Page 84 of Luca
"And you threatened her. In front of witnesses. You made her afraid." The blade catches the overhead light as I move closer. "That's unforgivable."
He tries to struggle against the restraints, the metal chair scraping against concrete, but there's nowhere to go in the empty warehouse.
"I’m sorry, I didn’t know you felt this strongly about her. It’s an arranged marriage for fuck’s sake! I won't say anything. I'll disappear, leave the country—"
"Too late for apologies."
The first cut is across his throat, but not deep enough to kill. Just enough to ensure he can't scream for help that won't come anyway. His eyes go wide with terror and pain as blood streams down his shirt.
"This is for threatening my wife," I tell him calmly.
The second cut is deeper, slower. I take my time, letting him feel every inch of the blade as it parts skin and muscle. He tries to fight, his body convulsing against the chair, but the blood loss makes him weak.
"This is for thinking you could blackmail my family."
By the third cut, he's barely conscious. Blood pools on the concrete floor around the chair legs.
"And this," I say, positioning the blade over his heart, "is for making the mistake of thinking I wouldn't kill you myself to protect my wife."
The final thrust is quick and efficient. His body goes still, eyes staring at nothing in the warehouse's dim light.
I stand over him for a moment, watching blood spread across the concrete floor. Then I methodically clean the blade and return it to the bag.
But I don't clean myself.
The blood on my hands, splattered across my shirt and jacket—I leave it. Because Gabriella needs to see what I've done for her. She needs to understand exactly what kind of man she's married to and how far I'm willing to go to protect what's mine.
Paolo's cleanup crew will handle the body and the scene. By morning, Dante Mancini will have simply vanished, another casualty of the dangerous world he chose to operate in. No witnesses, no evidence, no connection to me or my family.
I drive myself home slowly, windows down, letting the night air cool the rage that's been burning in my chest since Dante opened his mouth at dinner. By the time I pull through the villa's gates, I'm calm again.
The house is dark except for a single light in our bedroom window. Gabriella is waiting for me, probably wondering what I meant when I said I would handle the Dante problem.
Now she's going to find out.
I climb the stairs quietly, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The bedroom door is slightly ajar, and I can see her silhouette against the window, still wearing the dress from dinner.
When I push the door open, she turns toward me.
And sees the blood covering me.
Her sharp intake of breath is the only sound in the room as she takes in my appearance. The dark stains across my white shirt, the red under my fingernails, the spray pattern on my jacket that tells its own story.
“Are you hurt?” she asks quietly.
“No.”
"Is he dead?"
"Yes."
"Did you—" She stops, swallows, tries again. "Did you do it yourself?"
"Yes."
She doesn't ask why. Doesn't express shock or horror or any of the reactions I might have expected. Instead, she looks at me with something that might be appreciation.
"Good," she says simply.
