Being My Brother-in-law's Wife (Old version)

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30 (Epilogue).

Left cut. Upper cut. Duck. Repeat.

Left cut. Upper cut. Duck. Repeat.

Emotion channelled through the quick jabs, oozing from the potent strikes and my stomach tightened in response. The small room embraced my perspiration and frustrations like a mother would to her newborn babe and I felt comfortable, strong once again.

Drawing in the thick air asphyxiated my gruelling pain, toned it down and the only thing raiding my mind were the thuds and muffled groans that resonated in the room after every jab.

“C’mon, you can do more than that!” I roar viciously, foam caused by my anger seeping from the corners of my mouth and my jugular vein strains intensely against the epithelial tissue that encloses it.

My blood was boiling, surpassing the heating curve of aggravation and heading right to the state of rage. Every now and then the slight tinge of pain would sear me slowly and render me weak until I regain composure and mask the ache.

Marko’s eyes fixate on my injury, his facial muscles contorting into slight apprehension but I was quick enough to cast it away completely. The punching bag swings harshly to his side, tampering with the muscles mildly before he groans out in agony.

“You can’t take any more strain,” a low voice hauls me out of my roaring inferno and I whip my head behind me, eyeing the male before turning back to Marko.

I was livid, infuriated and enraged because I was always underestimated. I took on twenty lake laps, five hour boxing classes and four physiotherapy sessions yet a simple hour added onto my boxing classes seems to be seen as my limit.

“Seriously Mason, it’s enough now.”

Nathan stalks closer to me, the slight presence of his body heat overlaps my own fruits of sweating all day and lurches even closer, “Marko’s right, you can’t do that to yourself. The doctor said you shouldn’t overwork yourself.”

I let out a harsh chuckle, “The doctor knows all, doesn’t he? He is the one that took a fúcking bullet by his spine and I bet he can’t feel his legs right now, isn’t it?"

Nathan’s face darkens as he casts it down to the floor, only to raise it up a few minutes after, “You know that I’d lay my life down for you. I’ve already lost my mother and I can’t lose you.”

The quick image of Nathaniel’s teenage mother being pronounced dead after giving birth to her son haunts me. I never knew her and Tomas didn’t talk about her at all either. It was almost as if she was a secret, a crude secret that is meant to be tucked away and never to be mentioned ever again.

I draw in a vast amount of air with stern eyes, “I lost myself the day she took my children away from me. Just to say, there isn’t much left of me, cugino.” (Cousin)

That sentence along thrust a lot of memories and thoughts of her into my head. I went from sitting beside her and awaiting her eyes to open only to find that she was in a bitter conspiracy to try and destroy our empire by distracting me as the Japanese embassy investigated my family.

I knew she was bitter, irate because of what my occupation put her and our children through but I couldn’t believe my ears when Nathaniel told me of this uncouth plan she had conjured up. He had heard her telling her friends, Blair and Walter, and expressed the loutish plan she convened in order to destroy me emotionally.

I plan to find her and nothing will give me more satisfaction than to have her take a last harsh breath before dying in the hands of my wheelchair bound self. My children turned two today, a year since I’ve seen them and I bet their hair is even wilder. Micah is probably softer, gurgling a few sounds every now and then while Isabella is most certainly tearing the entire place up.

God fúcking dammit! Damn that woman and her evil heart.

“Our Sicilian Mafia is looking into branching out and what is bigger than the Big Apple?”

A crossed look bears my face, “The Big Apple?”

“Frank Sinatra was in the mafia,” my brows furrow at the information “his dissociation from them broke them apart so that resulted into much smaller operations.”

“You want me to reach out to them?”

Nathan nods curtly, “The Serbian mafia is small yet bold, and we could do with the allies.”

That only meant one thing.

“First class, like always?”

Nathan grins slyly, his face almost splitting at the action, “you is bae and I shall do everything for bae.”

Manoeuvring into taking a shower could be challenging. My tendons and ligaments were probably en route to absolute damage and I had to refrain from that ever happening as much as I could. Doing simpleton tasks such as dressing myself and making the bed were becoming stronger as the days went by.

The mouth watering scent of Gremolata butter wafts into my nostrils as I wheel myself across the hall. Wheeling myself from A to B down the stairs was horrendous and I ended up having to adjust to sleeping on the first floor by the kitchen.

Syria shakes her rear, humming loudly to a song by Enrique Iglesias and I couldn’t resist watching her twirl from every pot on the stove. Since my shooting, Syria hardly smiled and preferred if she were to mourn me, to mourn me as though I was her dead husband or her deceased late son.

Lately, everything changed. Her mood was lighter, her dark clothing replaced with food stains and her eyes read utter happiness.

I wish the same went for me.

“You deserve a Grammy mama,” Syria jolts in shock and right then, something plush and colourful tumbled on the floor. Her eyes widen slightly, cheeks acquiring a quick red tinge and I could read her like an open book. She releases a ragged breath and dips down but my low command halts her right there and then. “Leave it.”

Her eyes dart everywhere in the room except on mine, ”Figlio --”

“Leave. It.” I wheel myself over to her, the plush item slowly manifesting into a stuffed...crocodile and I clutch the toy into my fingers. Innocence oozes from the object, a soft rosy scent blanketing over it slightly and I couldn’t help but notice a familiar rosemary scent.

“Who is this for?”

Syria exhales slowly, “Can’t I keep Isabella’s stuffed crocodile for sentimental purposes, figlio?”

My jaw clenches at the display of dishonesty. Syria is lying, lying through her teeth and it infuriates me because she’s one of the few people I have left to trust, “Mama, my daughter’s stuffed crocodile was gone along with her the day they were taken away from me. Now, do you know something I don’t? Do you know where that puttana and my kids are?”

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