Love and Chaos

by S. M. Soto

  “Thought I’d find you in here,” he mentions.

  I don’t reply. Instead, I look down, settling back into the couch and trying to pretend to reread the last paragraph I left off on. It’s no use. I feel his presence. It demands my attention. Every fiber of my being tugs in awareness. I keep rereading the same paragraph and with each word, I feel him closing in, getting closer. Finally, I feel the couch dip beside me and as discretely as I can, I inhale his scent. My body’s natural instincts are to seek him out and lean into his hold, but I fight it, trying to hold onto my anger. I can’t always give in so easily.

  “I’m sorry.” The grittiness of his voice sends a tingle down my spine, it only intensifies when he tucks the loose strands of hair hanging in my face behind my ear. His fingers purposely graze against my cheek and I shudder. I press my lips together, refusing to reply, in fear I’ll let a moan slip. I missed his touch. His closeness. I’ve just missed him. Every single part.

  Not happy with my silence, Creed grips my hips and then suddenly, I’m airborne. I flail my arms out and gasp as he settles me on his lap, facing him. My belly rubs against his front and we both look down, laughing at the bump between us. Sliding his hand around my neck, drawing my attention back up to him, I settle on his eyes that are like shards of metal, but beneath that silver, I see the specs of onyx and the love, it’s there, as clear as day.

  “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have lied. I should’ve told you he was in the basement.”

  I wait for more and at his silence I raise my brow, urging him to go on. He chuckles, his other hand coming up to cup the other side of my face.

  “You follow my rules. And you do exactly what I say, understand me? I’m not leaving you in there alone.”

  I smooth my hands over his that are cupping my face and gently tug on one, dragging it toward my lips. I press a kiss to the skin, staring at him with all my love, showing him how thankful I am.

  “I love you so much,” I whisper, pressing my lips against his. He kisses me back, his hold tightening on mine. “And I’m sorry too. I should’ve never threatened to leave like I did. I couldn’t leave now, even if I wanted to.”

  Creed smirks. “Oh, I know. Because if you ever tried to leave?” The pad of his finger grazes my bottom lip enticingly. “I’d find you. I’d scour the ends of the world to find you both. Because you’re mine.”

  He takes my mouth in a possessive kiss that takes my breath away.

  I follow Creed into the basement, and I try like hell to steady my heartbeat. It’s creepy down here. The temperature is cooler and the smell…it’s familiar, yet indescribable. I feel my brother’s presence behind me. Creed thought it would be a good idea to have him here with me. I think it only freaks me out even more.

  The closer we get to the basement, the more I’m starting to second guess my decision to come down here. When we reach the bottom steps, near a heavy looking steel door, Creed pauses and turns to me. The seriousness on his face gives me pause.

  “You don’t have to do this, Angel.”

  I swallow thickly and nod. “I know.”

  With a subtle nod of his head, he turns and then there’s the sound of metal unlatching. He pushes through and I follow behind with my brother beside me for support. The smell hits me first, my nose crinkles and bile rises up my throat. When I see the dried blood smears and other fluids on the ground my heart freezes and tears spring to my eyes.

  “Oh, god,” I choke.

  Finlay is splayed out on the floor, not even strapped to anything. He’s so weak and bloodied, Creed doesn’t have to worry about him escaping. His body shivers as he lies on the tile. His face is pale and his body…god, his body is a mess of blood and scars. He’s mangled and beyond broken. He doesn’t even look our way as we slip into the basement. Though this doesn’t look like any basement I’ve ever seen, it looks like an execution room. There is a table with scattered tools and along the other wall holds knives, fish gutting hooks and other vomit inducing tools for torture. There’s a chair in the center of the room along with chains and a hook hanging above it. Of their own accord, my eyes train on the drain in the center of the room, there are stains leading down into it, no doubt from Finlay’s blood.

  It hits me all at once what kind of room this is. This isn’t a basement. This is an execution room. Built for torture. I glance back at Creed and startle when I find him watching me. He’s been watching for my reaction this whole time. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but no words come.

  I’m speechless.

  I don’t know what to say about any of this.

  So instead of saying anything, I turn and face Finlay again. This time when I look at him, I realize he’s staring at me, but his eyes…they look empty, like he’s seeing right through me. Tears spring to my eyes as I see just how broken he really is. This is…inhumane. Finlay’s done so many evil things. Orchestrated the deaths of my family, nearly killed me and my child, but this…it’s gone on long enough. I step a little closer to him and he blinks at me slowly. His body’s reactions no longer functioning like a normal person.

