Adriana shook Michael’s shoulders. “Come back. Please. I can’t bear it.”
Whore. Liar. Murderer. Filth.
A thousand voices screamed, and all of them sounded like her voice, her doubts, her truths. The images were worse. Her face in the throes of ecstasy. Her body performing deeds so vulgar they made her want to vomit. Her soul withering in corruption.
She covered her eyes and ears and screamed.
The torment quieted. Fingers pried hers away from her face. Michael’s voice whispered in her ear. “All will be well.”
She opened her eyes. His face seemed different somehow—gentler, older, wiser—as if he was not Michael, at all. And yet, she trusted him just as much.
He stepped off the bed onto the darkness and opened his arms as, beyond him, the walls of her prison blazed. “Trust me.”
How could she possibly climb into his arms and allow him to carry her into an inferno and certain death?
“I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
She didn’t believe him, not because he would lie to her but because what he promised wasn’t possible. As the vile accusations grew louder and the damning images multiplied, Adriana climbed into Michael’s arms: Better to burn with him and be done, than to suffer this slow corruption. She buried her face in his chest and sighed with relief as he covered her ear with his hand. The warmth and smell of him made the growing sounds bearable.
“I love you, Michael.”
Would God bring them together in Heaven? Would they be reborn together in another life the way the Umbandistas believed? Or were these precious seconds all they had? As the heat stung her arms and the wind from the inferno buffeted her hair, she hugged him tight. If there was a journey to take, in this life or the next, she would take it with him.
She took one last look at Michael then closed her eyes as he stepped into the flames.
The heat vanished. The wind stopped. The accusations silenced.
Adriana opened her eyes and slid out of Michael’s embrace onto the bedroom floor. Behind her, a thousand votive candles formed a line in front of Jian Carlo’s massive bloodwood bed. In front of her, Jian Carlo shook his fists at Serafina, like a child throwing a fit.
“You said this couldn’t happen.”
Serafina grabbed Jian Carlo’s face. “Be careful, my pet. Be very, very careful.” Then she shoved him away.
Adriana gasped. Who was this sniveling creature? Certainly not her husband, the man who had stolen her youth, isolated her from family and friends, controlled every aspect of her life. Who had raped her. “Who are you?”
Jian Carlo seemed puzzled, but Serafina just smiled in that reptilian way that had always terrified Adriana as a child.
“He is mine. And you need to be taught to respect what is mine.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve never taken anything from you.”
Serafina let her hand fly, but her slap never landed: The old Michael was back, full of righteous fury.
He gripped Serafina’s wrist and glared in her face. “Don’t you fucking dare.” He shoved her into Jian Carlo and reached back for Adriana. “Come on. We’re out of here.”
Serafina pushed Jian Carlo forward. “Stop him.”
The men tripped and fell in a tangled sprawl. Jian Carlo recovered first, pinned Michael on his back with a forearm against his throat, and pounded Michael in the face.
Adriana screamed.
Michael bumped and jerked, somehow freeing himself from Jian Carlo’s hold. For a moment, Adriana thought his greater size and youthful athleticism would win the fight. Then Jian Carlo wrapped Michael’s arm in some kind of Jujutsu hold and jolted it with tremendous force. Michael howled in pain as his shoulder popped.
Adriana rushed forward to help. Before she could, Jian Carlo released Michael’s arm and pushed it out of the way. He rose on his knees and raised his arms high, ready to strike.
“Stop. Please,” she yelled.
But it was too late. Jian Carlo dropped his weight and drove his elbows down into Michael’s chest. Bones cracked. He rose again and repeated the strikes. Chest, throat, face. Cracks and thuds. So much blood. Michael used his good arm to cover and deflect, but with one shoulder dislocated, his hips pinned, and his legs locked in place by Jian Carlo’s, those elbow strikes kept hitting their targets.
Adriana yanked Jian Carlo’s hair, but he kept pounding on Michael. If she didn’t find a way to stop him, Jian Carlo would beat him to death.
Rage flooded Adriana’s mind and radiated through her body. The emotion was so foreign that it took her a while to recognize it. When she did, it consumed her. She ran to the corner and grabbed one of the wooden canes from Jian Carlo’s collection—Brazilian Walnut, one of the hardest woods in the world—and struck the side of his head. The sound cracked like a major league hit, but this wasn’t a ball, it was Jian Carlo’s skull.
Adriana doubled over, leaned on the cane, and vomited on the floor.
Michael rolled onto his side, moaned and spit blood.
Jian Carlo fell onto his back and clutched his bleeding head.
“You bitch,” Serafina screamed.
Adriana stared at the cane in her hand. How could she have hit Jian Carlo with this? She loosened her grip. The cane felt evil. She didn’t want it anymore, but it clung to her. Then she heard a sound far more evil than the cane.
Against the wall, Jian Carlo crouched like a wild beast, teeth bared, and glared through bloodshot eyes. He meant to kill her. Michael must have seen it, too, because he cried out and struggled to reach her. He’d never make it in time. But Adriana refused to die. Not with Michael’s life still in jeopardy. Not while they still had a chance to live.
As Jian Carlo shoved himself off the wall and lunged toward her, she hefted the cane behind her shoulder. Time slowed. Michael shouted a warning. Jian Carlo roared with blood lust. Serafina screamed. Adriana cracked the cane, with all her might, across Jian Carlo’s throat.