Page 32 of Reaper

“You want to kill right now, don’t you? Do you remember how it felt to squeeze the life out of that asshole? Can you get his glazed over eyes out of your mind, baby? Does his final breath leaving his body stay with you? The power that surged through your body like a live wire is addictive. It’s okay to do it again.”

Reaching my hands into my hair on either side, I pull so hard that tears spring to my eyes as I scream.

“Go away. I don’t need you. Fuck off and leave me alone!”

Once again, I get what I want, and realize it’s not what I wanted at all.

“Nico!” I cry.

No response.

I know his voice in my mind was not real, and it was probably a sign of a mental health emergency, but the silence is louder than anything I’ve ever heard. I attempt to imagine what it felt like to have his arms wrapped around me. The safety and warmth are so far away now, and it leaves me cold.

No, Bella. He was not safety. Nico carved his name in your skin, and did whatever he wanted to you. Remember the spiders?

Even now, I try to hate him to ease the pain, but I can’t. I don’t know what I truly feel for him, but it’s not hatred.

The wind whips through the trees, shaking my windows slightly, and I panic. Once again, I’m on my own. Even though I’ve lived alone since I moved out of my mom’s house when I was seventeen, I still hate it. It’s something I’ve never gotten comfortable with, but I can’t turn the television back on, because I can’t stomach hearing the words from the newscaster again, telling me once again that Nico is dead.

Typing into google, I search for everything Bonetti, because I know one thing for sure. I’m going to find that graveyard again. I don’t know why, but the urge to be there is sudden and strong. There’s more information than you’d expect on a mafia family that would likely want to stay under the radar. Apparently, his brother Bones got married not long ago. And his brother Psycho was arrested a year ago, but mysteriously got released, and there was nothing more said about it, which is kind of weird.

Then I find a picture of Nico, and stare at it for what feels like an eternity, as my chest squeezes painfully. He’s handsome in a violent way. A strong jaw, no smile, more of a scowl, as he stands talking to another man I don’t recognize, but the caption says his name is Damian De Luca. Nico is dressed in his usual black jeans, and a black t-shirt tight enough to show his defined muscles. The tattoos on his forearms show, but of course, his clothing covers the weird eyeball one. I screenshot it and trace my fingers over his jaw.

Sighing audibly, I close out of the photograph and go back to my search, and look for the Bonetti family graveyard, but find nothing.

Closing my eyes, I think back to that night and try to remember every visual clue. The highway that stretched for mile after mile. McDonalds on the right, before he took the exit. But then all I can see in my mind is trees and more trees. Isolation for miles in either direction.

Fuck!

Think, Bella, think.

In a split second decision, I decide to go to the coffee shop, and attempt to retrace his driving from memory. As I get up off the floor and get ready to leave, I hate myself. I’m always too late.

I fall in love with a band a decade after they retire. Get into a book after everybody else is done with it. Movies, same thing. Now this is the worst.

I’m not so fucking lost that I don’t realize I shouldn’t miss him. I should be relieved he’s gone, and I don’t have to worry about him doing whatever the hell he wants to me. Relief is not what I feel. Knowing how things should be doesn’t change the way they actually are.

I fucking miss him.

Not all aspects. I don’t miss the chains or the spiders. That’s a hell I’d rather not relive. But him, yeah, I miss it. I wasn’t a virgin like he was. I’ve been with more men that I care to admit. I’ve had orgasms before. Yet, the way he touched me was different. No man has ever made my body feel that way. That hunger in his eyes was intoxicating. As a woman, it’s rare to have someone look at you that way. Nico was intense in all ways. Now that I’ve screamed his voice out of my head, I want to hear it again. It’s a craving that might never go away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

BELLA

My first two driving trips looking for the graveyard were a bust. I wanted to give up, but I couldn’t. There was something pushing me to find it, even though I don’t understand what it is. When I make a wrong turn and notice a familiar scene, I smile to myself from ear to ear.

“Nico, I found it!”

Talking to a dead guy is probably not a good sign. I’m pretty sure I’m going crazy, or maybe I’m already gone, but it’s the one thing that helps right now.

Parking my car outside of the black metal fence, I take a deep breath and get out. I walk up to the entrance, but it’s locked, so I do what any sane person would do. Placing my foot on the lower bar, I grab the top, and swing my body up and over it. My landing is far less than graceful as I crash onto the ground. Getting up, I dust myself off.

On instinct, I walk over to the grave he tried to kill me on, and drop to my knees, and scream his name.

According to my google search, there are five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Denial came and went quickly, because I was there. I saw the knife in his chest. It’s pretty difficult to deny that. Anger. That’s where I am now, mixed with depression, I suppose. But acceptance? I don’t think I’ll ever accept what I did to him. I’ll never be okay with him being gone.

Why did I have to grab that fucking knife? If I hadn’t made that one stupid move, everything would be okay right now.

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