Michael

Michael
I smooth Hope’s hair, her face pressed against my chest. It’s been three months since we got married, and every day she smiles more. Her happiness is contagious, and every time I return home, I’m certain I made the right choice asking for her hand in marriage as a reward.

My girl has been opening up more to me; we talk about our pasts, and I’m always amazed at how she used to sneak through the house’s tunnels, listening to conversations. If I had imagined she heard me talking about sex with Black and the other guys, I would have been more careful. I had a lot of dirty, depraved sex, with no consideration for my partners, and I wasn’t ashamed to talk about it openly with the guys.

But what I have with Hope goes beyond carnal pleasure. She touches my soul, makes me want to be gentler, to savor every second we have together when my cock enters her body, touching her where no one else has. Making her completely mine. I am rough and tender in a way I didn’t even know was possible. I want to enter her soul as I do her body, and slowly, I’ve been succeeding.

I feel that Hope is waiting for just one more step to be honest with me, to tell me what she truly hides behind those green eyes. And as I open up more, establishing our trust, her resistance fades. Samuel’s attacks have stopped, and the search for him has stagnated—I tore Boston apart looking for that bastard and couldn’t find him.

While the world crumbles outside, I have found my safe place. I dare say I am falling in love, even though I’ve never experienced such a feeling. That’s the only thing that explains why I can’t get tired of her or feel satisfied—I want her like a maniac, every kiss, every laugh reserved just for me, having her by my side every second of the day. Prolonging our nights talking and lunches together, when I can’t return home she shows up at the office, feeds me with food and pussy, then leaves.

I had an idea of what I wanted my marriage to be like, but I never imagined reaching this level. A level where a man like me—a cruel, cold killer who rules the underworld and fills the country with chaos and terror, committing illegal acts every day—could truly find peace in a woman’s arms.

I feel alive with her, with feelings I never thought I’d feel emerging each day we spend together. I inhale the sweet scent of her hair, her leg lazily draped over mine, her hand smoothing the sparse hairs of my beard. I kiss each of her fingers, hearing the happy sigh that escapes her lips.

An old pain pricks my heart knowing what tomorrow is and what will happen. Hope doesn’t know yet; I haven’t had the courage to tell her and break the bubble we’ve built together. But tomorrow, more than ever, I need her by my side, knowing the truth and supporting me. I need her affection, her passionate, comforting kisses.

But I also know the monster I become on that day and the destruction I leave in my wake. How Emily hides to avoid seeing the chaos in my eyes and Matthew avoids me so we won’t fight. How Andrew enjoys tormenting me, making my suffering worse, punishing me even after all these years.

It’s the day I suffer most during the year, the only day I become a beast, uncontrollable. I can’t let my Hope be caught in the storm; I have to send her away, to a place where my darkness can’t block her light.

I have to protect her from myself.

"Tomorrow is the anniversary of my mother’s death," I confess to her in a low voice. "It’s not a happy date, and I might end up hurting you. It’s better if you go visit your parents."

It hurts to ask her to stay away when all I need is to have her by my side. But I know myself; I know how I lose control when memories of that day haunt me, and guilt makes me act blindly. Hope is a good part of my life I cannot taint with my darkness, making her cry and regret marrying me.

"I’m not going anywhere," her soft voice whispers near my ear. I look into her emerald green eyes, full of empathy. "I’m staying with you all day." She strokes my ear. "No matter what you do."

"I love my mother," I reveal, my mind beginning to cloud, "and remembering how she died changes me. The guilt is too heavy." I hold her chin. "Please, you can’t stay close and suffer because of me."

"Why would you be guilty?" She frowns. "Wasn’t it your father who killed her?"

"Yes, but the guilt is mine."

"You’d never be guilty." She climbs on top of me, pressing her soft breasts to mine. Her arms wrap around my neck, her forehead resting against mine. "Will you share your pain with me? I’m here for you."

Hope makes me want to be honest, almost as if she could hand me the answers that would heal all my wounds and remove the guilt that suffocates me every year.

