Page 53 of Beautiful Torment (Empire of Kings #1)

ABELLA

M y family home appears on the horizon, and sunlight dances across the water behind it. Angelo sits beside me, silent, while my thoughts are distant and weightless.

I knew it was only a matter of time before he would address this situation. He never lets a slight go unpunished, and in the Cosa Nostra , vengeance is a romantic gesture. Though, in Angelo’s case, it’s more likely he just wants to send a message.

People would talk if he did nothing, and he’s not known for being merciful.

If it had been Matteo standing at the end of the aisle that day, my father would have made it out unscathed. But it wasn’t, and he hasn’t.

Angelo doesn’t offer me assurances or false platitudes when he reaches over and strokes my face.

“ Per te, cara .”

For you.

I know what he’s about to do, and maybe I should feel something, but I’m just numb.

Maurizio Moretti never held an ounce of love for my mother or us girls.

To him, we were little more than commodities or nuisances.

As I sit here, I can’t recall one fleeting moment in time where I ever felt happy or like I could even breathe freely in his presence.

He’s been the crushing weight on my chest for as long as I can remember.

And because he hurt me, Angelo will dole out mob-style justice to avenge me.

He’d do the same to any other man who caused me pain.

From childhood, he’s been my protector and my sanctuary. He saw me, listened to me, and never asked me to be something different than what I am. I won’t ask him to either—particularly for someone who wouldn’t throw me a lifeline if I were drowning.

Angelo seems to recognize my acceptance as he leans in and brushes his lips against my temple. It’s not the kiss I wanted, but it’s significant because he’s breaking his rule for me.

A moment later, he helps me out of the car, and on our way to the house, Michele emerges with Valentina in tow. He’s carrying some of her bags, so it’s a safe assumption she’ll be moving to the Vitale estate too.

We all converge on the sidewalk, and Val leans in and gives me a hug.

“Never forget you exist because I let you,” she whispers in my ear.

I squeeze her tighter. With one simple sentence my father has uttered countless times, she’s reminding me who he is. Who he’s always been.

“You’re as weak and worthless as your mother was,” I croak.

When we release each other, I see the same numbness reflected in her eyes.

We’ve been so disconnected since our mom’s death—learning to hide our grief and every other human emotion.

Our father has left his mark on us both in different ways.

He hated me for my resemblance to my mother, and that disgust manifested in physical violence.

But Val was simply useless to him because she was another disappointment—being a daughter, rather than a son.

With her, he was cold, mocking, and verbally abusive.

Francesca was the one daughter he found useful simply because she would do anything he asked without hesitation. And even though she’s been a brat most of my life, I can’t help but think how much he messed her up, too. The worst part is she doesn’t even realize it.

Briefly, I wonder where her husband will dump her on weekends now that our father won’t be here. I guess he’ll have to figure out another arrangement.

“So I guess I’ll see you at the villa?” Val asks.

I nod. “Where are you staying?”

“She’ll be in Mariella’s wing,” Michele answers.

That brings me some relief. I know Mariella will look after her.

After we say our goodbyes, Michele escorts her to another SUV while Angelo leads me to the front door.

When it swings open, I’m not surprised to see Romeo standing on the other side.

Over the years, I’ve heard whisperings about his role in the Cosa Nostra .

He keeps his activities confined to the woodshed—one place on the island I never want to see.

I suspect he’s also been providing accommodations for my father until our return.

Angelo settles his palm on my lower back and directs me to the dining room, where we find my father.

He’s bound to his chair at the head of the table, his face swollen and battered with bruises in various stages of healing.

His hands are strapped to the surface in front of him, duct tape wound tightly around his wrists and stretched across the wood.

“Abella!” he growls when he sees me. “Untie me now!”

Years of conditioning trigger my survival instincts when I hear the rage in his voice. I almost step forward on autopilot, but Angelo stops me.

“You don’t take direction from him anymore, cara .” He tucks me against his side, shielding me with his body. “Never again.”

He gives me a moment to calm my racing heart, as if he knows how much I need his strength right now. His eyes are dark and full of sorrow as they search my face, and I can see the questions there. He wants to know why I never told him.

A conversation for later.

Once my pulse evens out, he leads me to the opposite end of the dining table and directs me to sit. Briefly, I steal a glance at my father’s mottled face before I turn my attention to Angelo. He walks around the table and stands behind my father.

Spread across the wood are an array of tools, and beside them is a folder. Angelo opens it and sets a piece of paper in front of my father, giving him a minute to take it in.

I don’t know what’s on that paper, but I know my father well enough to see he’s nervous.

“What else was Matteo paying you for?” Angelo asks.

Confusion creases my brow as I glance between them.

“It was for services rendered,” my father spits.

“You want to try again?” Angelo removes another piece of paper and sets it in front of him.

My father’s lips press into a thin line, and he doesn’t answer.

Angelo grabs a long nail and a hammer from the pile of tools.

When he presses the tip of the nail into the top of my father’s hand, he starts to fight, trying and failing to yank free.

