5 - I Have To Break Her

Matteo

The whiskey burns on the way down, but it’s not enough to drown out the irritation buzzing under my skin. I slam the glass down on the parlor’s side table, the sharp clink echoing through the room. 

The fire in the hearth crackles, the only sound in the suffocating silence, but it does nothing to distract me from the gnawing thought eating away at me: I lost control.

What the fuck was I thinking, going into her room like that? Threatening her. Taunting her.

I rub a hand down my face, the tension in my shoulders refusing to loosen. She gets under my skin in a way I can’t explain, and I hate it. I hate how I felt the need to prove something to her, to remind her of her place. 

It was a moment of weakness, and I don’t do weakness. Not for anyone, and especially not for her.

The door creaks open behind me, and I don’t bother turning around. Only one person in this house enters a room as quiet as a ghost.

“You look like shit,” Markus says, his voice calm, almost detached, as he walks into the room.

I glance over my shoulder to see him moving toward the decanter, his face as expressionless as ever. He pours himself a drink, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s got all the time in the world.

“You gonna sit there and stare, or are you actually going to say something useful?” I snap, leaning back in my chair.

Markus doesn’t react to my tone. He never does. Instead, he sits across from me, his whiskey glass dangling lazily between his fingers. “Rough night?”

I glare at him, not in the mood for his bullshit. “What the fuck do you think?”

He takes a sip of his drink, his sharp blue eyes studying me over the rim of the glass. “Let me guess. The Cerulli girl?”

I clench my jaw, not answering.

Markus smirks faintly, setting his glass down. “Thought so. You’re wound tighter than usual.”

“She’s a fucking thorn in my side,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “Every time I think I’ve got her figured out, she does something to piss me off even more.”

“That’s her job,” Markus says simply, leaning back in his chair. “She’s Cerulli. Pissing you off is in her blood.”

“She doesn’t just piss me off. She—” I stop myself, shaking my head. 

Markus raises an eyebrow, his expression still annoyingly calm. “Sounds like she’s winning.”

“She’s not fucking winning,” I snap, my voice sharp enough to cut.

Markus chuckles softly, the sound low and humorless. “Could’ve fooled me. You’re sitting here drinking like she’s already got the upper hand. Sounds to me like she’s gotten under your skin.”

I stiffen, my grip tightening on my glass. “No, she didn’t.”

“Sure,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “That’s why you look like you’re ready to rip this place apart. Totally unaffected.”

I down the rest of my drink, the ice clinking against the glass as I set it down harder than necessary. “She’s just a pawn. She doesn’t mean anything.”

Markus raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “A pawn you just had to storm into her room to threaten.”

I don’t respond, my jaw clenching as his words hit too close to home.

“You fucked up,” he continues, his voice calm but cutting. “You showed her too much.”

“I didn’t show her anything,” I snap, my voice sharper than I intend.

“You showed her that she gets to you,” Markus says, leaning forward now, his elbows resting on his knees. “And that’s a problem.”

I run a hand through my hair, the frustration boiling over. “What do you suggest I do then, oh wise one? Kill her?”

“No,” Markus says, his tone dropping into something darker. “You don’t kill her. You own her. Completely.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “And how the fuck do you propose I do that?”

He leans back again, his smirk growing. “Simple. Break her in ways she doesn’t expect. Make her need you, depend on you. And then? Make her hate herself for it.”

The air in the room feels heavier, his words sinking into my mind like barbs.

“Psychological warfare,” I murmur, more to myself than to him.

Markus nods. “Exactly. You don’t need to lay a hand on her to destroy her. Get in her head. Make her question everything—her loyalty, her strength, her fucking sanity. And when she starts to crack? Be the one holding her together.”

“That’s a long game,” I say, my voice quieter now.

“It’s the only game,” Markus replies, finishing his drink. “You want her under your thumb? You want her begging for your mercy? Then you don’t just control her body. You control her mind. Her soul.”

I stare into the empty glass in my hand as I mull over his words. I forgot how fucked up and ruthless my cousin can be, but I needed this talk.

“And if she fights back?” I ask, glancing up at him.

Markus smirks, his dark eyes gleaming. “Then you remind her who the fuck you are.”

I don’t respond, my mind already turning over his advice, calculating how to use it to my advantage. 

“She’s just another piece on the board, Matteo,” he says, standing and draining the last of his drink. “Don’t let her fuck up your game.”

He walks out without another word, leaving me alone with the weight of his advice.

I sit back in the chair, the firelight casting shadows across the room. Markus is right. I can’t let Amara win. I can’t let her defiance chip away at my control.

She wants to play with fire? Fine.

I’ll show her what it means to burn.