The Devil's Princess

iii. his letter

G I O V A N N I

He angrily snapped the pen open.

He was crumpling up the paper with the printed ink in long straight lines. Every curve of the ink was wrong. he needed to write it again.

He took out another lined paper and set it on the oak office table. He placed a hand on his forehead dragging it down his face onto the bridge of his nose, squeezing it.

And for the third time, he started writing.

Dear Ms. Blanchett,

Your sudden departure truly saddens me. I know I am to be married off, but I can't seem to even fuck another woman without thinking of you—

Giovanni growled.

Throwing the paper accords the room. Giovanni wasn't good at explaining his feelings, primarily through writing.

The truth was he hated Chanel for leaving. He was angry and wanted her back. He would try anything to get her back to him and hold her in his arms again.

He missed her.

He missed the warmth of her skin, the peck of her lips, the feeling of her body.

He missed the blissful laughs off her lips—the crease of her eyes when she smiled. With the warmth of her heart without her, Giovanni was back to his old ruthless self, hiding in the hope that he will get to see his true love.

He hated himself when she was not there.

It didn't help that he was married off to a girl like a product selling on a shelf in a store. It wasn't fair to him, but it goes against his mother's wishes.

The mother he thought had died painfully when he was a child.

He rubbed his hand over his eyes, blurring then unblurring his vision.

He stared down at the paper. The delicate piece he had the nerve to rip up and throw away even though he never used it yet.

He didn't write, not even a single word.

That was precisely how he felt—like a crinkled paper that would never be able to be put unwrinkled again.

He placed the pen between his fingers, swirling it around before writing what came to his mind.

The thick strokes of the black ink as he tried writing and writing and writing until something good would come out of it.

But nothing had.

No one even writes letters by hand anymore, but he thought it would have more meaning. He remembered Chanel mentioned how she wanted one once.

So he started writing, and hopefully, this time, hell, he will get something out of the words he'd write down.

He moved the black fountain pen, gliding it across the page.

Again.

Again.

Again.

•••

Dear lovely Chanel,

I have lived in sorrow since you left.

I won't be sending this letter since I don't know where you went off to, but I will be looking for you. I won't be able to let you go so quickly.

I'm writing this letter to get rid of my anger towards you for leaving so abruptly and taking a piece of me with you.

I know when I see you again, all that anger will perish away and will be left with nothing but the most love I've felt for you all those years.

I would have never guessed I would be writing something like this to a woman I adored. I would've never thought that lovely woman would be you.

I don't blame you for leaving after everything I put you through and said to you out of utter idiocy. Just know that when I do find you, I won't let you slip from my fingers as quickly as you did.

Because now I realized I'll love you 'till the day I die

Yours truly,

Gio

•••

He exhaled.

He felt the pen slipped from his rough fingers. The hands that shed so much blood, he wondered why they even got the chance to touch an angel-like Chanel.

He never deserved her.

And for once, he let his emotions take over. How he treated Chanel when they first met every agonizing word he spits at Chanel for no reason. She'd done nothing to him then.

He was the one who couldn't get her off his mind, but he brought it on her.

He opened the drawer next to his desk and pulled out a bag of white powder. He saved it from his last drug traffic.

He wasn't supposed to. It was a rule never to use the drugs you supposedly sold, but no one would know.

And since Chanel left, he felt empty; he needed something to get his mind off her.

Anything.

He never used drugs in a while, but he needed it.

He needed it so bad.

He lost control.

He dropped the cocaine powder on the desk hastily. He positioned the powder in two fine lines of white.

He rolled tightly up a twenty-dollar bill up and held it in his hand. His knuckles turned white from how clenched together he wrapped his fist.

He paused.

Was he going to do this

He was.

He placed the bill on the table. He swiped the green bill over the line sniffing hard. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and let out a sigh of relief.

That felt better than he could remember.

The thought of her was still faint in his mind.

He couldn't blame her for leaving, but he couldn't live without her. He would ruin anything which tried to take her away from her, even if it meant destroying the world.

Giovanni needed to get rid of her from his mind. He needed a break from constantly thinking of only her.

Thinking of Chanel Blanchett, or so that's the name he knows.

What he doesn't know is that she changed it to Lolita Dolores. That's the information holding him back.

So, he repeated with the second line snorting the white line sniffing it back into his nose.

An emotion that is foreign to him lumped in his throat. He tried swallowing, gulping it down, but it wouldn't budge.

Finally, he let the tears fall.

Now look who's crying.