow than his wife. So why is there a sinking feeling in my chest every time I think about him not coming home?
I slam my fist into my pillow making a dent for me to rest my head before I lie down, close my eyes, and try my best to get some sleep.
I stir awake when I hear music coming from downstairs, and when I see a white rose and a bottle of pills on the pillow beside me I pick them up and examine them. I don’t know how he managed to get them, or what changed his mind, but I assume they are a peace offering, and leaving them on the pillow, I pick up the rose and go in search of him.
I figure my best way to handle this is to be humble as I follow the music down the stairs, past the living room, and onto the corridor. I can’t imagine Dario admits to being wrong all that often, and I meant what I said at breakfast this morning. If this marriage is going to be bearable we both are going to have to make our sacrifices.
I find him in the room where the grand piano is, and I’m surprised to see that he’s the one playing it. I recognize the tune. I’m sure it’s something by Chopin, though I can’t recall which one. Music was never my strong point when I was at school.
I stand and watch him for a while, noting how he focuses on the keys, and how his bare shoulders tense as he moves his hands across them.
It seems Dario DeMarco puts his full effort into everything he does, and as I quietly creep up behind him I notice theblood-stained shirt that's on the floor and can’t help wondering who that blood belongs to.
There’s a sheen of sweat on his back and as I get close enough to look over his shoulders I see blood on one of the hands that are playing the tune so beautifully too. They eventually come to a stop and play the final chord, and when he goes to turn around I delicately place my hand on his shoulder.
“That was beautiful.” I smile at him, despite the look of anger he stares back at me with.
“My mother taught me to play before she…” He shakes his head as if he doesn’t want to think about the end of his sentence let alone say it, and I nod my head to let him know I understand.
