Shades of Sins (New York Sinner Series Book 2)

34| Death

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Death

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Warning: Extra long chapter

Chapter 34: Death (Dante's POV)

I hadn't realized how I'd started calling Anastasia's apartment home or how it began to feel more like a home than my own apartment ever had. 

I knew Anastasia was expecting answers from me tonight, and I'd promised her honesty; I wouldn't go back on my word. But I thought I was past all this. Underestimating the impact my past had on me was a mistake. 

I always told myself that taking care of Isaiah Morales would solve all my problems, that the torture and suffering he put me through would be avenged when I killed him, and for a moment, when he went limp and lifeless before my eyes, it felt like everything would be okay again. 

But when I woke up the next morning, I found that not much had changed. Killing Isaiah wasn't the solution to my problems, but I never once regretted it, even though it failed to bring me the salvation I was desperately seeking. 

The nightmares didn't cease even after killing him, and it took me a long time to come to terms with my reality. Telling Anastasia everything felt like reliving it all. 

But I would relive that nightmare a hundred times, fuck, I would go through hell and back over and over again for her if she asked. 

A deep breath escaped me as I lifted my eyes from the ground and saw her stepping out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her softly. She made her way over to where I sat at the foot of her bed and wordlessly dropped down beside me. 

A second passed before she spoke, "Dante." I turned to face her. "You don't have to," she whispered, shaking her head softly. "If you don't want to talk about it, we won't." 

"I've spent enough of my life running from my past, Anastasia," I told her. "It's all done. I should be able to talk about it." 

"There's no time limit on healing from these things," she replied. "To each their own." 

"Not saying it out loud won't change what's already happened," I said, staring at the ground. 

She sighed quietly as she held my arm. We sat silently for a few minutes until I'd gathered enough of myself to tell the truth. "I was eleven years old," I began, still looking away from her. "It's been eighteen years. My memories are hazy after I spent my entire life trying to block them out." 

She hummed faintly in understanding. 

"I knew Isaiah Morales," I mumbled, "at least my parents did. I saw him here and there growing up, mostly at galleries. When my mother first met him, he was trying to make it as an artist. She liked one of his pieces and bought it off of him. 

"Eventually, he gained little recognition amongst New York's elite. People loved his work, he had a growing clientele. My parents had introduced him to their friends and helped him sell his work. They weren't close by any means. Just... well acquainted."