In one swift and brutal motion, Angelo drives the nail through my father’s hand and into the table.

“Fuuuck,” my father cries out. “You sadistic son of a bitch! We could have avoided all this if you had just paid for her yourself.”

“She wasn’t a transaction.” Angelo’s gaze shifts to me. “And she was already mine.”

The fact that he didn’t agree to buy me shouldn’t make my heart feel warm and fuzzy, but it does.

Matteo didn’t have the same hesitation about exchanging Vitale cash for me like I was merchandise.

I know he was the one who paid the million dollars.

But to my knowledge, my father wasn’t helping Matteo with any accounting.

So I have no idea what else he’d be paying him for.

“You can tell me now,” Angelo says. “Or you can tell me a week from now when I’ve broken every bone in your body and made you wish for death a thousand times over.”

Again, my father gives him nothing.

Angelo reaches for the short, brutal-looking sledgehammer. “Which hand did he hit you with, cara ?”

A crushing sensation presses against my ribs when I meet my father’s gaze and see the unwavering certainty in his.

He doesn’t believe I’ll have the courage to say it.

He thinks he can still control me with a single look—that cold, calculating evil in his eyes.

The same evil he used to wear my mother down until there was nothing left of her.

“You aren’t going to let him hurt me, Abella,” my father says. “So cut the bullshit, get over here, and untie me.”

“Did you kill her?” The words spill from my lips in a voice I hardly recognize.

“Again with this?” He shakes his head, spittle flying from his mouth as he tries to keep his cool. “How many times do I have to tell you? Your mother was sick. She was weak?—”

“The right hand,” I tell Angelo.

Warmth flickers in his dark gaze as he looks at me. “ Brava, la mia ragazza .”

He swings the sledgehammer into my father’s right hand with so much violence, I can hear his bones splintering as blood spatters his face.

A spine-chilling roar erupts from the depths of my father’s gut. “Goddammit, you traitorous little bitch. I should have tossed you over the cliff with her. You and your worthless sister.”

Angelo swings the sledgehammer again, crushing what’s left of his mangled hand. My father wails, and Angelo grabs him by the hair and yanks his head back until he’s forced to meet his gaze.

“Talk to my wife like that again, and I’ll knock your teeth clean through the back of your throat.”

My father chokes on spit, and Angelo shoves his head away with a snarl. He groans in agony, but I don’t care.

“You killed her,” I say again, voice wavering.

“I did her a favor,” he wheezes. “She was a useless sack of meat who couldn’t do the one fucking thing I asked of her. She wasn’t a wife anymore. She was barely a mother.”

“Because of you,” I cry out. “You destroyed her. Do you think I don’t know that car accident was your first attempt? You blamed her for never having a son, and you tried to get rid of her.”

He stares back at me, blank, and I know I’m right. He can’t talk his way out of this, just as he couldn’t force nature. There’s a certain irony that he wanted a son so badly, and his own biology denied him one.

A heavy silence settles over the room, only interrupted when Angelo walks to the kitchen counter and grabs another folder. When he opens it and starts tossing photos onto the table, my father’s face pales.

I glance at the images of different women—each of them bound and gagged with cold, lifeless eyes. There’s a ligature mark around all of their necks, and their bellies are round. They were pregnant.

“What is this?” My fingers tremble as I reach out to touch one of the photos.

“Your mother wasn’t the only one.” Angelo’s voice softens as he delivers the news.

The horror that washes over me is something I’ll never erase. I always knew he was evil…but this? It’s beyond comprehension.

“All girls?” I croak.

“Yes.”

Closing my eyes, I try to breathe, but rage leaks into my veins and consumes me. I don’t even feel like I’m in my own body when I rise from my seat and approach my father.

I grab the claw hammer from the table, and Angelo says something, but his voice sounds like it’s underwater. Everything else fades to static as my gaze settles on the monster who made me.

My fingers tighten around the wood handle as hatred swirls inside me. I draw my arm back and slam the hammer down on the one good hand he has left. It lands with a sickening crack, offering me a reckoning I never knew I needed.

If he makes a noise, I don’t hear it. I can’t seem to stop myself as I smash his fingers over and over until a sob wrenches free.

I feel myself being pulled back against Angelo’s warmth as he pries the hammer from my hand and tosses it to the floor.

He shelters me in his arms as I cry—finally unleashing two decades’ worth of agony.

It’s painful and ugly, but Angelo weathers the storm right beside me, never telling me to stop or pull myself together.

He lets me get all of it out until there’s nothing left.

Only then does he speak, his voice rough, almost broken.

“How long, Abella?”

I blink up at him through glassy eyes. “He’s always been evil, but it became physical after my mother died. You weren’t here when it started, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“It matters.” He wipes away my tears with such tenderness, a fresh wave threatens to spill over. “Nobody will ever hurt you like that again, cara . Never. Do you understand?”

I nod, understanding perfectly.

He’s always been my protector. And for right now, he’s telling me that he always will be.