HIS BUTTERFLY (BETWEEN TWO DONS)

IF I CAN STILL BREATHE, I’M FINE.SOFIA.I can't sleep.I should be sleeping. I should have taken a pill or had a glass of wine or done something to knock myself out so I wouldn't be lying here obsessing over things that aren't my business. But I can't. My mind won't stop racing, won't stop wondering who could possibly make Marco that tense.In seven years, I've never seen him afraid. Annoyed, yes. Frustrated, sometimes. But never afraid. And tonight, underneath all that careful control, I saw fear.I close my eyes and try to empty my mind. Try to think about nothing. But all I can see is Marco's face when he told me to stay upstairs. The tension in his jaw. The way he wouldn't meet my eyes.Stay in your room. Don't come down.Like I'm a child who needs to be protected from the adults' conversation. Like whatever is happening is too dangerous for me to witness. I hate feeling like this, useless, powerless, kept in the dark about everything that happens in my own home. But that's what

“PAIN MADE US STRONGER, TEARS MADE US COLDER.”DANTE.The whiskey burns going down, but I barely notice anymore, alcohol over the years became like water to me, which–-well wasn’t such a great thing. I'm sitting in the guest room of Marco's house—my cousin's house, though I haven't seen the bastard in seven years and honestly don't care to, staring at the only thing I managed to keep safe through all those years in hell. A photograph. Worn at the edges now, creased from being folded and unfolded a thousand times, but still perfect. Still her.Sofia.My butterfly, She's laughing in this picture, her head thrown back, dark hair catching the sunlight. I took it on my phone that last day we were together, the morning before everything went to shit and I disappeared. I had it printed later, kept it hidden, and looked at it so many times the image is burned into my brain.I trace my finger along the edge of her face and feel that familiar ache in my chest. The one that's been there for se

“I HATE THAT I AM STILL HOPING.”SOFIA.The car ride was suffocating.I sit in the passenger seat of Marco's Mercedes, my hands folded in my lap, staring out the window at the city lights blurring past. He's driving in silence, both hands on the wheel, his jaw tight. The only sound is the low hum of the engine and the occasional whoosh of cars passing by.I hate this. I hate the silence. I hate the tension that always sits between us like a third passenger. I hate that after seven years of marriage, we still can't have a normal conversation.I smooth down my dress for the third time. It's black, elegant, falls just below my knees. Conservative enough to be appropriate but nice enough to show I made an effort. My mother picked it out, actually. Called me this morning to tell me what I should wear to the Arena because "you need to look like a proper wife, Sofia. Marco is bringing you to an important event. Don't embarrass him."Don't embarrass him. That's always the concern. Never how I

FORBIDDEN THINGS HAVE A SECRET CHARM. DANTEThe fight felt good.No, better than good. It felt right. Natural. Like slipping into a second skin that fits perfectly.I'm standing in the small room they use as a makeshift locker area, wrapping my knuckles with fresh bandages. My hands are already starting to bruise—the guy I fought had a thick skull, took more hits than I expected before he went down. But he did go down. They always do.Kingston leans against the wall, watching me with that knowing look he gets sometimes. "You enjoyed that.""I did." No point lying about it. "Felt good to be back in the ring.""You used to hate this stuff. Back when we first started. Remember? You'd get in the ring and you'd fight because you had to, but you hated every second of it."He's right. I did hate it. When I was younger. Every punch I threw made me feel sick. Every time I hurt someone, I felt like I was losing pieces of myself.Now? Now I crave it.I crave the fear in my opponent's eyes when

ANYONE CAN BETRAY ANYONE. SOFIA.His hand is warm.That's the first thing I notice when our fingers touch. After seven years, after everything, his hand is still warm. Still strong. Still fits against mine like it was made to be there.I pull back immediately, like I've been burned.Because I have been. Am being. His touch sears through me, lighting up every nerve ending, reminding my body of things it's supposed to have forgotten."Nice to meet you too," I whisper, the words automatic, meaningless.Nice to meet you.Like we're strangers.Like he didn't whisper promises against my skin seven years ago. Like I didn't give him everything I had. Like he didn't leave me pregnant and alone and convinced I was worthless.I can feel his eyes on me. Can feel the weight of his stare like a physical thing. I don't look at him. Can't. If I look at him again I'm going to fall apart right here in front of everyone.Marco is talking again. Saying something to the other men. I should be listening.