Page 13 of Iron Cross

Of this fact, I would be unwavering.

If she loved you, she would never have run.

The doubt niggled at the back of my mind, but I dismissed it. I killed it like the fucking pest it was.

For years, Morelli and I had come to know one another, and all his prophecies had come true.

Each time he had done so, I gave him a reward. A book, a basin to clean himself, a brush for his teeth, a crayon and paper with which to write. A pencil could be used as a weapon, or for suicide. Neither was acceptable to me, so he had to make do with the indignity of a child’s writing instrument.

He did not complain, though it bothered me.

As trust grew, I gave him more sketch pads and books until the room was littered with them. He now had a yoga mat to sleep on and a blanket against the cold. He even asked for pellets to give to the mouse that visited him from time to time - the insipid little rodent, Algernon.

We shared a bottle of wine and talked the nights away like old companions, where he advised me as my father should have as I assumed the mantle of head of Green Fields Enterprises.

Morelli was the brilliance behind the Durante empire. As Eugenio Durante’s right hand, he was the perfect consiglieri, building an empire, while never asking for anything in return.He’d done it all for her - for Cosima. The Mafia Princess he’d adored from childhood.

He built the kingdom for her, all the while, ready to hold the knife at Eugenio’s throat if he so much as talked about a marriage pact for his one and only heir.

“Why were you after my Kira?” I had asked this question over and over again, and each time, he showed remorse. But each time, he did not answer. “Why were you tormenting her with your bastard of a nephew?”

Remorse colored his features.

“Because her father arranged for Cosima’s marriage. She was going to marry someone else. She turned away from me, and accepted her fate.” His jaw ticked, the long, scraggly white beard moving with the tension on his face. “I wanted her to run away with me. We could start a new life, far away from the Durante Mafia. We could be normal. We could…” He let out a long sigh, his voice hoarse. “She would not run away with me. She said it would be a death sentence for me. She told me to move on, and to find someone else. She banished me from her bed.” He shut his eyes, sadness overcoming him as anger tore through me. “Nothing mattered to me at that moment. I lost my way. My nephew offered me a woman, and I accepted because… because I had nothing else. Forgive me.”

I beat him senseless for it. He lost a tooth, broke his nose, and I came close to ending his life, stopped only by his genuine remorse. A remorse not extracted from the pain I inflicted. He’d taken every hit as though he deserved it, but that was not enough to satisfy me. I starved him for three days, deprived him of light and air, and when my temper cooled, he was waiting.

I had only ever heard of one potential marriage, and it had been ill-fated, as the man in question was put away for tax evasion before the alliance could be fully struck. And that timeline coincided with the death of Kira’s father.

He had spoken the truth. That, in the end, was why he still lived.

“She loves me,” I said again. “I know it.”

If he could be constant to his love of Cosima in this cell, then my Muse deserved no less from me.

“Do not speak to me about love, Irish,” he said with a dismissive chortle. “Your people do not have the culture for it.”

“Bullshit,” I chuckled, throwing a small piece of bread at him, which he caught in mid air.

Imprisonment had dulled him, but not by much.

“It’s true!” he teased, “Your Irish songs are allfuck the English! Oh look how sad I am!”He made an exaggerated frowning face, then kicked his feet about in front of him, mocking a Riverdance. I almost laughed. “But we Italians write operas and grand symphonies for love. For the taste of a woman.”

He kissed his fingertips - the chef’s kiss. His gesticulations before him weresoItalian, he was practically a cartoon.

“Agree to disagree, old man,” I said, picking up the cup of red wine. There was no crystal stemware for this dungeon. “We Irish might not have operas, but we sing plenty of love. Songs that can actually be sung by normal people, instead of pompous little trussed up chickens on a stage.”

I would die on that hill.

Irish songs were far more romantic, with lyrics of heather and thyme. They were not as bombastic or cacophonic as the operas, but that did not make them less heartfelt. They might have the lights, the show, and Giuseppe Verdi, but the Irish had songs so old that their composers were lost to the mists of time.

“If she were in love, she would never have left,” Morelli countered, again forgetting that I held his life in my hands. He and Shiny had a bad habit - adangeroushabit - of forgetting that I owned their next breath.

“You don’t understand what Kira and I are.” I felt the tension in my fist, as it clenched at my side. The old urge to pummel him is still latent beneath my skin.

Kira and I are eternal.

Not everyone could see it, but that didn’t matter to me. The world could burn and I would hold her above the flames.

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