Page 23 of Nicoli

“True. But now I plan on making it as painful as possible.” My voice is low but firm as I walk toward the broken wine bottles scattered across the tiled floor. “So, not only do you have zero common sense, you’re dumb as fuck too.”

Glass breaks and cracks under my Italian leather shoes, the crunching sound similar to shattered bone. Ruben tries to glance over his shoulder to see what I’m doing, but since he only has one good eye, he can’t see shit. I grab a handful of crushed glass, not caring that the tiny, jagged edges slice into my palm. When I’m high on bloodlust, I don’t feel pain. Like the bullet that landed in my chest the night shit went down with our dearly dead uncle, Roberto. I felt nothing. One minute, I was standing in the Dark Sovereign room, and the next, I woke up in my bedroom with those annoying as fuck beeping machines.

“Maximo, you’re sure you got all the information you need out of this one?”

Maximo lifts a brow. “Yeah. We have everything we need.”

“Good. Because after this, he won’t be able to say shit.”

Maximo lifts a brow as he watches me move to stand in front of our royally fucked friend, whose eyes went from defiance to terror in record time. “What…what are you doing?” He’s shaking, and I can practically smell the fear.

“Open wide.”

“No! No!” He shakes his head violently, horror lacing his expression like he’s living in his own goddamnSawmovie. Maximo slaps his palms against Ruben’s ears, keeping him still so I can shove the shards of glass in his mouth.

“Eat up, fucker,” I sneer. Ruben tries to scream, but it’s all muffled by my palm flush against his mouth, and the more he tries to fight it, the deeper the glass goes. Blood trickles down the sides of his lips and chin as he tries to sputter around the pieces of glass in his throat. His eyes are so fucking wide I’m sure they’re going to tear out of his skull. “That’s what you get when you fuck with us,” I say as he chokes on the shards and his own blood, tears streaming down his cheeks. God, the power pulsing through my veins right now is fucking exquisite. There’s nothing like holding a man’s life in the palm of your hand, knowing you’re in control, that you decide whether he lives or dies. Unfortunately for this fucker, his fate was decided the moment he let Aldo Costa through our club doors.

I step back, and a thrill shudders up my spine as I witness the scene in front of me. Ruben's mouth falls open as he tries to scream, but it’s more choked gags and tortured cries, blood-stained pieces of glass expelled from his mouth with desperate breaths.

His lips, his tongue, it’s all pierced and gashed by what looks like thousands of tiny fragments of glass. Pain is laced through every line on his face, but it’s not enough. I pick up a large piece of glass, the sharp tip glinting, my own palm bleeding. I can feel the tiny shards digging deeper into my flesh, but there’s no pain. No burn. No sting.

“You should have settled for the way your life was, Ruben. Because compared to others, it’s a pretty good fucking life.” I swing my arm, slicing the sharp edge through his cheek, his head jerking to the side.

He doesn’t scream. He’s not making a goddamn sound, his cheek now a large, gaping hole, and I can see parts of his teeth through the grotesque wound. His one good eye is still wide but starts to flutter, his shoulders slumped as he seems to teeter on the edge of unconsciousness.

“Oh, no. You get to look in my eyes while you die.” With a snarl, I grab his hair and pull his head up so he faces me, and when he looks at me, I jab the broken glass into his jugular, severing the vein. “See you in hell, motherfucker.”

His last gasp is garbled and wet, his body rigid and shaking. The sight of his blood pouring out over my hands is pure ecstasy. There’s no better scene than watching a traitorous fucker like Ruben Willard die at my hand.

Adrenaline courses through me, Ruben’s body going lax as his life drains out of him. Power engulfs me, and I’m lost in a blood haze. Hypnotized. Entranced. Until beautiful green irises push through the cruel vapor, reminding me why I’ll never have the one thing my heart and soul desire most. Because it’s as clear as the blood coating my hands.

She’s a queen…and I’m a fucking monster.

ChapterEight

MIRABELLA

“Iwant to do my own thing.”

“And what, exactly, is your thing?” Caelian asks, taking a sip of his whiskey.

“I want to help a blushing bride plan the perfect wedding just as she had always dreamed of. I want to plan an old couple’s fiftieth anniversary and help make it even more unforgettable than their wedding day.”

“You want to be a party planner?”

“Not a party planner. A dream maker.” I smile and settle back in the tufted chair, already seeing the perfect setting of a dream wedding in my mind’s eye. “And since Mrs. Del Rossa is no longer here, and there’s a new first lady in the house, I have more free time to do what I want.”

“Like going to nightclubs?” Nicoli leans against the arched wall, his sleeves rolled up and tie loosened. His muscles are so defined you can see it through his shirt. He’s fucking beautiful. Tall. Attractive. Exasperating.

I arch a brow. “That topic is closed for conversation, Nicoli. Move on.”

“So, you’ve accepted that you’re not going?”

“No. You’ve accepted that Iamgoing.”

He scoffs. “Like fuck I have.”

I narrow my eyes as I notice his bandaged hand. “What happened to you?”

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