  I clear my throat, gaining his attention. “I hope in death, you’ll find the love you’ve been searching for, Finlay. I hope you find the forgiveness from your family you’ve been desperately seeking.” My voice cracks and I swipe away the tear that slips free. “Goodbye, Fin.”

  He blinks again slowly, and I can’t tell if I’m imagining it, but I think I see his eyes watering. I step away, near Creed’s side and slip my hand in his. His body is tense, and I squeeze.

  “It’s time to end this Creed. Once and for all.” I keep my tone low, just loud enough for him to hear. He looks down at me, and finally, I see the understanding in his eyes. He finally gets it. With a resolute nod of his head, he turns toward my brother.

  “Help her back upstairs.”

  Without a word, I follow Garrett out of the basement, unable to help the tears that are leaking. I can’t explain why they’re there. Life was such a beautiful thing and to know someone’s life—Finlay’s—is about to be taken, I can’t help but feel emotional.

  “You all right, Soph?” There’s no missing the worry lacing my brother’s voice as he guides me back up the steps, his grip secured around my arm. For a while, I don’t say anything. Not until we’re back inside, near the foyer. I turn to my brother and wipe my tears with the back of my hand.

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “After today, I think I finally will be.”

  Emotions pass over my brother’s face and he nods, slinging his arm around my shoulder, giving me comfort the only way he knows how.

  THE MINUTE THE DOOR SLAMS shut behind them, I blow out a long sigh. I didn’t want to bring her in here, not with him and sure as fuck not to see this. Sophia has seen me at some of my darkest moments, but this? This is about as dark as it has gotten. I saw the look in her eyes, the sheen of tears, the sadness as she stared at Finlay. I don’t judge her for it. Because that’s Sophia. As innocent and caring as possible, as forgiving as they come, even when she’s been wronged.

  Dragged through hell and back.

  My angel had a heart made of gold, even when the darkness has tried to consume her, she still prospers. She was a living breathing fucking miracle.

  I look down at Finlay and take in how broken he is. I’m not satisfied, not in the least, but she’s right, I can’t drag this out forever, I have a family to take care of. A son on the way who will look up at me in no time at all, and the first thing he sees…I don’t want it to be the darkness that comes with enjoying torturing a man. I want everything to be different for him than it was for me as a child.

  All of that starts now.

  Closing the distance between us, I drop down to my haunches in front of Finlay. The stench is rancid, his body giving out on him. I’m positive he’s already brain dead. The concoction of drugs given to him to keep him alive has worked, but his soul, whatever was left of it after the life he lived has long left his body.

  His eyes
are glazed over, still blinking but not seeing much. They’re trained on the door that Sophia and Garrett left out of.

  “You’ve monopolized enough of my time and resources. You’ve tried to take my girl from me. My child. You’ve taken enough, Finlay. This ends now.”

  I jolt my arm out, not satisfied with just putting a bullet in his skull, I want to watch the light dim out of his eyes. My fingers latch around his throat. His skin is cold. Almost like he’s already dead. His skin is pasty, like dough. I dig my fingers in, cutting off his air supply. He chokes. Struggling for air. His body jolts violently along the tile floor. This is the most life, the most energy I’ve seen out of him in weeks.

  His spasms come to a slow stop and I squeeze his neck tighter, watching the life flow out of his body. I feel when he tries to take his last breath. All of it cataloged as he stares into my eyes. I drop his body onto the floor and squat there for a beat, taking it in, the destruction along his body, the evidence of his torture painted along the walls. Pushing to my full height, I turn on my heel toward the wall filled with weapons and torture tools and I grab the canister of lighter fluid. I pour it all over his body, dousing his mangled body in the strong scent.

  Slipping a Zippo lighter out of my back pocket, I flip it open, lighting it and toss it onto his body. He goes up in flames immediately upon contact. I watch the orange and red flames lick at his flesh, the scent of his burning body coating the air. The heat warms my face, bringing back memories of when I was a child, memories I’d much rather forget. My lips press into a firm grim line.

  “I told you I’d watch you burn, motherfucker.”

  I step back, letting the shadows of the basement swallow me whole and I lean against the table, my hands curl around the edge of the metal and I bask in this, watching him burn until there’s nothing left of him.

