DELANEY
~~~~~
"Happy eighteenth birthday." He gave me a kiss on my temple — using my hand with the gun to shoot my dead family.
"I hope I've made your birthday memorable and special enough." He placed the knife he used in my other hand before pulling a lighter out of his jacket.
Then, he let go of the lighter and it fell to the floor. Everything went up in flames as he walked away.
Lying between the flames, I tried to crawl to mom. Her dead body stopped talking now. I shook her lifeless body, hoping she was still alive, but she didn't move.
I felt so helpless. The flames took up more space and I knew I had to get out if I didn't want to die.
I wanted to survive that night for my mother. I still didn't feel much. I didn't know if it was due to the shock or the substance they had given me. Whatever it was, it helped me crawl to the front door and leave the villa.
My chest rose and fell, I could feel the wetness of my tears on my cheeks as I was lying on the floor in the cold night.
I could feel the heat of my burning home on my back. I could feel the raindrops hit my body — soothing the little burning sensation on my legs.
Caught between hot fire and cold rain — I survived. Because I wanted revenge.
But I was alone from now on.
~~~~~
I feel like brain dead.
I guess I got rid of all the remaining cells I had left in my brain. The headache is real. Getting out of bed is a struggle.
The sun flashes me like an old hag in a robe — making me want to lose sight. Disoriented and with a loss of balance — due to the alcohol still in my system — I stumble around.
I don't only tramp around, I also look like a tramp — like the one we picked up with Alex. My makeup looks like the time I made out with a Mr. Brownie's dick.
Though, the red on my lips is lipstick. Not blood, this time. Lazily, I make my way to the bathroom. Getting rid of my suit, I step into the shower.
Water cascades down my body. I shower with cold — like I am used to. I hope my brain freezes off. I massage my temples. My head is throbbing.
When I was sedated in my mental home before, because I acted like a bad girl, I never had such a headache afterwards. All I felt was numbness.
But alcohol is a different kind of drug, I guess. The effects are the same but the aftermath is different.
Groaning, I hit my forehead against the cold tiles — hoping to feel a different kind of pain. Guess what? It doesn't work.
I need painkillers. Stepping out of the shower — after cleaning up somehow — I wear the first thing I see, a bathrobe.
I am disoriented — literally and mentally. This isn't Sensei's home. But it is big. Ugh. This homes feel like labyrinths.
Barefoot. Hair wet. Only in a robe — I search for the Turtle. Anyone. And I find maids in the halls.
But it is hard to communicate with them. Not because I am mute. They only speak Italian. I think the language is Italian. Because it sounds like Italian. Why? I heard Sensei and Turtle talk in Italian.
I decide to use sign language, but in delulu style. "I have pain," I say, gesturing to my head and groaning.
"Therefore, I need painkillers, you understand? Painkillers." I gesture to my head again and then make a slicing motion across my throat to indicate 'killers.'
They all look at me worriedly. One of them places her hand on my forehead to check if I have a fever.
I give up trying to explain what I am looking for. I need the Turtle. Or anyone who speaks English.
"Do you know where the Turtle is?" All of them look at me with blank faces. I groan in frustration.
I make an L shape with my hand on my forehead. "The loser I married?" I gesture to the ring on my finger.
Realization finally dawns on their faces. But then I wish it hadn't, because they point right behind me.
And guess who is standing there when I turn around? Yeah, the Turtle, in all his glory. Next to him is a living Barbie. It seems like his father and he have the same taste. Yuck.
"How much of my great communication skills did you witness?" I ask, feeling the embarrassment set in.
"Everything." The embarrassment hits hard, but I play it off — or at least I try to. "Great, now the stage is yours." I applaud, and he frowns.
"You told me she was crazy, but that exceeded my expectations," his Barbie says with a frown as I step aside. "Anyway, what is she doing now?"
"I am handing you the stage for your walk of shame," I reply, scrunching my nose.
"We live in modern times, darling. Sex between couples is normal." She wraps her arms around his arm like a snake.
"Very educational," I say with a nod and a smile. "Still, sleeping with a married man makes you a bitch."
"Did you hear what she called me?" she gasps, offended. "Is she for real?"
"Yeah, very real, compared to your fake boobs," I say, nodding my head. This went from embarrassing to entertaining very quickly, and I love it.
"Behave yourself," the Turtle warns me, annoyed, while rubbing his temples. For someone who got pussy last night, he is acting all uptight. Must have been bad sex.
"Says the one who cheated on me on my wedding night!" I exclaim dramatically, faking a sadness that could win me an Oscar.
"She's not only crazy but also slow-witted, I see," the Barbie says, looking at me with a hint of sympathy. "Darling, this marriage isn't real, it's only on paper." Did that bitch just call me dumb? "Now, stop embarrassing yourself."
