La Ombra

Chapter 3

Unknown

Southeast Italy

My husband's men parked his car near an old house. Judging by the surroundings and the condition of the building, no woman lives here, of course. The lawn hasn't been trimmed in years, instead of daisies some other plants devoured the beauty of the once beautiful garden. Who would want such a man with a miserable life? It's hard to call him a man after all he did was spend all the money in my casino. Good thing I made the right decision by leaving George and marrying Valentin Volkov. Sometimes I even feel bad for Milaniya, she has to carry the surname of a loser D'Angelo.

I say slowly and pet Valentin's shoulder. "You know, I can't go with you, he'll recognize me, and our plan is, pooh, screwed up,"

"Alright, den. You stay here, I go inside" his tongue curls sexily every time he said 'R', his thick Russian accent has always been my weakness. Valentin sounds so powerful and threatening, but not to me. I hold him under my heel, it's either that or living in the basement.

Since I was 17, my desire for Valentin Volkov has never stopped growing. Even when I was dating George, I saw better perspectives with my current husband but I needed to take George from my old friends, Milaniya, anyways, enough about her. Volkov was older than me, which made things more captivating for a hormonal teenager. I regret my invulnerability because of my youngness but despite that - I won this life, as I always do.

Mum, I know you're watching me from the skies. I always make you proud, eh? Grandma, I know you're observing me with that damn scowl on your face too and you'd curse me for what I did. Fuck you.

Valentin's men break down the doors and run inside, whilst he prances like a lion tempted to rip his prey. I light up a cigarette and shush the driver to leave the car, closing the doors slowly, not drawing attention. I betray my own words and decide to peek through the window. Slowly prowling in my expensive shoes through the mud after recent rain along the flat stones I unblock a humorous view.

Here you are, George D'Angelo, my ex-husband, only now I am glad to the -ex prefix. You should have listened to me back then, but you didn't, thus, mistreating my lovely daughter. Not only you don't have any of your daughters, but you also lost a wife. Now you have got to pay for the debt that was accumulated with your ugly sins.

Valentin exclaims, throwing doors open ajar and looking through all of the things George owns. "Privet, little bitch," (hello) Nothing is pricy enough to be worth stealing.

George is sleeping in the old, dirty yellow armchair. Empty bottles of beer and pill packages are laying everywhere in his living room. On the radio, Rammstein has been playing, cheering up the atmosphere. I know it is going to be bloody. Valentin didn't take his medicines in the morning. I chuckle to myself and take another blow of nicotine, as I lean in closer to the window stained in dust, making sure not to touch it.

"V.. Valentin, I told you Imma give your money back, not now," George starts shaking, not our fear but anger. He yells, jumping off the armchair, and droplets of sweat appear on his shiny forehead. "I need more pills, either I'll die," even though George woke up a second ago, he was wide-awake due to uninvited guests.

A loud, deep Volkov's laugh echoes off the house on the street. "Ty slyshal etogo ublyudka?" (Have you heard this bastard?)

Valentin turns his head back to George and biffs him in the jaw. An addict doesn't handle it and plunges to the floor, gurgling with blood, fussily trembling. Volkov raises his finger, and the boys get down to kicking George's body with their heavy boots like a sack full of trash until George starts weeping and begging to stop in between loud sobs.