Turning Point||Book 2

17: Romano.

As dawn broke, I emerged from a haze of alcohol, greeted by the merciless grip of a hangover. My night had been swallowed by the shadows of the hotel bar, my mind consumed with thoughts of her—why she had omitted Angelo from her tales of Sicily. Was it fear of my wrath, knowing he was my cousin? Or did my presence now, an outsider encroaching upon her newfound alliance, threaten to destroy whatever bond they shared?

But amidst my throbbing headache, one thing remained clear: Angelo's identity needed deciphering, as he might not even be my cousin, which I knew was unrealistic hope. I had my methods, a direct confrontation with the woman herself, though not at this moment. There were pressing matters at hand—the impending release of her book, a disruption I intended to orchestrate. Only then could we address our distressed affair.

However, with me in the picture now, their secret meetings would come to a halt, which I relished more than any fact. If he truly was my cousin and had sinister intentions, my presence alone would surely deter his advances.

I had summoned men to Sicily just this morning, recognizing the magnitude of the task at hand, especially with Xenia under my protection—a duty I could entrust to no other.

With a quick stretch to loosen my muscles, I laced up my sneakers. Since I'd taken a break from the liquor bottle, I wanted to take a break from my overly active mind. And hitting the gym downstairs was the only option I thought of entertaining.

The scent of sweat and iron greeted me as I entered the space.

It seemed like a quiet morning at the gym with only a handful of people, or we all here were unreasonably early. The early morning light flittered through the window, bathing the room with a warm glow. The walls were a soothing shade of blue, and a few few dedicated individuals dotted the space, hard at work. One was a blonde woman in the corner, gracefully holding a yoga pose. A man grunted as he lifted a weight not too far from the woman. And another diligently pounded away at the punching bag, mirroring my own intentions.

I wasted no time in setting up my routine, the weights calling to me like old friends. With a clouded head, I began my workout, each repetition pushing me closer to my physical limits.

My thoughts were punctuated by the sharp impact of my fists against the punching bag. With each strike, I wanted to release a pent-up frustration but felt like I was hitting my own gut, getting a reality check, understanding that Xenia and I no longer existed as an entity. 

I found myself in a bind, realizing that any move I made could potentially drive her away once things settled down. I'd never been in the position of pursuing someone who wasn't interested, so I was unsure of how to proceed. However, I suspected that resorting to forceful tactics would only result in me appearing desperate—a strategy I knew wasn't wise. Despite this, her current behavior didn't merit the showering of sweet treats and praises.

The word "ecstasy" had clawed at my thoughts relentlessly, a riddle I didn't want to solve. Why hadn't I broached the topic with her? I had once prided myself on my dominance over anything, but yesterday's test had shaken that belief. It revealed a reservoir of submission within me, waiting to be tapped. Perhaps I held back, hoping for her to confess first, yet deep down, I knew I dreaded delving into the depths of her and Angelo, alongside "ecstasy".

Part of me wished it was all just some stupid prank. I refused to accept that he was discussing ecstasy pills or that Xenia had anything to do with it, let alone Angelo. But doubt crept in, fueling the anger that surged through me, urging me to pummel the leather bag hanging in front of me.

Then, finally, my thoughts shifted to my father. That was the breaking point. Rage and vulnerability surged within me, propelling me forward. Each blow I landed on the bag felt like striking my father's lifeless body. Again and again, I unleashed my fury, seeing only crimson. My vision blurred, whether from the remnants of a hangover or sheer paranoia. And I knew, deep down, it was the latter.