Not Changing Anything

“I didn’t mean to,” Vincent croaks. He spits blood onto the floor and looks back at Salvador. “The Russos were pressuring me. They wanted me to kill him.”

That admission did nothing to quench the embers of my rage. Of course, they wanted my father dead.

“You’re an idiot,” Salvador says. “And you did exactly what they wanted? Now they’ve abandoned you.”

“Ricardo was a coward. He always wanted to tread carefully. How long had the Russos been playing with us? And he did nothing. I told him over and over again to let us destroy them. They are getting stronger, Salvador. You have no idea what they are capable of. Something is changing in this family. I regret what I did to Ricardo…”

Oh, hell no. He has no right to say that.

I am about to move forward again, but Michael grabs my arm.

“Don’t say his name,” Salvador warns. He continues to say a few more words in Italian, cursing him.

Vincent hangs his head in shame. I watch as Salvador clenches and unclenches his fists, as if he wants to hit him too. Instead, he walks away. I move forward again, careful not to get too close, in case I lose control and kill him.

“You’re going to die today, Vincent. But not until we make you suffer. When Tony’s done with you, I’m going to look you in the eye and put a bullet in your skull, like you did to my father. I hope you rot in hell.”

It’s Tony’s turn to take control. He’s precise in his movements, making sure to punch, poke, and cut in all the right places. He’s determined to put Vincent out of his misery, and I’m grateful. I revel in his screams. It goes on for hours.

When I'm sure he's completely broken, I move forward and keep my promise. I avenge my father.

I wish I could say it dulls the pain. But the truth is, I feel nothing.

The funeral is a blur. They talk about my father's accomplishments. They talk about what a good man he was, what a just man, what a noble man he was. My mother cries.

My sister and I have to deal with all the people offering their condolences. It's all too damn overwhelming. And I know it's not over yet. I'll have a lot of work to do after the funeral.

Unfortunately, it seems I made the mistake of not mourning my father's death as soon as it happened. When night falls, I still feel empty. I should feel something. I should mourn him. Hell, I probably should cry, but I can't.

Everyone else went to their rooms and houses. I asked Michael and Tony to leave me alone, and they did so without question. My sister and mother are fast asleep in their rooms, so the house is eerily quiet as I try to cope with my emotions.

All I feel is a chilling shiver down my spine. I want so badly to feel something, anything. I take a drink from the bar and pour it down my throat, the bitterness becoming a pleasant sensation. I take another sip, but this time my movements are jerky, uncontrollable. I feel myself spiraling out of control.

I exhale a shaky breath.

“Fuck.”

In twenty-seven years of life, I have never had a panic attack. I am not starting today.

Breathe, Roman. Bloody breathe.

But it doesn't work. All I can see is my father's body on the ground. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. One second, he was there, and the next, he was gone. I throw the cup in my hand against the wall. It shatters over the fireplace.

Almost immediately, I hear a squeak of surprise. I turn around and see Elena Legan standing in the doorway.

If I had to rank the people I'd want to find in a nervous breakdown, she wouldn't be at the top. I think she's the last person I want to see like this. I open my mouth to tell her to fuck off, but she steps forward and enters the room, her green eyes mesmerizing me.

“What did that glass do to you?”

***

Elena POV

Someone once told me that I have no sense of self-preservation. And in this case, I would like to agree. There is no other explanation for my decision to interrupt a guy who I know is probably a certified psychopath in the middle of an episode.

But he looks like he is in pain. And I can’t ignore it.

His gaze slid slowly over my face before he sank into the chair and leaned back. I do not doubt that he is trying to create the illusion of his calm. He always tries so hard to pretend to be perfect. Because Roman De Luca doesn't get angry. Even when he's not at his best, he has to act like he is.

Unfortunately, Roman De Luca is human too. And people get hurt. Even if they don't mean to.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asks.

"I was getting ready to go home..."

"Okay. Then let's go," he says, waving me off.

I give him my icy glare, but he just rolls his eyes, not changing anything.

"Like I said, I was getting ready to go home. But I think I'd like a drink instead,” I finish, walking up to the bar and sitting down on one of the stools.

I can feel his dark, piercing gaze on me the whole time, but I don't look back. He's trying to get on my nerves. And, unfortunately, he's doing a very good job of it. I want nothing more than to run from here and not look back. But I can't leave him alone.

Why can't I?