Page 77 of Bitter Poetry

“You understand why you’re here? Why this needs to happen?”

“Yes, sir.”If she looks like she’s going to faint again, I’ll let the bitch hit the floor.“I’ll make sure she doesn’t see unpleasantness.”I’m going to make it my personal mission to fuck with her mental welfare any and every chance I get.“Ensure there are no reasons why I need to touch her.”I’m goingto wrap my fingers around her throat and squeeze until she can’t breathe the very next time I’m left alone with her.

“Good.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes lightly. “You’re a good soldier. I appreciate you. But, even for you, I cannot let this pass.”

Guess I should be lucky he likes me…

“He’s still young,” Jero says. “He won’t let you down again.”

“I know he won’t.” Ettore steps back before walking over to the far wall, where he puts his hands into his pants pockets, all fucking relaxed.

Dick.

Jero motions to me. “Take your jacket off, mate.”

I undo the button, shrug out of it, and hand it over to Jero.

Okay, then. Hands down. Keep my hands down. That’s going to be easier said than done.

Peter and Bo take out a pair of leather gloves and casually slip them on—just another day in the office.

I kind of know what to expect, but also, I don’t. I’ve fucked up and touched Ettore’s woman. Yeah, if only he knew… For the most part, I believe Jero has my back, but we’re all just passengers on this ride, aren’t we? They’re going to beat me. The important question is, at what point will they stop?

Peter and Bo look to Ettore. At his nod, they turn back to me.

Peter lands the first punch to my gut. I’m braced for it, but it still sucks the wind out of me—the second blow lands in the same place.

I lock my jaw, clench my fists at my side, and stare at a point on the wall opposite. I’ve taken a punch before, plenty, to be honest, and administered far more. It feels different when you’re on this side of the equation, though. What I did to Carmela in the back room of the coffee shop sure as fuck doesn’t warrant this punishment.

None of that matters in this world of made men. We play by our own rules.

Keep my hands down.

In my mind, I picture Carmela, her pretty face flushed as I slam her up against the wall. My fingers are biting into her throat, but her pupils are blown with arousal, and she pants for breath because she gets off on that shit.

The blows keep coming.

My stomach is one big ball of roiling agony, and the rest of me is hurting like a motherfucker… which is when Bo steps in and directs his fist at my face.

I taste blood. It’s mine. It’s Carmela’s. It’s both a poison and an aphrodisiac on my lips.

The pain spreads outward from the points of contact until it engulfs everywhere. My right eye is swelling, and more blood pools in my mouth.

I don’t remember falling to my knees, only the awareness of being here. My stomach clenches involuntarily, and I heave up bile.

“Enough,” Ettore says.

I sway on my knees, breathing through the torment. Blood drips from my nose in a steady stream, splattering against my white shirt and onto the concrete floor. I’m on fire. My stomach lurches again. I swallow down the bile. Heaving hurts like crazy, and I really don’t want to do that again.

Highly polished Italian leather shoes enter the floor space before me, careful to avoid my vomit.

Ettore Gallo. I fucking hate this man. If Dante said the word, I’d slit his throat in the night, no problem. But Dante’s got a plan. I trust my brother and would do anything for him, even put up with Carmela and her bitch ways.

I lift my chin slowly and meet his eyes. He leans in and puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s over. You’re forgiven.”

“Thank you, sir. I won’t fail you again.”

He releases me and turns to the right where Jero is waiting. “Get him cleaned up. Peter, you will drive Carmela tomorrow.”