Sold to Moretti Mafia

Julian

I’ve always known what kind of person I am, a ruthless, cruel, selfish bastard who only cares about power and revenge. There has been a darkness deep inside of me for as long as I can remember, but that darkness was always held at bay by my mother. She was the one good thing in my life, the one person who loved me no matter how fucked up I was.

The day she died, the evil inside of me spread like a fucking cancer, and it hasn’t stopped growing since. There are times when I think that’s all that is left. Darkness is the only thing remaining, it’s all I am and all I’ll ever be. Today, I have my doubts about that theory, because right now, I’m feeling something I haven’t in a very long time… remorse.

Elena is sleeping in my arms, her body curled up into itself, trying to get away from me even in her sleep. As she should be.

I lost control yesterday, and I broke my word. I told her it was just a shower, but I couldn’t keep my lust for her in check. I asked for more, knowing damn well that she couldn’t give me what I wanted.

I keep telling myself that I’m angry with her, that I’m angry at how this is messing with my plan, but the truth is, I’m angry with myself. This is on me.

Peeling myself away from her, I move slowly, so I don’t wake her up. After the fiasco from last night, I won’t make her take a shower this morning. I’ll let her sleep in, I don’t need the torture of watching her and thinking about how to fix this shit.

Walking into the closet, I get dressed quickly. When I head out of the room, she is still deep in sleep. I stop and take a moment to look at her. Her eyelashes are crusted together, and her cheeks are a hue of red. I know she cried last night, cried herself to sleep while I was holding her.

Shaking my head, I quietly walk out of the room, shoving all those unwanted feelings down. I need to get back in the game, Concentrate on what’s important. Her feelings should be the least of my concerns.

Quietly, I close the door behind me and turn the lock. I need to clear my head. Which means, I either need a drink, or I need to kill something. Pulling out my phone, I check the time. It’s seven-thirty… too early to start drinking. Killing it is.

* * *

Blood looks different when it’s splattered on the ground, draining from the bodies of your victims. The thrill I get from killing is fucked up, but something I’ll never give up. I was only fourteen when I killed my first man. My father placed the gun in my hand and told me to put a bullet between the guy’s eyes. I didn’t hesitate, didn’t second guess myself. I just did as I was told. Since that day, I’ve grown to enjoy the kill. Enjoy the adrenaline hit I get out of it. It’s like doing drugs, but better. What does it say about me morally that I don’t even care about the life that I rip from the earth? Killing comes with the job, sure I don’t have to do the dirty work myself. I have men to do it for me, but I’m not lazy. I love a good hunt, a chance to sink a knife into some fucker’s chest.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

Arriving back at the mansion, the endorphin high of torturing my victim all day slowly fades away. Looking down at my blood-stained hands and shirt, I’m reminded that a serious amount of blood covers my hands.

Elena’s face pops into my head, and I know if I enter our bedroom dressed like this, there will be a plethora of questions thrown my way. Business is business, and it has nothing to do with my marriage to her. I’m not obligated to share with her what I do during the day.

Walking into one of the guest bedrooms, I take a shower, washing away the blood, watching as it swirls down the drain. Today was a good day, frustrating because I had to track a shipment of drugs that disappeared but fulfilling when I sunk my knife into the traitor’s throat and watched blood spray across the pavement.

Finishing my shower, I feel drawn to check on Elena. Leaving her this morning was hard, even though it shouldn’t have been. Drying off, I sling a towel around my waist and grab my phone, entering the app for the security camera on my phone.

I watch the day’s events through the camera. She looks like sleeping beauty as she remains in bed nearly a full hour after I left. Then she wakes up, looking around the room, disoriented as if she’ll find me lurking in the shadows. Her fear of me makes me smile.

I watch as she pushes from the bed and goes into the bathroom. A short while later, she leaves the bathroom naked, and raw, primal hunger pushes through me at the naked image before my eyes. I cannot wait for the day to come when I take her without care, without mercy.

She scampers into the closet, dresses, and then walks over to the chaise lounge where she remains for the better part of the morning. There is something about her, something I can’t pinpoint. She uses the paper and pencil to write out math problems and solves each one back to back. Yesterday in the library, I had fully expected her to go for a romance book, or maybe a thriller, but like everything with this girl, she shocks me into silence.

Her adaption to change, and the way she remains strong even in her weakest moments. She is fierce and bold, and she doesn’t even know it.

She does the math problems for a while until Martha appears in the bedroom with her lunch. Elena’s face brightens with joy at seeing her, and she gets up, moving toward her. I gave Martha explicit instructions when it came to bringing Elena her lunch.

Don’t speak to her, and don’t offer her any type of help or you’ll pay with your life.

It appears Martha is listening until I see her lean forward, and her lips move slowly. It’s subtle, and I almost miss it, but Elena looking down at Martha’s extended hand does it for me, and I see her pass the small scrap of something into Elena’s hand.

Red hot anger rips through me, and I growl, squeezing my phone in my hand. Nothing is as horrible as a traitor. I find a spare suit in the closet and dress quickly, my hands shaking with pent up rage as I leave the bedroom and head for the kitchen.

Martha has been a long-time employee and one of my father’s favorites. Killing her is going to hurt, but there is no way around it. If she has betrayed me, then she cannot live.

As soon as I enter the kitchen, Martha looks up from the pot she is stirring and faces me.

“Mr. Moretti.” She looks at the ground as she speaks like most of the staff in this house do.

“Cut the shit, Martha.” I crowd her, forcing her back against the counter. My hand is on my gun, waiting for me to draw it. “What did you give Elena when you dropped her lunch off?”

Her lips tremble, and she wrings her hands in her apron before looking up at me. Fear fills her eyes, she knows what’s to come.

“It was just a note, sir,” she says, and my teeth grind together, my jaw clenching and aching. Her piece of shit father found a way inside and infiltrated my home.

Curling my lip, I circle my hand around Martha’s throat and squeeze. “From who?” I ask, even though I already know. I merely want her to confess it out loud.

“Her father,” she whispers, her weathered face contouring with shame. “Just a note from her father.”

“You know what your betrayal means?” I squeeze her feeble throat a little harder.

She nods. “Yes, sir. It means death.”