"I can’t be without you anymore." I turn over her, protecting her body with mine. I kiss her soft lips, inhale her sweet scent, touch her silky skin. "It’s impossible for me."

"I feel the same way," she says, her voice trembling. I can almost touch the secrets she hides from me. "Let me in? Share your pain with me, please. I promise I’ll never leave, not even if you ask me to." She holds my face, sealing our lips with her promise.

"I’d never ask you," I whisper. "I was twenty-six when it happened."



Michael at 26

I arrived home after a trip to Mexico to deal with the drug cartel. The sons of bitches wanted to change the deal we had so their drugs could enter and be sold by us. I went to remind those bastards who they were dealing with.

I spent a month away, tense and nervous—not because of the Mexicans, but because my plan had to be put on hold. A month without poisoning Andrew could have reduced the drug’s effectiveness, and that meant I would need more time to make the bastard die.

It took time, but I finally got a silent-acting drug. I did everything carefully, poisoned his finest whiskey, drinking from the same bottle as him and the other capos. I knew the others wouldn’t die, because the drug had to be administered every day in small amounts, and I took the antidote. Only Andrew would feel the effect, and when he died no one would find evidence of poisoning.

The perfect death.

Silent, and one that wouldn’t jeopardize my succession. It’s unthinkable for a son to kill a father or for a member of the organization to eliminate another without concrete proof of betrayal. I was careful with every step—vials always in my pockets, no one’s help requested, buying the drug personally.

Being discovered was impossible, but this trip to Mexico left me restless. It wasn’t something I needed to solve, but Andrew had been clear when he sent me. I spent a month without contact with my family, and now I’m nervous about how things are after returning, and how much longer I’ll have to poison him, praying not to be discovered.

The mansion is silent; I don’t see the guards who should be patrolling. I draw my gun and move carefully inside, searching for anyone. At the end of the hall, I hear a crash from the basement. I descend the stairs cautiously, my eyes focusing on the scene unfolding before me, and I shudder.

I should have put a bullet in that bastard’s head.

Emily has a chain around her neck, forcing her face to the ground. Matthew is next to her, tied in the same way, and facing them is Andrew’s demon, holding my mother by the neck with a knife against her bare stomach. He smiles, triumphant. I lost the moment Andrew made my family his hostages.

"You played well, kid," he mocks. "It’s ironic how proud I am to see that I created a monster capable of killing his own father, and how much I want to punish you for trying to kill me."

"I can still do it," I say, pointing the gun at his head.

"I eagerly await the day you kill me, but for now, lower your weapon and sit," he gestures to a chair. "You’ll learn you can’t hurt me without facing the consequences."

A damned psychopath who fears nothing. I tremble, anger burning in my veins, the urge to rip Andrew’s eyes out, torture him, humiliate him as he does to my family. He presses the blade into my mother’s stomach, drawing blood from her white skin. The gun shakes in my fingers, the desire to kill him screaming in my head, mixed with the desire to save my family.

I look at my brothers, hating myself for putting them in this situation. My mother, who did nothing but love me, trapped in the bastard’s grip. The last conversation I had with her was before going to Mexico. Hannah pulled me into a warm embrace and said she loved me; I returned the gesture with a kiss on her cheek, looking into her calm blue eyes.

Today I find her with fear on her face, thick tears running down her cheeks. I was a fool to think I could defeat this demon, that I could set a trap he would never suspect. I don’t know where I went wrong, but now I see what it will cost me. I drop the gun, accepting defeat, and walk to the chair, sitting in it.

"Put the handcuffs on your feet, be a good boy," he mocks.

I secure the cuffs on my ankles and one on my left wrist. Andrew releases my mother, who collapses weakly on the cold basement floor. He walks toward me with a mocking smile before punching me in the face three times.

"How did you discover it?" I ask. I’m sure I did everything right.

"You almost fooled me, drinking from the same bottle. But I noticed—the difference in the liquid from night to day was a millimeter. The mark was aligned with the letter I, and the next day it was a millimeter fuller. How does it feel to know you came so close?"

"It can’t have been just that," I say, impossible that he noticed something so simple casually.

