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Death

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Warning: Extra long chapter

Chapter 34: Death (Dante's POV)

I hadn't realized how I'd started calling Anastasia's apartment home or how it began to feel more like a home than my own apartment ever had. 

I knew Anastasia was expecting answers from me tonight, and I'd promised her honesty; I wouldn't go back on my word. But I thought I was past all this. Underestimating the impact my past had on me was a mistake. 

I always told myself that taking care of Isaiah Morales would solve all my problems, that the torture and suffering he put me through would be avenged when I killed him, and for a moment, when he went limp and lifeless before my eyes, it felt like everything would be okay again. 

But when I woke up the next morning, I found that not much had changed. Killing Isaiah wasn't the solution to my problems, but I never once regretted it, even though it failed to bring me the salvation I was desperately seeking. 

The nightmares didn't cease even after killing him, and it took me a long time to come to terms with my reality. Telling Anastasia everything felt like reliving it all. 

But I would relive that nightmare a hundred times, fuck, I would go through hell and back over and over again for her if she asked. 

A deep breath escaped me as I lifted my eyes from the ground and saw her stepping out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her softly. She made her way over to where I sat at the foot of her bed and wordlessly dropped down beside me. 

A second passed before she spoke, "Dante." I turned to face her. "You don't have to," she whispered, shaking her head softly. "If you don't want to talk about it, we won't." 

"I've spent enough of my life running from my past, Anastasia," I told her. "It's all done. I should be able to talk about it." 

"There's no time limit on healing from these things," she replied. "To each their own." 

"Not saying it out loud won't change what's already happened," I said, staring at the ground. 

She sighed quietly as she held my arm. We sat silently for a few minutes until I'd gathered enough of myself to tell the truth. "I was eleven years old," I began, still looking away from her. "It's been eighteen years. My memories are hazy after I spent my entire life trying to block them out." 

She hummed faintly in understanding. 

"I knew Isaiah Morales," I mumbled, "at least my parents did. I saw him here and there growing up, mostly at galleries. When my mother first met him, he was trying to make it as an artist. She liked one of his pieces and bought it off of him. 

"Eventually, he gained little recognition amongst New York's elite. People loved his work, he had a growing clientele. My parents had introduced him to their friends and helped him sell his work. They weren't close by any means. Just... well acquainted." 

I felt her thumb gently stroking my arm over the fabric of my shirt, and I continued. 

"His wife was sick. She had been for a few years, and her heart was failing. He didn't have enough money for the surgery. The people he knew best in this city who could have helped him financially were my parents, but when he came to ask for help, they refused. They didn't know him well enough, it was far too big of a risk. 

"A few months later, his wife passed away. Isaiah lost it. He turned to alcohol and drugs, he started losing his business, and he had nothing left. I never knew he had a son, or any children for that matter. I don't think my parents knew either. If they did, perhaps they would have helped him. I don't know..." I took a breath to steady myself and let out a heavy sigh. 

"One night, he showed up to our house. It was late, the staff had gone home, and it was me and my parents. When my father answered the door, Isaiah barged in. He wasn't in his right mind, he may have been drunk. He started arguing with my parents, blaming them for his wife's death, saying she would have been alive if they had just loaned him some money. 

"I was told to go to my room, and I couldn't watch the situation unravel. At some point, he turned completely manic. He pulled out a knife. All I remember..." 

Her grip on me tightened as I inhaled shakily. 

"I came running out when I heard my mother screaming. I was at the top of the stairs," I swallowed, "watching. I watched. I watched him stab my parents to death. They couldn't do anything to defend themselves, hell, I couldn't do anything for them, Anastasia." 

"You were just eleven years old, Dante," she whispered quietly, resting her lips against my shoulder, "it wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done." 

I scoffed lightly, "That almost makes it worse." A beat passed before I continued, "I don't think he planned on taking me that night. But when he saw me, he decided that killing my parents right before my eyes wasn't enough for him. He resented my parents not only enough to kill them but to kill me, too. 