"I am not going to fight over the Turtle. I am not going to fight over the Turtle. I am not going to fight over the Turtle," I repeat, trying to calm myself down.
"Turtle? There is no Turtle." She frowns, looking around. Then she looks back at the Turtle. "Donny-dovey-lovey, I thought she wasn't delusional? Now she's imagining a Turtle..."
I cringe. Hard. Now he doesn't like being called a Turtle, but Donny-dovey-lovey is fine? Seriously?
"Yeah, Donny-dovey-lovey," I chirp in a high-pitched voice, "why don't you tell the bitch how crazy I really am, that I will rip out her fake extensions if she doesn't stop looking at me like I am the bimbo here?"
"Does she really attack? Is she detrimental?" she asks with her lips pursed. "Guess what, I bite," I tell her, sweeping my tongue over my upper teeth.
"Yes. No. Enough." The Turtle groans in annoyance. Then he looks at me. "Giselda is here for help and support. You will not harm her."
Crossing my arms, I frown. "What help? All she has given me since I met Drizella is a headache."
"She is here to babysit," he clarifies. I can't help but laugh. "Babysit who?" I ask mockingly. My eyes go downcast. "Your dick?"
"Armando and you," he tells me seriously. I huff, now feeling offended. What is he thinking? That I am five? I am more than capable of taking care of myself.
"And his dick," Drizella adds to her list of chores she is ready to take care of. "You have a problem with it?"
"His dick is fine," I smile — not in the mood to play the jealous wife, "but I don't think you can take care of a ten year old boy, let alone wipe his ass with these claws."
She gasps and looks at the Turtle. "I have to wipe his ass?"
"No, you don't, he is perfectly able to wipe his own ass," he sighs, annoyed by the complaints around him.
"Thank God you don't have an infant at home," I murmur. "Drizella looks like she is going to pass out at the thought of wiping asses."
"My name is Giselda," she corrects me. "And no, I am not. If I have to wipe my stepson's ass in the future, I will do it."
"Of course, you would do anything to kiss my husband's ass," I reply with a nod.
"Fake husband. Your marriage is not real. Consider yourself still a damsel." She blows me a kiss, since she cannot kiss my ass.
I laugh. She provokes me, and she is good at it. If she wants a reaction, I am ready to give her one. I crack my knuckles, preparing to crack her nose.
But, unfortunately, the Turtle blocks my way. My fist hits his palm. His hand covers mine. His eyes lock with mine.
"I said behave yourself. My tolerance for your disrespect has reached its limit. Don't test it any more." It is a warning.
I clench my jaw. He is like Henry II. "But it's fine when she calls me a damsel?" I snap.
"Are you one?" Frowning, I shake my head. "Good, then there is no need to act like one."
"You are siding with her." I purse my lips and scrunch my nose. He lowers my fist by moving his arm down.
"Of course. She was here before you. She will be here when you are gone, and she will take your position one day."
I huff. Great to know that I am not his first choice. Not that I care, though. "My condolences. By the way, your brother has much better taste than you."
"My taste should be none of your concern," he remarks, finally letting go of my fist.
"Yeah, you are right, but since we are in an open marriage, I thought I should give you some feedback—"
"This arrangement is simple — one street. The term 'open marriage' only applies to me. You will be a good girl and stay away from other men, understand?"
"Or what?" I narrow my eyes.
"I will hand your partner in crime over to Roman. He will make you pay for your naughty deeds." I clench my jaw. Alex is the closest family I have left.
I have to admit, the Turtle knows exactly where to strike to keep me in line. "Why do you care if she has some fun? Just leave the poor brat alone," Drizella says in my defense. Though, it's debatable whether she is supporting my sex drive or just being provocative.
"Yeah, leave the poor brat alone." I grit out. A smile plasters on my face. My eyes fixed at Drizella. I just want to shoot her in her damn heel. "I don't know why my pussy is your concern."
"Your pussy—" He stops and cusses. He looks so done with me, like he would love to throw me out of the window if he were in a position to do so. Too bad for him that he is indebted to me, I saved his niece. "I do not want to get involved in a scandal."
I chuckle, then point at both of them. "Just for the record, you two are the definition of a scandal. Let me explain." I point to the Turtle. "Husband." Then, I point at myself. "Wife."
And last, but not least, I point at the woman. "Mistress, aka bitch."
"I can handle my situation and keep it hidden to avoid turning it into a scandal. You — on the contrary — cannot. You are too young and inexperienced to handle the media."
"Right, such a disguised damsel." Drizella looks at me with empathy. Her silicone lips pout.
