The Untypical Marriage
Every time I missed the bullseye, he let out a grunt, which I’d quickly learned to interpret as, “Try harder, weakling.”
I'd admit despite the bruises and the dull ache in my shoulders, it was kind of fun. In a terrifying, soul-crushing way.
Dead Ted was like an upgraded version of Romano… no-nonsense, efficient, and completely devoid of small talk. He would grunt to indicate approval and tsk slowly whenever my aim was off or anytime I cut myself with the knife. He’d only spoken once the entire time we’d trained, after my third consecutive miss. “Imagine the face of someone you hate,” he said, handing me another knife. “Fanculo loro dona,” he added in a thick Italian accent. I didn’t tell hi
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