"If I hadn't begged for my life that night, he would have driven that knife through my chest. Sometimes, I think it might have been better if he had. Perhaps death would have been better than what I went through in that basement. When he dragged me out with him, I didn't fight him. 

"It was my only chance at surviving, so I cooperated. I promised him I would always do as he said, but when we got down there, he just threw me inside of that closet and locked me up." Swallowing past the heavy lump in my throat, I let my head fall forward. 

"He came down there every day to hurt me, and that was all he ever did. First, it was just the belt. He liked to whip me... on my back. Sometimes, the torture only lasted a few minutes. Sometimes, hours. And sometimes, the entire night. No matter how long, he always left me with welts; he always left me bleeding on the ground. That wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was when he came back to pour alcohol over the wounds." 

I heard the sharp inhale of her breath. 

"The belt turned into a knife one day, and the belt welts became knife wounds. He liked to cut me open. He liked making me bleed." 

"Dante—" 

"Then, one day, he told me I wouldn't be the only one anymore. At first, all he told me was a nickname for the girl he'd bring the next day. Little Dove. When I asked, he told me your name. Anastasia Cobalt Vitalio." I turned to face her. 

Realization washed over her face. "It was... just supposed to be me? Then why did he- why take Francesca? Why did he kill her?" Her breaths grew slightly shallow, and her eyes glistened with tears again. 

"She wasn't supposed to be there with you," I said hesitantly, "in the garden. He thought he'd grab you when Francesca wasn't looking or when she was with the other kids, but that night, it was just you two, wasn't it?"

Her silence gave me my answer. 

"I could hear you out there," I mumbled, "screaming for her when he would hurt her. I heard you crying when she..." 

"Why?" she asked weakly. "Why me?" 

"He liked you." I didn't have a better answer for her. "If what he told me was true, it was simply because he liked you. When he lost his wife, he stopped painting. One night, he saw you with Marshall at an art gallery for an event. You made him paint again. It was like you were—" 

"His muse," she finished for me. "You killed him?" she asked. 

"Do you remember how he was caught?" I asked. 

She paused in confusion for a second before shaking her head. 

"It was Ethan," I mumbled. "He was a kid, just like us. Isaiah left him home alone after telling him never to go into the basement, and Ethan did just that. He must have seen you. That wasn't the first time he snuck down there. I'm sure the first time he did is what we saw on camera today. But that day... I don't know if he did it intentionally, but after seeing me in the closet, he ran off, leaving the door open." 

"How could I not remember any of this?" 

"You were six years old, Anastasia. I'm sure you've blocked out most of your time down there. Memories fade with time, no matter how horrible and dark." I scanned her face briefly. "I got out," I mumbled, "when I ran upstairs, the cops were already there." 

"You think Ethan called the cops on his father?" 

"I think he could have," I breathed out. "Over the years, I spent all my time tracking Isaiah down. I kept tabs on him, following him to every prison and psychiatric hospital he was ever sent to. A year ago, he was finally granted visitors in person without supervision." 

"That's when you killed him?" she asked. 

"I was an FBI agent, no questions were asked when I went to see him."

"How did you do it?" 

"With a knife." I met her gaze. "I did what he did to my parents. It was simple in my mind, Anastasia. I didn't care about the consequences." 

"Did Marshall know?" 

"No. He says if I told him, he would have been able to protect me when the authorities got involved and suspected me, but we both know how Marshall is. He wouldn't break the rules for anybody." 

"He would have for you, Dante," she said. "The past year... where the hell were you?" 

"Here and there," I mumbled, "I stayed in the city. They would have found me if I had traveled anywhere, one way or another. I stayed with friends sometimes." 

She paused for a beat, skepticism in her eyes. "You have friends?" 

I couldn't help but laugh softly. "A few," I faced her. "I crashed at Tristan's for a while, at one point, even at Kai's. Kai introduced me to one of his friends, who finally helped me rent out a place while still keeping it under wraps." 

"Who?" 

"Nathan Davenport." The quizzical look on her face told me she didn't recognize him. "He likes to stay in the shadows and doesn't socialize much either. You must have seen him at some events but can't remember." 

