Past
“Zefiro, aspetta! Per favore!” Enzo yells, hot on my heels and I’ve never hated the family tradition any more than I do now. It is all that keeps me from swiveling and blowing his brains out. “Zefiro!”
The guards pivot upon sighting me. A storm brews overhead and they can tell what comes next. They know well to stay far from it. The violence. It builds under my skin, humming to life with every feminine sob that flits down the stairwell. It grows with every platter of bare feet against marble. It sings to me. Kill. Kill the fucker. Take him apart, limb from limb and have each hang off the walls of my bedroom like portraits, so she sees what happens to the next man she brings in there.
But Enzo is blood. Famiglia over everything else.
Frustration is a living thing in my chest, curli
