Page 2 of Iron Crown

His hand clutched my bicep, and he threw me onto his desk, the knick-knacks, paperweights, and pens flying as I slid across the surface.

“Filthyputana!” he said in that pathetic New Yorker accent.

He knew as much Italian as I did.

In fact, he probably knew less. Years of art history had taught me plenty of Italian, the way an opera singer may know a language without fully speaking it.

He had no business being placed over me. He had no business thinking he could treat me this way. We were equals save for a bit of bad luck, and without the tether of my father’s existence, I didn’t give a fuck.

His hands gripped my hips, and I knew what he would do. I knew what he thought was hisrightto do.

I groped for anything I could find. A pen, a fucking snow globe… anything!

My hands clasped on something gold and metal. Giorgio Morelli tore off my underwear and ripped my skirt over my hips.

I didn’t think, I just… acted.

I turned, swinging my arm wide, as the object in my hand embedded into his jugular.

I let it go, gasping, as Giorgio grasped for his throat. The pulse at his neck throbbed and blood squirted out of the sides, like a gashin a water house. He gurgled, his throat clicking and gasping like a broken valve.

I stared, fascinated as his fake-tanned skin paled, his mouth opening and shutting. His tongue darted out as if to speak.

Would he ask me for help? I would rather see us both burn, than have him live another second!

I reached out my hand, as his fingers trembled on the letter opener shaped like a tiny sword. I whispered,“Shh! Shh! It’s okay!”

But it wasn’t. I knew that. I took joy in the way his eyes looked relieved. He thought I was going to help him. The folly of humanity was that in distress, we’d accept help from anyone. I got help from a mafia loan shark. Hethoughthe was going to get help from a woman he had tortured and assaulted again and again, and again.

“It’s okay,” I repeated, “You’re going to be okay.”

I absolutely relished the look of relief in his eyes—the pleading hope that I could be his salvation.

I placed my hands on the letter opener, as if trying to help staunch the leak, before I sneered, “Fuck you, Giorgio.”

I yanked the golden letter opener out of his throat. Blood splashed across my face, turning my vision a vibrant crimson. I stepped back as the fountain of blood spurted out of his neck as he fell to his knees.

He clutched at his throat. His silent scream filled me with satisfaction as his face fell to the floor, his ass up in the air. He keeled over, hands still at his neck. Dead.

His ornate, Persian-looking rug stained scarlet, as the pool blossomed around him.

He’d bled everywhere—lines of it splashed on the walls, the desk, and even the ceiling.

It was a bloodbath. Something right out of a horror film. And it was completely delicious.

Warm, wet, and sticky, I was covered in it. It was on my hands, my feet, my face. I could taste the copper of it on my tongue. I delighted in it, feeling the weight lift from my shoulders that he would never harm me again. But the joy didn’t last long.

Despair was slower to creep into my soul.

Fuck!

I had just killed Giorgio Morelli.

I had killed a made man.

The door opened, and I whirled around, the gold letter opener still in my hand. I brandished it in front of me. I shook with fear, and I knew that I was probably facing my death. I just refused to go down without a fight. If there was nothing else, I would spend my last momentsfighting.

“Bollocks,” a voice said in a deep British accent. “What a mess.”

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