She breathed and then asked me in confusion, "And Ethan? You never found him over the years?" 

"No," I answered honestly, "I tried tracking him down, but I didn't know his name, and searching for Isaiah's son didn't get me very far. He didn't have any other family to begin with. I assumed he must have entered the system and found a new family somewhere. I never fucking thought he would come back for revenge. If that's what this is." 

"You think he's out for us? Blames us for his father's death?" 

"It's all I can come up with right now." Dropping my elbows on my knees, I tipped my head forward, tugging at my hair. "God, I never once doubted my decisions or actions in the past, but I'm wondering if I made a mistake, Anastasia." I closed my eyes tightly. 

"It was all I could turn to after watching what Isaiah did to my parents, after what he did to me. If I had known it would bring Ethan back to us, to you, I never would have done it. There are punishments worse than death. What if I made a mistake? What if all this is my fault?" I groaned quietly, shaking my head slowly. 

"Dante," she sighed. I felt her rise off the bed, and then she was kneeling on the ground before me, easing my arms back down. "This is not your fault," she said sternly, "you did it for yourself, you did it for your parents." Pushing higher up on her knees, she inched closer to me. 

It wasn't until she wiped her thumb across the dampness on my cheek that I realized a few stray tears had betrayed my composure. 

"Isaiah Morales deserved worse," she said. "You're right, there are punishments worse than death, but we lived through them, Dante, when we didn't deserve to. We've lost everything to that man, to that monster. Our families. Your parents, my sister. It doesn't matter what happens in the future, it doesn't matter what Ethan or anybody else thinks. This isn't your fault, do you hear me?" 

"But Ana—" 

"You're the reason I don't have to live in fear of that man anymore. You're the reason I'm probably still here and alive. Don't start doubting yourself now." She paused for a second. "It really isn't a good look on you." 

I let out a breath, tugging her hands away as she wiped another tear off my face. 

"Dante," she persisted, shrugging my hands off and taking my face in her hands. Her eyes held mine for a minute. 

"I can't stand the thought of you hating me if something were to happen to you because of me now, Anastasia," I admitted. 

"I could never hate you," she replied. 

"Anastasia..." 

"Dante, I love you. So, believe me when I say I could never hate you." 

I blinked once. Twice. 

Sighing, she leaned in even closer. "I love you," she repeated in a whisper. "I—" She never got a chance to tell me for the third time because, hearing those words come out of her mouth, I couldn't stop myself from kissing her. 

Tilting her chin up, my touch nothing but a whisper, I pressed my lips to hers, silencing the rest of her words. Her lips were slow and soft against mine. This kiss was unlike any of the others we'd ever shared. Maybe it was the fact that she told me she fucking loved me. 

She pulled back for a second, meeting my eyes with concern swirling in them. 

"Say it again," I demanded. 

She blinked. "I love you." 

"Again," I breathed, pulling her to her feet. 

"I love you," she chuckled softly, staring down at me. 

"Fuck, again, Anastasia." Grabbing the backs of her thighs, I tugged her into my lap with her legs on either side of me so she straddled me. 

Smiling, she rested her arms around my shoulders, and when her lips brushed against mine, she whispered again, "I love you." Running her fingers through my hair slowly, she asked, "Do you love me?" 

"Of course I do," I said, "I love you." 

"Again," she teased. 

"I love you," I chuckled, tugging her closer. 

Dodging me, she leaned further back. "One more time," she laughed, throwing her head back to avoid the kiss, resulting in my lips landing on her neck. 

Placing a hand on the small of her back, I lifted her back up. Our breaths hitched simultaneously as our lips brushed. "I love you," I said quietly before kissing her senseless.

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Chapter 34

If my man doesn't react like this when I tell him I love him, I don't want it. 

The man in question? Doesn't even exist, y'all. I'm tired of the single life too WHAT ABOUT ME? THE MEN I WRITE CAN'T KEEP ME COMPANY FOREVER, GOD!

next ch: love