Diavolo

xxx

SILVIO ROSSI

        Clink. Ding. Silver chains with an fine edge of rust. Musty scent of antibacterial soap and hand sanitizer filled and terrorized my nostrils. In the far distance, I could hear the afternoon traffic begin to set in.

        Over-dramatized honks, irritated screams and petty arguments. And of course none of that could ever come close to filling me with a deep satisfaction of slicing out some fucking artery and spilling blood all over.

Except the little boy sitting in front of me.

        Just like how Superman had a weakness to kryptonite, I had one as well. My fucking weakness and vice was Presley Carmichael. The woman with warm brown eyes and curly black hair.

        I was a monster, I didn't deserve her. I didn't deserve to touch her or kiss her, I didn't deserve her smile but she gave them to me anyways. Unfettered and rare.

It was like she was reminding me she didn't want anything else, anyone else than me.

        She dragged a part of me that'd been dead, hidden from the rest of the world and set fire to lit, almost jump-starting those feelings.

        She made me do stupid, unexplainable things like wanting to fucking burn and kill because someone with a death wish had dared to touch her. Or watching those goddamn hallmark rom-coms she loved too much, wrapped around her warm body and coaxing her to sleep after the fright of a day she had.

        And now I was doing it again. Obsessing. Worrying.

There was tight feeling in my chest, gripping my heart in tormented chains and twisting around it until I couldn't breathe anymore or think if I didn't watch over her like a goddamn guard dog.

        I didn't know what this feeling was anymore, or even if it was obsession but I didn't like it. Not one bit.

        After she'd finally fallen asleep, I instructed Beast to find the guy with only the little description Tommmaso had managed to pull from the cameras. I knew if anyone could find it, it would indeed be Beast.

        He could find anyone in fucking New York with nothing but a description of hair color or even clothes.

And so when he pulled up into the underground tunnel connected to the casino with a young boy about the height of Finley and easily intimated just by my height, I knew there was no way in hell he was her stalker.

        Two things were clear. He was the one with a fucking death wish brave enough to follow her into the dressing room and terrorize her.

        He wasn't the one sending the death threats or pictures or following her closely.

        The woman had two stalkers and the little boy sitting in front of me was just a form of setup, thrown into her life to throw us off his scent.

        Hell, the boy couldn't even look me in the eye.

        A rough gruff sound left my throat as I brushed a hand down my jaw, my eyes locked on my phone.