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My action ensured that and it was good for me, as neither Enzo nor Mikail has the means to come after me here. At least for now.

She actually tried to kill me—a part of me withered the moment she pulled the trigger, leaving me there to bleed to my death. Unlucky for her, I survived.

Revenge is all I can think of. It coats my insides, dripping from every fiber of my being. My heart wants its pound of flesh. We let her in, only for her to massacre it.

I watch the night swallow the sky, just like rage does me.

Tossing back the bottle of whiskey, I see another bottle shattered to pieces on the floor. I vaguely recall throwing it against the wall.

I’ve known loss, suffering, and regret. Fuck, they’ve been steady companions, but this hurt is so debilitating that I can’t function, can’t fucking eat.

It’s been three days I’ve mostly spent in a stupor, drinking myself into oblivion, in the frail hope of numbing myself. It’snot working. I know I can’t continue down this path, but fuck if I can make myself care about anything else. The pain is overpowering––all consuming.

I drink and let every moment between us play before my eyes, sneering at my stupid ass for allowing myself to believe in something greater. Luciana must be laughing her ass off at fooling me so well. I trusted her more than anyone else and faced the biggest betrayal of my life.

And shame, so much shame sticks to my skin. I won’t be able to wash the grime away even if I submerge myself in holy water.

Every moment feels as if someone threw me in an icy river. I kick my legs and wave my arms through the merciless water, drowning in the cold—I’ll never get back to shore.

I’ve holed myself up in my penthouse, not wanting to see anyone. I am battling an army of emotions, but they constantly knock me down. I wish she’d succeeded in killing me.

Groaning, I place my palm on the window, and it instantly curls into a fist. My head hangs as the bottle slips from my fingers, tipping over and spilling its golden liquid at my feet.

I don’t fucking care. I bought enough alcohol to sustain myself until I am ready to claw my way out of this well of misery. It feels like mourning as scenarios play in my head—for all I had for a short time, for all we could have built together—a life.

I should have paid better attention, seen the betrayal coming and stopped it from happening. I should have done so much, yet I brought her to my bed, craving her in my life, standing by my side.

I would have gone to war for her, and she never intended to stay.

Fuck, maybe killing me was the only way since I would have never let her go, fully stuck in my obsession.

The elevator chimes, announcing someone is coming, and I know it’s Mika. My men were informed not to let anyone in, but he’s the expectation. And now my best friend will see me in this state of weakness—my sorry ass, he warned time and time again.

I don’t move from my spot, not only because my legs feel like two sticks that could give up on me at any moment, but every step demands all my skills—skills that are now inebriated and located at the bottom of yet another bottle.

Everything is hazy, spinning and turning, my vision blurry, my head a mess. I should at least try to sleep this funk off, but I hate my bed now. The sheets still carry her scent, and I thought if I watched enough over my city, it would redirect my focus back to what I needed to do.

His feet thump on the floor as he approaches me. I could very well imagine things, but then a sigh follows, deep and filled with sympathy as if he knows anything about matters of the heart.

“I want to be alone,” I mutter, not looking at him, ashamed of how far I would have gone for her.

Nothing in my life mattered more than her—this witch who most surely put a spell on me, feeding me her poisonous kisses until all I longed for was another euphoric taste. Not caring how it would end, with me dead at her indifferent and cruel feet.

“I’ve left you alone for the last three days,” he says matter-of-factly, as if you can quantify the time you need to heal. “To clear your head, but I see all you’ve done is make it an even bigger mess.” He keeps his voice neutral, not berating me but more stating facts.

“What do you want me to say? That you were right, and I was a moron?” My voice sounds groggy, just like I feel.

“Does it even matter? I hate seeing you like this, and I fucking worry.”

“I am fine,” I grit out.

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

I swivel around. The room spins, the image bouncing and blurring in front of me. I blink a few times to make it stop, but the vertigo only worsens.

He’s beside me in a second, catching me. Holding me from plummeting to my face, he gently pushes me to the couch.

“There is not enough alcohol or blood you can spill for what you have. Once you experience that loss, it stays with you. But it will get better. You’ll learn to hide it and live with the what-ifs, the longing, that anger and channel it into something else.”