Through the ringing in my ears, I hear Mina pounding on the door, wailing my name. “Cristiano.Cristiano.”
“Don’t hurt her,” I croak. “She didn’t do anything. This was all me.”
“Hurt her?” My father snorts. “She’s not worth the effort. She’s nothing.” He looks down at me with pure disgust. “The girl isn’t the problem. You’re the problem. You and your pathetic inability to think with anything but your cock.”
The pounding on the door continues. “Cristiano! Please, someone help him.”
And then another voice, soft but urgent. I can’t make out the words, but I think it’s Mrs. Santoro. Mina’s mother.
“No.” Mina’s cry is ragged, desperate. “I won’t leave him. Cristiano!”
The sobs change. Become muffled. I hear scuffling, like she’s being pulled away from the door. Her voice is fading. Getting farther away.
Mina’s mother is taking her away from me. She’s leaving me here on the floor, bleeding and broken and alone.
The thought is worse than any blow my father has landed. Worse than the kicks to my ribs, the blood dripping into my eyes. I can survive pain. I can’t survive losing her.
“Mina.” Her name comes out as a broken whisper. “Mina.”
But the hallway is silent. There’s nothing but me and my father and the wreckage of my plans.
My father looks toward the door, then back at me. His expression is thoughtful now. Calculating.
“You know,” he says, almost conversationally, “I’ve tolerated a great deal from you over the years. The sulking. The disobedience.” He nudges me with his foot, rolling me onto my back. “But this is unforgivable.”
I stare up at him through blood-blurred eyes.
“You tried to kill me, Cristiano. That’s not something I can forgive.”
“Then kill me.” The words rasp out of my hoarse throat. “Get it over with.”
“Kill you?” He laughs, and crouches down again, his face filling my vision. “You’re my only son, Cristiano. I’ve invested too much in you to simply throw you away, but something is going to be done. You’ve lost the privilege of living in this house.”
He straightens up and walks toward the door.
I try to move. Try to speak. But my body won’t cooperate. All I can do is lie there, bleeding on the carpet, as my father unlocks the door and steps out into the hallway.
The door closes behind him.
And I’m alone.
I stare at the ceiling, my chest heaving, my mind spinning with pain and loss and the echo of Mina’s fading sobs. I failed her, and whatever my father has planned, I know with sickening certainty that it’s going to tear us apart forever.
I don’t know how long I lie on the floor, my ears ringing and my body aching. Nothing matters except the silence where Mina’s voice used to be.
Eventually, I drag myself upright. My ribs scream in protest, and my head throbs where the gun connected with my temple. Blood is still dripping into my left eye, blurring my vision. Every breath is a knife between my ribs.
I have to find her.
I stumble out of the study, one hand braced against the wall, leaving smears of blood on the wallpaper. The hallway stretches before me, endless and swimming. I make it to the stairs by half walking, half falling down the corridor.
But then I hear a sound from the kitchen. An urgent voice, and someone’s soft sobs.
Mina.
I stumble into the kitchen and see them through the window.
Mrs. Santoro is helping Mina into an old sedan parked outside the open kitchen door. Mina is still wearing my T-shirt, the white fabric stark against her dark hair, hanging loose on her hunched, fragile body.
