Mr. O burst through the mahogany wood and glass double doors—a dozen enraged bulls.
Halted.
Frozen silence.
Bear claw shaped smoke oozed from his nose and mouth. It adorned his long, wrinkled neck as his eyes registered the broken furniture, artwork, jewelry, torn-gasoline soaked clothing, brooms, a mop, pearl necklace, belladonna plants, graveyard dust...
His future bride...
Bruised, in a yellow nightgown...
Fetal position, in a lake of blood and tears.
Gina, his trembling maid, consoled her.
His eyes registered something else.
The claws grew wide, tall... striving for the hand painted ceiling mural and white marble floor. He clutched the right side of his pounding chest.
Hera, his only child, stood at the center of the wrecked living room—seething, grasping a