"The devil is in the details, ever heard that phrase?"

"Do whatever you want to me, but leave them alone. They didn’t know anything!" I clench my fists, the urge to hurt him consuming me.

"I’ve been patient all these years. I thought beating you or making you witness your brothers and mother suffer would be enough," he grips my free wrist, "but none of it is enough. Today I will make you suffer like you’ve never imagined. This will be your end, Michael. You’ll never dare to love again when you discover how weak love makes you."

"I will kill you," I spit in his face.

"I know. Only you can end my life."

Andrew punches me again, then gags me before starting the torture.

He pins my mother in front of me, her face pressed to the ground. He wraps barbed wire around her body, snapping it against her flesh. Her screams echo through the basement, my gagged brothers crying and shouting as they witness our mother’s suffering. I try to pull the chains to free myself but can’t; they’re tight around my wrists.

Andrew doesn’t stop. He lifts her high, hands up, mouth injured from being tied with wire. He removes her clothes and starts scraping the skin off her stomach with the knife tip. The pain pierces me like a stake. Because of me, he’s making her suffer, tormenting my mother. I feel torn apart by each of her screams.

I pull my wrist with all my strength, trying to free my hand as I see the bastard sawing my mother’s foot. Hot blood rushes through my veins. I push forward, screaming, tears of rage streaming down my face.

"STOP!" I shout over the gag.

I force the chain on my wrist, hearing bone break—the thumb dislocates, loosening the blood-soaked chain. I keep pulling, trying to free myself, but the grip doesn’t give. I tear my hand in desperation; another sound of bone dislocating, pain radiating from my shoulder, indicating I’ve pulled it out of place. No matter if I come apart piece by piece, I will free myself.

Pain, suffering, despair, anguish embedded in my cells. Nothing he did to me could break me like seeing her blonde hair ripped with a knife, her beautiful face disfigured with cuts, her blue eyes that once looked at me with love torn from their sockets.

"MOM!" Emily screams, bright red blood from the chains cutting her neck as she struggles.

"BASTARD!" Matthew yells, chin cut from hitting the floor trying to free himself.

I keep forcing the handcuffs, nearly piercing the bone of my wrist. I twist my ankle as it breaks, my desperation consuming me. I have to save her, even if I end up disfigured.

I can’t tell how many days have passed. Andrew didn’t stop for a second until my mother was reduced to nothing—pieces scattered on the basement floor. My head explodes in pain; it feels as if my heart is being ripped from my chest by cruel hands. He holds her disfigured head and walks toward me. My consciousness leaves me; I lost too much blood over the days.

"Whose fault is it that your mother died?" he asks.

I can’t answer, throat raw from screaming over the gag like my brothers, but I have no strength to speak. My head bows forward; I can’t look at her wrecked body anymore. We never had the chance to say goodbye. The last words she spoke before I left for Mexico are locked deep in my mind, muffled by the screams she gave in her final days on Earth.

"You’re Michael’s, entirely yours. I’ll remove your gag, and if you don’t answer correctly, I’ll do the same to Emily. Understood?"

I nod. He releases her head into my lap to remove my gag. I barely feel my jaw muscles, numb, dry, blood running from where I bit my cheek and tongue.

"Whose fault is it that your mother died?"

"Mine," I croak, with a thousand grains of sand in my throat.

"Never forget, next time you try to kill me and fail, it will be Emily who is punished, the same way as your mother."

He removes the handcuffs and leaves the basement. I stare at my mother’s severed head in my lap, unable to move. I faint, waking to the moans of my still-trapped brothers. I summon strength from the depths of my soul to hold my mother’s head, ignoring the physical pain of my broken limbs. I hug her tightly against my chest, crying the storm inside me, fall from the chair, leaving her on the floor as I free my brothers.

The following months were a blur, spent mostly drunk and obeying Andrew, anesthetized. Nothing could make me feel again; love had been ripped from me along with the most important person in the world, and if I continued to be weak, I would lose my brothers. I distanced myself from everyone and lived my pain alone, my punishment for having lost my mother.