I make for the small bathroom that adjoins the underground gym, switch on the light.
The bruising looks worse in this light. I may as well be a patchwork fucking quilt.
I stare at the mirror.
One moment, it’s there. Whole.
And the next, it shatters around me, glass showering the steel basin until I can see twenty warped versions of my own reflection in the shards left behind.
I punch it again. Again. And I’m shouting, roaring over that agony in my head, in my fucking heart, as I look down at that glass.
I failed her. I failed her so badly, and I’m still fucking failing her.
Hands grab at my arm, and I turn, swinging my fist.
It smashes into a solid grip, even as horror locks my muscles into stillness, the fury draining and fear taking its place within a second. “Merda, Cat—.”
Her hand stays wrapped around my fist as we stare at each other. It must have hurt – her fucking wrist, the strain of catching that punch—
She looks down at the broken pieces, still holding onto me. “I did the same thing. Smashed my fists into my bathroom mirror at the Asante compound.”
Her eyes are dark. “I picked up the longest, sharpest piece, and I considered how quickly I would bleed out if I dragged it along my wrist. Or if I was quick enough, would I be able to cut my own carotid?”
My breathing deepens, agony with every spike.
“I had to decide if it was worth fighting. Death is easy. Living – that’s harder.”
She’s breaking my fucking heart. A heart I thought was broken already, as if she’s sliding those shards into it.
“And then,” she whispers, “I thought about what I would be leaving behind. What would happen, when you found out? Dante, Luc, Gio – what would they do? And I knew that wasn’t something Ieverwanted to think about again. What your faces would look like.”
She shoves, and my back slams against the wall. The edge of a dagger pricks against my neck. “Don’t you ever put that look on my fucking face, Domenico Rossi. Do you hear me? That’s a fucking order.”
“What did you do?” I rasp the words with effort. My hand twists in hers until I’m holding her. “With the mirror?”
She stands there, her chin lifted. “I chose to save my anger for those who deserved it. And that wasn’t me. So I hid the sharpest pieces, and I waited until I could use those edges onthem.”
She smiles, and it’s savage. Victorious. “I dragged that blade across Cecile’s throat like butter. It took her so long to bleed out. And Salvatore – I used a steak knife, jagged and blunt, to carve a crow into his chest. To brand him, the way that he brandedme. I sliced up every part of him that I could see. And then I cut off his cock.”
Her lips tighten. “I made sure he felt every moment of what he had done to me. To us, Dom. So believe me when I tell you to save that anger. Save it for the person who fucking deserves it. And that person is not you.”
I look down. “I—,”
“When a weapon is used,” she says softly. “Who is to blame? The object that had no choice? Or the person who wielded it?”
She pulls herself back, her final words lingering in my head. Her face tightens as she looks down, and I follow her eyes to my bare chest. “The bruising is fading.”
She smiles, but it’s sad. “All things fade in time. We just need to weather it.”
Swallowing, I rub my hands down my face. “I’ll try. These thoughts – they’re not easily dissuaded, Cat.”
“No,” she says quietly. “They’re not.”
21 – Caterina
Dom’s voice stops me as I’m leaving. “Are you still… free later?”
I turn back to him. He’s leaning against the wall, his eyes still filled with shadows and his knuckles trailing blood onto the concrete floor. “You asking me on a date, Domenico Rossi?”
