My Future Brother-In-Law

Chapter5

I ghosted down the carpeted hall, my footsteps totally muted by the plush fibers, ya feel? The Misfits' sick beat pulsed through the walls, a wild contrast to the tense vibe. My heart was racing, every pulse syncing with the music, each step a countdown to whatever was gonna go down.

As I burst through the door, the hinges groaned in protest. I shed my clothes like a second skin - top, jeans, everything - leaving a trail of discarded fabric in my wake. The damp smell of worn fabric hung in the air as I slammed the door shut, blocking out the chaos outside.

Stepping into the bathroom was like entering a sanctuary. Warmth enveloped me, a stark contrast to the chill that had seeped into my bones. I avoided the mirror, not ready to face the haunted look in my eyes.

Instead, I cranked the shower to scalding and stepped under its punishing stream. The water felt like a thousand tiny burns, each one scouring away the stains of my past. My hair clung to my face, heavy and soaked, the heat suffocating yet strangely comforting.

That memory still haunted me. Six months later, it felt like yesterday. Blood on my face, etched in my mind.

I shut my eyes, but it lingered.

Water swirled down the drain, a crimson blur. My heart raced, the shower's warmth clashing with that day's chill.

The shouting. The barrel to my head.

Then, bang!

I snapped back to reality, unease creeping up my neck. Was it just Tony being Tony, or...?

I jumped out of the shower, hastily drying off. My wet hair was a tangled mess, just like my thoughts.

I padded downstairs, the cold marble floor sending a jolt through my bare feet. Turning toward the office, I collided with Marcino

“Jesus,” he muttered, annoyance dripping from his voice.

A tingle shot through me upon the contact, my stomach tightening, the warmth of his arm in direct contrast to coldness from his indifference as he spun away, leaving me standing. Surprisingly relieved that I had bumped into him, I exhaled loudly, not realizing I had been holding my breath.

The thoughts had barely registered in my head when Tony came reeling out of the office, swaying like he'd had one too many. He was shirtless-the blood dripping from a wound to the floor, pooling in some sort of abstract painter's tribute. My heart went through the floor as I saw my brother in that condition.

I followed him into the kitchen, the swinging door creaking as I pushed through.

“Go away, Meralda,” he grumbled, taking a long pull from a whiskey bottle, his voice rough.

I winced as I noticed him smearing blood across the countertop , his face set in grim determination. “You need to see Vito,” I insisted, worry threading through my words.

“I’m fine,” he shot back, taking another swig, the whiskey a poor substitute for whatever was happening inside him.

I reached for the cordless phone, the weight of it a lifeline. “I’ll call Vito.”

“I’m sorry, Meralda. Didn’t know it’d go that way. Honest,” he mumbled, regret thick in the air.

My heart squeezed at his apology. “I forgive you,” I said, the words heavy on my tongue.

He let out a weak laugh, “You shouldn’t.” His charm, even in this mess, was hard to resist, but I saw the pain hidden behind his bravado.

“Why don’t you like Marcino?” I blurted out, hoping to change the subject before it got too heavy.

“He f****d my girlfriend,” Tony replied, bitterness coating his words.

“Jenny?” I gasped, shock twisting my stomach into knots.

He nodded, his face contorting into a not-so-nice smile, revealing a darker side I knew all too well. “Got a picture of it. Didn’t take it well, let’s say.”

“What did you do to him?” I asked, curiosity mixed with concern.

Tony’s smile widened, blood continuing to drip from his side. “He got what he deserved.”

I yanked the whiskey from his hands, panic rising. “You have to go to the hospital, Tony!” The sight of the bullet wound made my stomach churn, the urge to gag rising like bile.

Before I could say anything else, Tony’s eyes rolled back, and he passed out, leaving a smear of red on the floor.

“Benito!” I shouted, panic setting in.

Isabella strolled in, completely oblivious, a nonchalant look on her face. “Hey, do you know where my drawing pencils are?”

“Your fiancé shot Tony!” I nearly screamed, desperation spilling out.

Isabella raised a brow, her disinterest clear. “Yeah, okay. Where’s Mamma?”

My heart raced as I watched her walk away, the chaotic family dynamic suffocating.

Moments later, Papà and my cousins arrived, surveying the situation with a sense of calm that felt entirely misplaced.

“Yeah, yeah, Meralda. They’re taking him,” Papà said dismissively, his tone lacking urgency.

Doubt swirled in my gut. Did he even care about getting Tony the help he needed?

I stood there, watching as Papà gave orders, his demeanor hinting at a cover-up that made my skin crawl. Just then, Isabella strolled into the kitchen, her face scrunched in concentration.

“Hey, does anyone know where my drawing pencils are?” she asked, her voice bright and casual, completely unfazed by the chaos going on here