Vincenzo
The penthouse is quiet, too quiet.
It's the kind of quiet that feels thick and suffocating.
I wake up and out of habit I reach for her side of the bed, my fingers slide across cool silk instead of warm skin.
The sheets still carry her scent, a mix of vanilla and smoke that clings to her like a second skin.
I inhale once, hard, like a man that's drowning and going under for the last time.
Then the memories hit me all at once.
They all come crashing in like a second heartbeat, it's all feels so sharp, wrong and impossible.
Years of Chiara in my bed, in my life, in my head.
Years of me fucking her like she was the only salvation I needed, then leaving her all alone in the dark to burn.
Years of promises I never kept.
Then I got engaged to Katerina Petrov.
The night I told Chiara that my marriage to Katerina was actually happening right after I finished inside her one last time and whispered "it's just business," and pushed her out of a moving SUV on a deserted road.
The bomb that was planted hits seconds later, the heat ripping through the night, the car getting engulfed by fire, her body tumbling across gravel.
The kill order I issued with my voice calm and cold over the phone like I was simply ordering coffee, while I watched as flames swallowed her whole.
That night, Chiara wasn't the only one who died, I also died inside.
I mourned her every single day after that.
Every morning I wake up on instinct reaching for her ghost every morning, her sweet smell of vanilla and smoke on my sheets gradually faded away, the taste of guilt is sour in my mouth.
I drank so much just so I could numb the pain.
I fucked Katerina while pretending she was Chiara.
I stared at the forged paintings she had made for me, the ones that still hangs in the hallway, each feeling like a knife twisting deeper into my chest every day.
And now I'm here.
2018.
Thirty-one.
She was just here last night, I can feel it.
Her nails raking along my back until she drew blood.
Her moans being muffled against my shoulder.
Her body arching like she was trying to mould us together even more.
It felt like two different realities were colliding in my skull all at once, things I've experienced from the past, the future, love and murder, her alive and her dead.
My head begins to pound seriously like my temple is being hit with something hard.
My stomach churns, acid rising in my throat.
I stagger towards the bathroom, gripping the sink like I'm holding on for dear life, until my knuckles starts turning white.
The man staring back at me in the mirror is someone I don't recognize, eyes wild, pupils dilating, jaw so tight it hurts, sweat beading on my forehead and dripping into my eyes, causing a sting.
I splash water on my face.
But it still doesn't help.
Painful memories of Chiara keep flooding in, her blood splattered on gravel, her screams engulfed by fire, my own voice giving the kill order.
But last night she was here.
Alive.
Warm.
Real.
I tell myself it was just a dream.
It was just a nightmare.
It's just a sign that I haven't gotten over her and everything that happened.
But it all feels so real, fuck I need help.
I throw on a black suit, no tie.
As I try to get ready, I feel like I'm being weighed down by chains.
I walk towards the bar.
Pour three fingers of Macallan for myself into a glass.
I gulp it all on the go.
The burning sensation is one that I welcome.
It grounds me.
I pour another.
Then another.
Then another.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, I grab it and look at the caller ID.
Luca.
My loyal scarred enforcer.
I answer.
He speaks quickly, telling me that my shipment at the port is being delayed, customs are sniffing around.
I simply tell him to handle it.
He hesitates.
Then he asks: "She didn't come home last night?"
I freeze.
"She left early," I say, that's all I could tell him because right now it seems like I'm running mad.
A beat.
"Right," he says. "Just checking."
I end the call.
I walk over to the window.
Chicago glitters below me, my city.
My empire.
It was all built on her forgeries, her intel, her kills.
She's the ghost in every shadow, the signature on every fake painting, the whisper that makes men disappear.
And last night she felt different.
Like she was saying goodbye or it felt like she was here last night.
The guilt is already surrounding me, thick, choking, like smoke in my lungs.
I killed her.
I remember killing her.
I remember the fire, the blood, the decade of mourning.
But she was here last night.
Alive.
I fucked her like I was trying to carve myself into her bones and make us one.
Like I knew it was the last time.
I tell myself it's nothing.
It was just a nightmare.
A premonition.
I pour myself another drink.
The glass is cold against my palm.
I stare at the city.
Somewhere out there, she's alive and moving through it like smoke.
I tell myself I own her.
I tell myself she's mine.
But these memories say otherwise.
They say I killed her.
They say she's gone.
They say I've already lived ten years without her.
She's already gone.
I finish the drink.
Set the glass down.
The clink echoes in the empty penthouse.
My phone buzzes again.
An unknown number.
A single line of text confirms my fears:
"Target eliminated. Clean. No body left."
I stare at the screen.
My pulse thuds in my ears.
The room tilts.
"Eliminated".
The word tastes like ash.
Like smoke.
Like the end of everything.
The phone buzzes again.
Another message.
Same unknown number.
A photo.
A charred piece of metal from the SUV, twisted and a burnt dead body.
A single word beneath it:
"Done."
My hand shakes.
The glass slips from my hand.
It shatters on the marble floor.
She's dead.
And it feels like this nightmare is only beginning.