Page 110 of Die for You
Gianna grabs a pew to balance herself, but I bring my foot down, stomping on her kneecap. She buckles with a yelp.
I give her no time to recover as I elbow her in the face. Her nose cracks.
Her stilettos will be the death of her, as will her elaborate train. Both hinder her movement because every time she tries to run, her heels catch the train.
I use her poor wardrobe choice to my advantage and stand on the train, holding her in place as I punch her repeatedly in the face. She tries to fight me off, and usually, she’d be able to block me.
But my rage is animating me in a way I’ve never felt before.
Every part of me is humming, demanding I bathe in her blood and use her skull as a goblet as I bask in celebratory champagne.
She scratches across my cheek with her long nails. It only infuriates me further.
I hear Lenny ordering Francesco to take Lettie back to his home.
Bria is cursing at the top of her lungs to let her go.
Gianna manages to kick off her heels.
Her nose is bleeding, and her face is slightly swollen.
But it’s not enough.
“Looks like I should win the fucking Oscar…bitch,” I spit.
Gianna smirks. “I always knew you’d be my most worthy opponent.”
“Is that so?” I ask, removing my foot from her dress.
Let’s make it a fair fight, then.
“Well, as they say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Does it…Mother?”
Gianna’s eyes widen.
So she didn’t know.
Something is amiss. Gianna came into this, thinking she had an advantage. But this puzzle has missing parts.
I can figure that out later, though, because now we end this.
“You’re not my child,” she cruelly spits as we circle one another. “I may have given birth to you, but I disowned you the moment I left you on these steps. You’re nothing but a disappointment. Nothing but a sniveling little weakling.”
Her words bounce off me because the days of being wounded are long gone. And I know she says this with intent because an angry fighter is a fighter who makes mistakes.
“Really? That’s the best you’ve got?” I mock, reveling in her anger that I haven’t fallen for her tactics.
She lunges and attempts to punch me, but I block her and spin, jabbing her in the kidneys.
“You taught me well.”
“I haven’t taught you a thing,” she counters, placing a hand over her lower back.
“On the contrary, you’ve taught me not to feel, which is why I’ll have no issues cutting off your fucking head!”
She nods, understanding that only one of us will be leaving here alive. “Let’s do this, then.”
Just as she taught me, we bow as a sign of respect, which seems ironic. But once we stand tall, it’s every man for himself. Even injured, she charges me, kicking me in the stomach. I stumble back three steps.
