Salvatore Dalla

Hearing her call me a monster wasn’t the problem. I know that’s what everyone thinks, and what I actually am, but what surprised me was the courage she had to say it out loud. I didn’t need to look into Amadeu’s eyes to know that he was also surprised.

I ordered him to leave with her father. I wanted to deal with her alone, to see if she was as brave when facing me directly, looking into my eyes, with no witnesses—just her and me.

Amadeu thought I’d kill her, I’m sure of that. It’s what her father thought too as he was dragged away, screaming in despair. But they were wrong. I wouldn’t do that. It was clear in my mind, even though I didn’t know why.

To be honest with myself, I didn’t even know what I was supposed to do with her. Torture her? Bend her over my knees and give her a good spanking to discipline her? There were many possibilities, but in all of them, I ended up hurting her, and I didn’t want that.

I told her to stand up, to face me, to challenge me. But deep down, I was the one challenging myself. I was the one questioning why the hell I didn’t end this situation once and for all, why the hell I didn’t just grab my gun and shoot her right in the forehead. Her body stretched out at my feet would be the end—of her and of all my agony. But I couldn’t find any answers. I confronted myself, and I couldn’t be with her the way I was with everyone else who dared to question me.

I saw hatred and anger in her eyes, and I didn’t like it. She didn’t fit those feelings, not when I’d already seen her filled with love when looking at her father.

As I stared at her, I realized she was made for love, not for hatred, and I wanted to take that hatred out of her. I offered her the only way I knew how to vent—I offered to be her punching bag, instead of making her mine. For me, unloading my frustrations on someone always worked, and I hoped it would work for her too.

I didn’t know why, but I wanted to take care of her and protect her like I never wanted to with anyone else, and I decided I would do it. I would protect her, even from myself.

She looked at me, not believing what I had just said, but still with tears in her eyes as she stared into mine. She decided to take what I offered. It was far more than I’d ever given anyone, and I hoped she understood that.

“You’re a monster, a brute, an asshole, a demon…” Amapola unleashed all her pain on me as she pounded my chest in anger.

Being called a monster, brute, asshole, and demon didn’t bother me. What bothered me was the suffering that poured out of her—in her tears, in her sobs that seemed to tear her apart from the inside out. I wanted her pain to go away, so I let her vent. I let her punch me as much as she wanted. I only moved her hand away from my face—she had scratched near my left eye, I knew from the slight sting I felt—but I let her hit my chest until all her strength drained away. And when her sobs quieted, when her punches became slow and weak, I realized she was about to collapse, so I caught her in my arms.

I kept Amapola close, and slowly lowered myself to the floor. I wanted to do what she had done with her father before we arrived—rest her head on my lap and tell her everything would be okay, but I couldn’t.

So, I placed her on the thin mattress and stayed by her side longer than I expected. I needed to make sure she’d be okay when I left, so I stayed until her tears dried and she fell asleep—or so I thought. But the woman always surprised me. When I leaned down to get up and leave her alone to rest, she grabbed my arm.

“Why did you do that?” she asked.

“Because you needed it,” I answered, honestly not sure what else to say.

“And do you care about all your prisoners?” I was startled when she realized that I had been worried about her. No one had ever drawn anything from me, no one but her.

“I’m not worried,” I stated, standing up quickly. I needed to get out of there.

“What will you do with him?” she asked anxiously as I reached the door.

“What I said I would do,” I replied, and left the room. I couldn’t stay there any longer.

Before leaving, I glanced at the overcoat thrown in the corner. I wanted to cover her with it so she wouldn’t feel the cold I knew she must be feeling, but I couldn’t. I had already crossed too many lines, and doing that would be one too many. I hoped she would put it on.

“Any orders, boss?” Amadeu joined me as I reached the elevator door.

“Follow the plans as agreed,” I said, noticing that he glanced at the scratch on my face.

“And the girl?”

“I didn’t kill her,” I replied. “As I said, follow the plans as discussed.”

The elevator doors closed behind me, and trapped alone in the metal box, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. A small scratch adorned my face near my left eye. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t killed the person who did that. Instead, I had allowed her to do it.

I rested my hands on the railing and stared into my eyes, not recognizing myself. Compassion, pity, benevolence—since when did I let those feelings control me?

In my office, I head straight for the bar. Three shots of whiskey in a row do nothing to calm me, and enraged, I hurl the glass against the bulletproof glass wall, which remained undamaged, while the glass shattered into a thousand pieces—fragile, just like I felt at that moment.

Amapola made me weak, and I didn’t like it. I, who had never feared anything, was now afraid of a woman.