Claimed by the Mafia King
And there it was, burning in my mind’s eye—the image of my hand pressed hard against Damiano’s chest, flames rushing out of me, consuming him.
I shook my head hard, like I could rattle the memory loose.
“No,” I whispered to myself. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
It had to be my hatred of him, leaking into my dreams, twisting itself into something grotesque. That was all. I hated him so much that I had dreamt of hurting him. Torturing him. Killing him.
Which, honestly, he deserved.
A bitter laugh slipped from my throat, dry and humorless.
“If only I had superpowers,” I muttered, flexing my fingers, “I would have kicked your ass by now.”
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