She’s also a distraction. As I knew she would be.
I think about her even when she’s not around, like right now. Walking down the street at night near this cemetery, I should be vigilant. Instead I’m preoccupied with thoughts of my wife’s charms. Not only her physical assets, but also the way she makes me feel… is it happiness? Hope? Something akin to those emotions.
I feel young again. Free. My wife manages to take me back to a time before my mistakes of the past, before the trauma, pain, and hatred. A time before my scars. I don’t know how she does it.
She’s ruined me in more ways than she’ll ever know. I let her go once, and I’ll regret that for the rest of my life. She’s mine. Forever and always. I hope she understands what that means.
I love the woman, there’s no doubt in my mind about that. One day I’ll tell her, but now’s not the right time. I want it to be perfect, memorable.
I’ve yet to find the perfect moment to confess my feelings. The right moment, but also the right words. I don’t want to fumble.
Clearing my throat, I consider how I might phrase those three short but significant words. I’ve never been so nervous about speaking a single sentence before.
I’ll want to practice.
Someone smashes a glass bottle as I round the corner of the cemetery’s iron fence. I sense their presence before I see them. Turning, I find three men following me. They slow as I come to a stop. Yeah, definitely tailing me. But why?
I take in their buzz cut hair, muscular builds, and distinct features.Russians. There are several bratvas in the city, so it's impossible to tell which one these men belong to, unless they’re going to tell me. Which is unlikely.
We stare each other down. They widen their stances. I fold my arms.
I probably should have brought Wolfe or one of the other guys with me tonight, but my plans were to visit the Pontrelli family graves—alone. In private.
Seems like I picked up a tail along the way. Opportunists?
The three Russian punks crack their knuckles and fan out to divide my attention between them.
The one wearing all black speaks first. “They call you The Beast, and I can see why—you’re one big, ugly fucker.”
I’ve been called that and worse so many times in my life that his insult rolls off my back. Mostly. Except for an inner voice that whispers, does Ravenna see me that way too?
I hate that I have that insecurity. It haunts me.
“We heard you got the shit kicked out of you by Little Italy,” says the one wearing a bomber jacket. He snickers as he shuffles closer.
So that’s why they think I’m easy prey. Because I lost a fight. One I was honor bound to throw.
I scowl. Dumb fucks.
The third one’s dressed in white athletic gear. He hovers near his bomber jacket friend, but I can tell he’s eager to strike. His shifty gaze and tense muscles practically scream his intentions before he moves.
I make a come hither gesture, and they pounce. Bomber and Athletic rush me as the guy in black opens his switch blade.
One punch and Bomber hits the ground, out cold. I elbow Athletic in the nose.Crunch. A wellspring of blood follows the loud sound, drenching his white clothing in a deep crimson. The violent sight satisfies a primal part of myself.
Those clothes were too white anyway. Glaring.
This is what they wanted to see, right? They wanted to go up against The Beast and be able to tell the tale to their friends. Too bad for them, only one of them will walk away from this tonight.
The guy with the knife comes at me, slashing his blade in quick, jerky movements. He’s trained, but not well. He’s also too confident, thinking that since I’m unarmed—at least to his knowledge—that I pose no threat.
Foolishly, he’s under the assumption that a knife gives him an advantage.
I jerk backwards, dodging his slashing arcs. Pivoting, we dance around each other for a few seconds. Just long enough that I start to predict his movements.
He jabs the blade at me.
I catch his hand and crush it, breaking his fingers.
