Chapter Three

Adriano.

They say that happy days are the most memorable, but that statement is completely and frustratingly false. I don't have a single happy memory of my parents; all I can recall is my mother begging and struggling to escape from the monster, while my father lay in a pool of blood in his office with the knife used to kill him beside him.

That is the only thing I remember.

I would never forget the day my whole world shattered—the day I lost everything good in my life, the day my world became nothing but shades of grey and black. In my world, there are no colors. The only thing keeping me from doing the inevitable is my brother.

I’ve thought about it over and over again, wondering why I was still here. Why was I sitting back and letting the people who hurt my family walk freely on the surface of the earth? There are a lot of things I would do, and waiting isn’t one of them.

“Are you not going to talk about it?” I dragged slowly from my cigar before turning to look at the person beside me.

I still didn’t know what I was doing here. One minute, I was in the club, getting drunk out of my mind after getting out of jail, and the next minute I was surrounded by some strange people. Fuck, I hate people!

I glanced to my left and right, watching how everyone squirmed in their seats. Yeah, I get those looks often, so I wasn’t offended. It wasn’t my fault that I was big and had a scary look.

“About what?” I asked as I exhaled.

They all mumbled something about me taking this as a joke. They could keep mumbling; they couldn’t say that shit to my face.

“The pain, the trauma. Aren’t you going to talk about it?” the person asked again.

I blinked and frowned. What the hell?

Did I end up in a therapeutic session?

I looked around once again while dragging from my cigar and with those cringy hopeful words on the walls and on everyone, I realized I was in a therapy group.

I let out a groan and attempted to get up.

“We know it can be hard for you to talk about, but know this: it’s better to say it out loud than to keep it all inside.” I snorted at his words.

I feared that if I began to say everything inside me, none of them would look me in the eye.

“You know what? I think I should leave.” I was already on my feet as I spoke, but like the goody man that he is, he blocked my path.

He’s lucky I don’t have a gun on me.

“This isn’t just any group, Mr….” The idiot waited for me to say my name. He’s so eager to know how I feel, yet he doesn’t even know who I am.

I didn’t offer to tell him my name, but that didn’t stop him from continuing.

“We are a family here, and whatever you say will be kept a secret. Everyone of us is here to heal, and I wouldn’t be too happy if I let you go just like that.” I took another drag from the cigar and blew the smoke in his face, but that didn’t deter him.

“You want to hear what I’m thinking—my demons?” I asked slowly, or maybe my words were slurred. I didn’t care, as long as this guy understood what I was talking about.

“Yes,” he replied, his eyes shining as if he felt pleased at getting past my barriers.

But he’s wrong; nobody could get past those barriers, it was there for a reason; no one could make me forget my demons. My demons are the only thing that has kept me alive so far.

I looked at everyone in the room, who were staring at me expectantly with pity and concern in their eyes, as if my story would be a tragic one.

With a sly grin, I placed the cigar at the corner of my mouth. “The only thing I’m trying to fight right now is the thought of picking up my gun, walking into that damn house, and shooting everyone inside it.” Just the thought of it, makes my blood boil in excitement.

The fear in their eyes, their screams and cries for help.

“I would make Pedro’s death the last. I wouldn’t just kill him; I would drag him from his house to mine, tie him up, and torture him in the most despicable ways imaginable. I wouldn’t stop even if he begged—at least he didn’t stop while he was raping my mom. I would peel his skin off, make him eat it, and then repeat the process again and again until he’s full.” I looked at everyone and couldn’t help but grin at the expression on their faces.

Now this is what I’m talking about.

“Now I wouldn’t just stop there, Pedro—”

“I think you’ve said enough,” the man cut in, taking a step back away from me.

Good. At least he has a survival instinct.

Without looking at any of them, I headed toward the door and walked out of the building.

I still can’t fathom how the hell I ended up here.

My phone rang in my pocket as I stood by the sidewalk waiting for a cab. With a grunt, I pulled it out, scowling when I saw who was calling.

Luciano.

I love my brother but right now isn't a good time to take his call.

My brother looks tough, but I have to say that his way of handling things is infuriating. We have all the proof and everything we need to take down the man who hurt our family—the man we called and treated like an uncle, the man whom my parents called a friend, the man my father would have done anything for.

That bastard betrayed us, killed our parents, and tried to kill us by sending us to jail.

Just thinking about him makes my blood boil. All I want to do is stick my knife in his chest until his heart is exposed, and then I could do whatever I want with him.

My phone rang again, but I didn’t pick up. There’s nothing I could do for Luciano. He has everything planned out, and I’m sure he wouldn’t want someone like me—someone with so much darkness inside—near him.

Although I disagree with his idea of marrying the bastard’s daughter, there’s nothing I could do about it.

Luciano had already made up his mind, but for the sake of torturing Pedro, I knew that giving his daughter to the one man he wanted to kill would make him miserable—and that was exactly what Luc was aiming for. If it had been up to me alone, I would have done the things I mentioned earlier as soon as I got out of jail.

He wouldn't be walking around town with that cocky smile on his face if I were the only one he had to deal with.

I blew out smoke and let out a grunt before dropping the cigar on the sidewalk. My hands itched to do something—not a job or fucking a whore; I needed to paint my hands with blood. I didn't care what kind of blood it was; I only wanted to hurt someone.

At that moment, my phone dinged with an incoming message. At first, I hesitated to check it because I thought it might be from Luciano—he always texts when he can’t reach me by call. But when I checked the text, I couldn’t help but grin as I read the message.

Quickly, I typed a reply.

ME: IN.

I stared at my phone screen as the details and photo of my target appeared. He was a man in his forties and looked quite rough, but that wouldn’t be an issue. The phone dinged again, confirming that a payment had been made to my bank account.

I pocketed my phone, hailed a cab, and couldn’t stop grinning. At least I had something to distract me from my dark thoughts.