Snapping Point

23.

My name is Xenia Butler...not Thompson. I still didn't know why I had chosen Thompson that night when he stood before me and interrogated me. Maybe the angst of having a gangster so close to me, though I wasn't far from the truth.

My father's name had been Thompson Butler. God rest his thug of a soul.

Before he had opened his mouth to the Glock 9mm and crushed his windpipe with a bullet by his hands, I might have glorified him in my upcoming story—but eulogizing a suicide victim wasn't my strong suit.

I didn't like to speak of them as good people when they died committing the worst sin of humanity. Of all of them I had heard so far of, my father was the worst. To witness two innocent souls orphaned and believe they deserved it felt like a twisted delusion.

Even after fourteen long years of soul-searching, I couldn't unearth a concrete motive. He wasn't the first widower, nor the first to shoulder the weight of fatherhood alone. Others had faced similar trials without resorting to the cowardice of self-obliteration.

His death had thrown me into the hands of a madman I could never bring myself to proudly call my uncle. They say blood ties breed the most venomous beasts, and I couldn't agree more. Uncle Ivan embodied everything synonymous with hell and Satan, and I could swear that I wasn't speaking from a vengeful place.

Joanna and him got along really well, and it was kind of because they had a lot in common. However, the current issue was that Romano had abducted her nearly two weeks ago, and recovering her seemed nearly as daunting as trying to stop indulging in forbidden thoughts about him.

Romano.

The name seemed to permeate every corner of my mind. In my younger years, I envisioned him embracing me. During the night of the gunshot in my father's room, I could hear his comforting voice assuring me. And during the week I spent at the brothel, attempting to impersonate Joanna, I recalled Romano questioning me about my identity and pleading for me to disassociate myself from my sister's profession.

But it was all an illusion and I was losing my mind, because I'd only been with him for three nights and barely anything meaningful was said.

Just three nights in the presence of that man had transformed my entire existence over the past weeks. His lustrous brown hair that looked so healthy, his jaw that would clench when his hard stare pierced through me, his habit of running his ardent grey eyes down my body and an almost insignificant moment of regretting it—I couldn't forget it all. Not his towering stance that nearly dominated everything he stood against. Or the way he dressed and pranced around with more pride than any man I'd seen.

I was impressed, and stupid for going over those moments repeatedly.

A member of the TIF had saved me, a fact I couldn't bring myself to admit to my uncle Ivan. Speaking positively about anyone associated with that clan was akin to picking a wood and designing your your own coffin. I wasn't ready to meet the same end as my parents, wherever they may be. If I was tired of being alone, I needed to focus on one thing: getting Joanna back. And that meant keeping any praise of Romano De Rossi to myself.

As I lifted my gaze to the mirror, I found his reflection staring back at me, his eyes piercing through mine. Shock froze me in place as I reluctantly trailed my eyes down his reflection. He was drunk again, leering at me with predatory eyes.

Ivan was intoxicated, as usual, his state fluctuating between drunk and high on any given night. His addiction had gotten so bad that sometimes, when he was sober, it felt like he was on a different kind of high altogether.

Praying that tonight wasn't one of those occasions when he drunkenly mistook me for Joanna, I cleared my throat nervously and cautiously sidestepped closer. "Are you okay?"