Page 7 of The Ruin I Chose

Roxy.

Playful, but light. It struck a chord—a pang I didn’t want to admit.

She mouthed, ‘I’m sorry.’ Barely audible.

I didn’t respond, just watched her berry-stained lips move. Then the gentle sway of her hips. Her stride. Her scent trailing behind her like a challenge.

I stood there unmoved, but something was stirring. And I didn’t name it. She made me feel something I didn’t recognise. And I didn’t want to.

The sales rep switched to French, confirming my selections would arrive in a month. I nodded, eyes scanning the crowd for her, but he was gone.

“Merci,” I said, finally turning to the rep with a polite smile.

I could see she was trying to flirt with me. I was used to the attention, but today, I wasn’t interested.

The next day, Martin followed me into a meeting with Lorenzo. I hated that bastard. Older than me, but never worthy of respect. We started as partners, until greed took him. Drugs. Women. Flesh traded across Europe and the Middle East. I don’t touch that filth. You have to be rotting inside to sell human lives.

“Marcello, figghiu miu, it’s been too long. I’m surprised you agreed to meet me.” His eyes flicked around. “Public places make you nervous now?”

“Get to the point, Lorenzo. I don’t have all day.”

“You insult me. Somewhere important to be?” He smiled thinly. “Sempre di fretta, eh?”

(Always in a hurry, eh?)

His voice dripped with cunning. I rubbed the bridge of my nose and sat across from him. I didn’t want a gunfight. Not here. Not now. Not with so many innocent lives around.

“You wouldn’t come here to banter, Lorenzo. Don’t mock me.” I replied in a stern yet calm manner.

“I want to move through your port—Porto Nerra.” He leaned in. “Ti pago il doppio.”

(I’ll pay you double)

“No. You know I don’t want your filthy money.”

“Business is business. You deal in arms and art—one to dominate, one to distract.”

“Art is the only thing that makes violence tolerable,” I said, flat.

“Ahh.” His smile sharpened.

“Sei diventato molle, Marcello.” He taunted.

(You’ve grown soft.)

“Still haunted by Elaine’s ghost? Give me what I want, and I’ll disappear.”

“If I give you what you want, you’ll come for what I have, you greedy bastard.”

My fist slammed against the table. Lorenzo didn’t flinch. Just puffed his pipe.

“Don’t make a scene, Marcello. What will happen to your perfect little image then? I’ll get what I want. One way or another.”

He stood and walked out, leaving the stench of smoke behind. He always knew how to press the wrong buttons.

I remember the day like it was yesterday. Elaine—on her way to her show in Florence. She was one of the finest sculptors I’d ever known. Her car collided head-on with a transport truck, the same truck she used to move her pieces. It wasn’t an accident. It was Lorenzo’s message for walking away.

I had barged into his house then. Took a knife from his bedside and sliced him—mouth to ear. Unfortunately, he lived, but the scar stayed. His mistress had screamed and fainted.