Always Been You

~Martha’s POV~

Antonio Guerra doesn’t like repetitions, just like his nephew, so I went straight to the point: “Dante, my son is hopeless and needs your help.” He looked annoyed. He took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled a cloud of white smoke from his mouth.

“You gave birth to a little wimp, didn’t you?” I should slap him for calling my son a wimp, but then he doesn’t know the real story: “A weakling just like the father, I told you to bring that boy home so I could train him the Guerra way, but now he is hopeless. Have you ever witnessed a Guerra who was completely hopeless in your life?” He pounded his fist firmly on the table and said, “Questa è la merda che ottieni sposando un uomo debole.” (This is the shit you get for marrying a weak man) he said as he led me to the dining room.

“Non mancherai di rispetto a mio marito,” (You will not disrespect my husband)

“Husband, you call that…” I didn’t let him finish what he was about to say.

“Un’altra parola dalla tua bocca e ti schianterò” (One more word from your mouth and I will crash you) I poured myself some of his scotch, “Sit down, I need to tell you everything” he sat down and washed his hands, then use a tablecloth to wipe it as he listened to me. I told him everything-how it all started, how he fell in love with his friend and was scared to confess his undying love for her because he was scared he might lose her. I went on to tell him about his two failed weddings. I didn’t hide anything from Antonio; he was family.

In the space of fewer than five minutes, the look of hunger that had been on his face was replaced by one of rage, which made his eyes look dark and cold and his face appear menacing. His body was now in a threatening stance. The woman who was standing next to him and about to put food on his plate cowers in fear. He picked up the dining table and hurled it across the room in an impressive display of strength. The table shattered into little pieces, and I went back. I have never seen Antonio show such hostility towards his opponents, but I get the impression that he is taking this fight very personally. I slowly raised my head to look in the direction the table went. The table crashed to the ground, shattering plates, cutlery, and glasses, and leaving a large dent in the area where it landed.

I could hear footsteps walking majestically up the stairs, and the maids and cooks cowered even more than they already had. Raising my head, I met with my father.

“Immagino che oggi debba essere Natale. Buon appetito.” (I guess today must be Christmas. Enjoy your meal.) He said as he walked toward me and my brother, “Ciao, mia principessa.” (Hello, my Princess!)

“Ciao Padre.” (Greetings, father!)

“Sembra che mi sia perso la festa, cosa mi sono perso?” (Looks like I missed the party; what did I miss?) My father said. He’s old, but the man is as ruthless as his son; my brother went with him to his study.

“Clean this up!” I ordered the helpers and told them to fix the other dining room. After the dining area had been set up and was prepared for the meal, I walked in, took a seat, and waited for my father and brother to join me. My father never married, and just like my brother, my father never wanted his enemies to use a woman against him. So he settled for sex workers and mistresses.

The two walked in and sat down. My father’s attention was drawn to me at that moment. His eyes were dark and wild. Then a table lamp smashed into the wall just inches away from one of the maid’s heads. Nobody made a peep or a sound. People still urinate in their underwear whenever my father walks into a room, despite the fact that he is no longer involved in the drug cartel business. My father was that terrifying. That is how merciless he is.

“Come lo vuoi fatto, principessa?” (How do you want it done, Princess?) My father asked, and I smiled and poured myself a drink, sliding my hand into my handbag and placing a picture on the table. One of my father’s employees took the photograph, scanned it, and immediately had the information that he required at his fingertips.

“Theresa June Blackwood A 35 years old. Just one kid.” He continued to harp on the information he had gathered about June over and over again.

“Your call, my ice queen,” my brother commented.

“Car accident; I want her to never walk again in this life and make her mute; she talks too much for her own good.” I took another picture and shoved it their way. The image was captured by the man, and he scanned it.This belongs © NôvelDra/ma.Org.

“Candice Akins, 34 years old, a gold digger, always after rich men, an ex-employee of the Monroe industries.” These are the things that have been said about Candice Akins. As soon as the other person had finished talking, I did not squander any time.

“I want her to go mad, start picking up papers on the street, eat food from cabbage bins, and I want her not to have brakes when it comes to peeing; I want her to pee on herself every time she wants to pee.” When I pushed the last picture in their direction, my brother howled, and the other person did the same thing as with the other two pictures.

“Mason Blackwoods. A man in his 39th year. He worked as a physician in Canada for two years before having his license revoked because he developed an unhealthy obsession with one of his patients and began administering drugs to her. The woman was married but too bad for her. Doctor Blackwood started sleeping with her while she was in her drugged state, and she got pregnant. The woman didn’t know how she got pregnant because her husband was impotent. She went through a divorce, and after she settled down in Ozark, she started going by the name Mavis. When Doctor Blackwood returned to his hometown, he forged his license and started practicing his profession as a doctor.” My eyes widened a bit, as I didn’t know that Mason had done this before. Isn’t Mavis the woman who is always insulting Lola every chance she gets? Could it be that the woman and Mason are now an item?

“This must be the boy drugging my nephew’s wife.” I nodded and asked, “How do you want it done?”

“I want him to shit on himself every time nature calls, I want him to pee on himself, I want him to be a vegetable, and I want him to never walk again in his life, and I want him to end up in a wheelchair.”

“Fallo sbavare, lascia che le mosche si facciano strada nella sua bocca.” (Make him drool, let the flies make their way into his mouth) My father said as he got up and headed upstairs.

“You badass, that’s a lot of suffering. Why not pull the trigger?” My brother asked.

“My husband isn’t going to be happy about it; they should just learn to live with it while they watch my children love each other.”

“I have a condition, sis, and there are no negotiations,” he said, and I looked him dead in the eye.

“What is your condition?”

“I get to meet my nephew.”

Hell No!