"It's a request — Delaney — keep away from men, for the sake of my reputation and your friend's." He doesn't request, there's a threat that's subtly implied rather than openly stated.
"All right, then no dick for me until I am not married to your Turtle ass anymore." I agree. No men. I can live with that. I don't mind diversity. There are still women — and others.
"Let's go for breakfast. I am starving, and my head is throbbing. I need food in my system." I roll my eyes and turn around as he grabs my arm.
"Go and change first. You are already soaking my floors. I won't let you soak my expensive furniture."
"I have no clothes." I probably mention my nonexistent wardrobe for the umpteenth time. Still, he always tells me to get dressed.
"She can borrow from me." Drizella comes to my rescue. "I still have clothes in your closet." She looks at me with a wicked smile. She loves to flaunt her clothes in his closet. Now what? What does she expect from me? Jealousy over the Turtle? Pffh, never.
"Bring her to the dining area then." The Turtle leaves with a nod, leaving me alone with Drizella.
"Let's go, little one."
I follow her with a sigh. Be the bigger person — I tell myself. Don't kick her down the stairs — I tell myself.
I manage to pull myself together until we enter a room. It seems to be the Turtle's room. He has a picture of his son on the nightstand. The bed is unmade. I don't have much time to stick my curious nose in his belongings. We enter the closet.
"Here are some clothes." She hands me skimpy shorts and a top that is a size too small for my bust. Smiling at her, I throw the clothes onto the ground.
Then, I roam the closet as if it were mine. The Turtle has better taste than his mistress. Today, I want to dress in his style. Therefore, I go for the top brands in his closet, even though I don't know much about brands.
I pick out the clothes just as Drizella gasps and tells me not to wear them. Before she can snatch them away from me, I hold them out of her reach.
"Touch me or my clothes, and I will tie you up with his belt collection before I leave without you, using the excuse that you left after an important call."
She looks at me bewildered. "Those are not your clothes."
"My hubby, my clothes," I provoke.
"You are really deluded. How often do I have to tell you this marriage isn't real? Shall I write it on your palm so you can look at it every time your little brain forgets that this marriage is fake?" I just smirk and kiss my ring, showing it off by holding my hand towards her.
"Don't feel special, the ring is just there to make this fake marriage of yours look real." She huffs and looks at me with disdain.
Shrugging and ignoring her, I look at the clothes. The Turtle really has great taste. "You cannot wear those clothes," she insists, really not shutting up.
Turning towards her, I disregard my robe. She gasps. I don't know if she's impressed or just shocked by my boldness.
Standing in my birthday suit, I put on the clothes I have chosen. As I pass by her, I close her mouth by pushing her chin up. "Let's go."
Shocked, angry, and baffled, she hits me with her shoulder and leads the way. Whistling, I follow her with my hands in my pockets.
Drizella still looks pissed off as we enter the dining area. The Turtle's little shit is there, and so is the Turtle.
She makes a scene as she sits down — being loud to get his attention. And it works. He looks at her with a frown and asks, "What's the problem?"
"She is the problem." Drizella points a finger at me. Now all the attention is on me. "I gave her clothes, but she decided to wear yours. I also warned her that you don't like sharing those clothes, but she didn't listen."
"Let her wear them." Now everyone is shocked, including me. I thought he would snap at me, scream at me to take off his clothes after Drizella acted like the clothes I am wearing are his most treasured possession. "Just make sure not to stain them."
"You're all exaggerating. It's just clothes." I twirl around before sitting down to eat. I am literally starving. My stomach grumbles, making the little shit give me a side-eye.
"Clothes that are probably worth more than your existence." Drizella still exaggerates. "Clothes that are not yours."
I just glare at her while eating my food. I already have a headache. The last thing I need is her making it worse.
"Enough, Giselda. It's not a big deal." The Turtle grits out.
"But ... but you never let me wear your clothes," she pouts.
"It's my fault she doesn't have any clothes yet. The least I can do is provide her with some garments. After all, I can't have her walking around naked in my home, can I?" My lips twitch up. He's really gotten to know me better than my dead mother in such a short time.
"But I gave her clothes." Drizella huffs.
"I didn't like them." I shrug and take a sip of my orange juice.
Our little family breakfast — including my stepson, hubby, and his mistress — is interrupted when a man clad in black enters the room. "The police arrived with three victims."
The Turtle curses. "Victims? Haven't you taken care of the bodies?"
"Not our victims." The man shakes his head before looking at me. "Her victims. An old man. The manager of a taxi station. An old janitor. And a man whose... uhm, genital was bitten off."
Now the Turtle looks at me.
"What? You already knew about my fan club," I say, smiling sweetly at him.
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