Page 42 of Twisted Devotion

Nicolas is standing there.

12

NICOLAS

The room is eerily quiet now, but the echo of her scream lingers in my mind, haunting me. The man’s body lies motionless on the floor, blood already pooling on the polished wood. My men exchange glances, silent but clearly uneasy. It’s obvious—they’re unsure what to do next.

This situation is foreign to all of us.

Usually, anyone outside the family who witnesses any of our ‘activities’ doesn’t survive more than an hour. But Aria—Aria is family now, isn’t she? She’s my wife, mine, and she just saw a man’s life taken in the most brutal way.

For a moment, I don’t know how to react either. But that moment is brief. It passes.

I see the man's fingers twitch, and instinctively, I turn to Matteo. He hands me his silenced pistol, and I put another bullet through the man’s head. Then I utter, “Get rid of him.”

The men nod, and without a word, they move into action. Two of them drag the body toward the back exit, while others disappear into another room. They return shortly with cleaning supplies and begin their work.

“And his brother?” I ask.

“We found him holed up in a motel. The men are bringing him in now.”

I nod, absently watching as the blood on the floor is slowly absorbed by the cloths. Then Aria’s face flashes before me again—the way her eyes widened in terror, the way her scream tore through the silence, It won’t leave me.

I tell myself to move past it. She’ll have to adjust to this world, just as I did. This is who we are now. She may have lived in a bubble, kept away from the brutality by her brother’s overprotectiveness, but I know better. She’s stronger than he thought.

Yet, something in me won’t let it rest.

If this is her first experience with this kind of violence, it won’t be easy to process. The thought gnaws at me, and the unease only deepens when I hear another sound—a scream, quieter this time, but sharp and piercing in the quiet of the house. I know the sound is coming from upstairs, from our room.

“Handle it,” I tell Matteo, the words slipping from my mouth like the routine they’ve become. I turn to leave, but stop just shy of the door. I look back, my voice hardening. “Do it outside the house.”

“Yes, boss,” he responds, and I don’t wait to hear any more.

I make my way up the stairs, each step bringing me closer to the tension that sits like a heavy weight in my chest,

When I reach the door, I hear her.

The faint sound of crying, muffled by the rush of water, carries from the bathroom. It’s not loud, but it’s enough to make me pause. Only for a second. Then I shove the bathroom door open.

The sight before me hits like a punch to the gut.

Aria stands under the relentless flow of water, her naked body silhouetted by the steam swirling around her. Bloodstained clothes lie discarded on the floor. Her arms are scratched, streaks of raw red marks. The water is scalding, but she doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps, she welcomes it.

She’s shaking violently, as though she’s standing in the coldest snow, not in the heat of the shower, Her hair clings to her face, wet strands tracing the contours of her jaw.

She looks smaller than usual. Fragile. The sight of her like this—the weight of it—pulls something deep inside me, like a knot unraveling in the pit of my stomach.

I don’t think. I just move.

All I want is to hold her, to take care of her. I step into the shower without a second thought soaking my clothes through in an instant. But I don’t care.

“Aria,” I say softly, reaching for her.

She flinches, eyes wide with panic and for a moment, she doesn’t move. Then, when I try to touch her, she fights me.

“Don’t touch me!” she cries, her voice breaking like glass. Her eyes are red, swollen, and I realize her tears are mixing with the water pouring down her body.

I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her away from the water. She fights me, her fists pushing against my chest, but I don’t let go.

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