Page 126 of Bitter Poetry
“She wanted his cum off of her. Was tearing into herself and hysterical. So I took her to the shower. Lillete was there.” I’m stretching the truth a bit. Lillete turned up after. “I left.”
He nods.
We both turn to see Ettore enter, flanked by Peter and two more soldiers. He strides straight over to me.
“Where is she? Is she hurt?”
Like you give a fuck, asshole.
Jero steps in and gives him an update. By the time he’s done, Ettore’s jaw is tight, and his eyes are wild. He rakes his sharp gaze over me, taking in my disheveled clothing and the smears of blood. I copped a couple of blows in my scuffle with Cosmo,and they’re starting to throb. I’ve dried a bit… I’m not dripping water, at least.
“Cosmo?”
“In the pool house under guard,” Jero says.
“Wait for me there. I’m going to see my wife.”
CARMELA
The doctor is finalizing the script when the door opens, and Ettore enters.
I catch a glimpse of Roman beyond, and then the door shuts again, and my husband strides around to me. His eyes swing from me to the doctor. “How is she?”
“Your wife has been attacked,” the doctor says bluntly. “There is a great deal of emotional trauma besides the obvious injuries…”
I zone out during the rest of the conversation.
I want Christian.
“… she needs rest.”
A tic thumps in my husband’s jaw. “Please wait for me downstairs.”
The doctor gathers her things and leaves.
Lillete lingers. Ettore’s eyes glisten with a familiar rage. After what’s just happened, his fury is the least of my concerns, but I don’t want to bring Lillette into this. “Thank you, Lillete, for all your help.”
“Not a problem.” She still lingers.
“Lillete can return afterward,” he says. “If you would like that.”
A concession in a man who offers so few causes fresh tears to well in my eyes. “Yes, please.”
Lillete leaves, slipping quietly out of the door. Ettore sits down on the side of the bed.
I flinch.
He sighs, goes to take my hand, and then stops himself.
“I’m sorry.” I crave the numbness—a welcome break from feeling. The painkillers are working swiftly, but that’s not the kind of numbness I need. I don’t want my husband, the man I hate, to suddenly show me any kindness. Words linger on the tip of my tongue—bitter words, a poetry of recriminations—I say none of them. “Can you ask the doctor for something to make me sleep?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Carmela, if she’s worried about your breathing. But I will ask.”
A hysterical sob bubbles up.
He mutters a curse. “I’ll deal with my brother,” he says, face stark and tight. “He will never touch you again.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing.
