Page 49 of Curse

“You don’t know anything about me or my type, Franco,”I snap.

“Don’t I?” His voice drips with venom. “You and Emily both: whores for criminals.”

A cloud of red tinges the edges of my vision. My hand tightens around the keys as I thread the blades between my fingers. “Don’t fucking talk about her like that.” My voice is soft, but every part of my body is shaking.

Franco glares at me. “Fuck you. Fuck Emily. You’re both whores for these assholes who have me tied up like a dog. Your loyalty is as shitty as hers. You deserve to die just like she did.”

Deserve to die? Because of a lack of loyalty?

My head spins as the pieces of the puzzle start to fall together.

Franco was working with Matti’s people when I saw him at the law office. He had to know that Mikey was on the run and targeted by the Demonios, Emily along with him.

That’s how he knows that Matti was the one to kill them. Because he knew before it happened. He knew how, he knew when, and he knew by whom.

And he didn’t try to save her life, just like he didn’t help me.

Something primal ignites in me, and I’m on him before I can think, fists flying. The keys slice into his face, his neck, his chest. Blood sprays, and his screams barely pierce the roaring in my ears.

Franco falls back, flailing to shield himself. I grab the chain and pin him down by the throat, my chest heaving as I lean into him. “You could have saved her, couldn’t you? You knew she was going to die, and you did NOTHING!”

He thrashes beneath me, eyes wide with panic. “It wasn’t me!” he rasps. “It was the Demonios! Matti was there, not me! I didn’t know they’d kill her, too!”

His words sting like a slap. My grip loosens, and I backaway, trembling. My hands are slick with blood, his and mine from where the keys have cut into my skin. I stare at him as he gasps for air, slumped on the bed.

“What do you mean, ‘kill her too’?” I whisper.

Franco rubs his throat, coughing. “I knew there was a hit on Mikey, but I didn’t know Emily would be there until you told me. I don’t have any power in this thing, Siena. I never have. All I was ever trying to do was make some money on the side by working with Aurelio. That’s all.”

“Holy shit,” I breathe, staring at him like he’s a stranger. “You’re a fucking gangster.”

He sneers, blood dripping from his mouth. “Learn your history, baby sis. We’re all fucking gangsters. Ask your boyfriend about the Bellamorte name.”

The red cloud threatens to overtake my vision again. “You’re fucking delusional. Mikey was your brother-in-law! Emily was your sister! You really thought that she wouldn’t be with them, that she wouldn’t be in danger too?”

Franco spits again. “You think you’re better than me? You’ve been here as long as I have, and I don’t see any shackles on you. You’re telling me that you haven’t been kept as a cum dumpster for the real gangster, the one who took out your sister? He has a fucking girlfriend, Siena. You’re nothing more than a fuck hole to him.”

His words slam into me like a truck, churning up shame and guilt. I didn’t fuck Matti. But I wanted to and what I did do was bad enough.

And Franco’s right: I am nothing to him. I haven’t heard from him once since that day in the shower. The only sign that he thought of me at all was the full line of Bergamot & Basil bath and skin care products that appeared in the bathroom afew days later.

Which is fine. Because I don’t know this man at all. He was a distraction, nothing more. Something to think about when I was locked up here when I didn’t want to think about losing Emily.

But I’m not locked up here anymore.

Without thinking, I drop the keys I’ve been gripping so hard they’ve cut into my palm, grab the chair, and hurl it at him. It’s wooden and heavy, and the leg hits him in the face, bouncing off of him and onto the floor in front of me.

Franco falls back on the bed, dazed. “Fuuuuuck! You fucking bitch! I should have let AJ rape you in that office, let them all have their turn, you fucking whore!”

I grab the chair from where it fell and heave it over my head, bringing it down onto Franco, using every ounce of force I can draw from my body.

A sickening crack echoes through the small room as the heavy wood makes contact with his skull. He grunts as it hits him, then slides off the bed into a pile on the floor and stops moving.

My breathing comes in fast and hard, loud heaves that punctuate the silence. I kick the chair off of him. He’s knocked out cold, blood running out of his nose, his cheek and jaw red and already starting to swell.

I swipe the keys off the ground and lean down to whisper in his ear, “Fuck you, Franco. You’re fucking dead to me.”

27

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