  Glancing at the watch on my wrist, I crack the kinks out of my neck and get to work on disposing of his charred, unidentifiable body. I have a girl upstairs who’s been waiting for me to come to my sense for the last few weeks, I’m not going to keep her waiting any longer. But before I do that, there’s one last thing I have to do.

  I pause on the front stoop of the cathedral. I haven’t set foot on these holy grounds in years. It feels foreign. The air even smells different. St. Mary’s of the Angeles was the church my parents baptized me in. It was the church they married in. It was the place my mother sought out solace while living the life she did at my father’s side.

  The Catholic religion comes hand in hand with this job. And I’d always been good about coming every Sunday with the famiglia and confessing my sins on other days. It didn’t make a difference one way or another, because I still knew I was evil. I didn’t feel any lighter. Any less like the Devil. And now as I stand here on the front steps, late into the night, I can’t imagine I’ll feel any different if I step inside.

  I glance up at the old structure, taking in the high, grandiose peaks. St. Mary’s architecture was built in the Italian Romanesque style, likely modeled after churches in Rome. Looking from afar, you notice the structure is in the shape of a cross, the exterior features boasting twin bell towers, a large dome in the center that would make anyone think of the pope and nine to ten foot statues of angels surround the rooftop, looking down at you. The entrance portico, the steps I’m standing on, are supported by four sets of tall columns with holy images wrapped around each of the columns. Each of them telling a different biblical story.

  Blowing out a sigh, I shake my head, getting ready to turn on my heels and leave, when the front doors to the cathedral open. And there, standing between them is a man I haven’t seen in years.

  Father John’s eyes widen when he looks at me, but the surprise only lasts a few seconds. In its place is his usual soft, barely there smile. When I was a kid, he had a way of making me feel like the bad men in my world weren’t the only kind out there. There was good too.

  “It’s good to see you, son. Just walking by? Are you here to stay?”

  I pause. Warring with myself internally before I decide to hell with it. It’s not like I have anything else to lose.

  Taking up Father John on his offer, I walk past him, inside the cathedral, pausing over the threshold. It’s still as big and grandiose as ever. The smell of frankincense and myrrh hanging thickly in the air. The stained-glass windows with pictures of angels and saints, retellings from scripture depicted in each colorful window and painting. I take in the familiar statues, the images of saints. The stained-glass gleams against the dim lighting and the candles lit inside. I let my gaze rove over each window, the first of St. Francis of Assisi receiving the stigmata and a statue in the rear of has him holding a skull, reminding everyone of the passing nature of life. I knew it all too well. Slowly, my gaze travels to the left of the altar where an image of St. Therese of Lisieux is. I take in the white marble altar and the gold accents that still haven’t changed after all these years.

  The tall, heavy doors shut with a soft finality that echoes through the empty, cavernous archways. The Father’s footsteps tap along the marble floor. I drop my gaze down to the bowl of holy water and just like I’ve done so many times before as a child, I dip my index and middle finger in, surprised as shit when the water doesn’t start boiling, and do the sign of the cross before drawing an actual cross on my forehead using the water.

  My boots thud against the pristine floors, the sound bouncing off and echoing around the empty pews. Boots that have seen death, stepped in blood that I’ve spilled. I truly was the Devil walking in a home of worship.

  I follow Father John as he walks down the center aisle, toward the altar, front and center with a mural of angels and saints dimly lit by candles and the lights shining toward it. There’s a statue of Jesus crucified to the cross. My eyes hone on the detail. The nails digging into his flesh, the blood surrounding it. It makes me think of Finlay. And how I had him strung up much of the same way.

  Father John stops at the first set of pews and pauses in front of the altar, bowing. He lowers himself down onto the very front pew and I take a seat next to him. I don’t bother bowing. I think he’d understand, after everything I’ve done, bowing is the last thing that is going to save my soul.

  “Diavolo, what brings you back to the house of the Lord. It’s been a while.”

  “That it has.”

  I rest back against the pew, staring up at the sculpture on the altar. Father John doesn’t push. Just sits back and faces the front. Waiting on me to say whatever I need to get off my chest. That was the thing about Father John, he didn’t push. Hell, he even called me by my God given name whereas most people avoided using it, just because it meant the Devil.

  “Forgot what it’s like. Being back in here.”

  I see him nod out of the corner of my eye. “I can only imagine.”

  We sit in silence again for a while, until I blow out a sharp breath. “I’ve done a lot of bad things. For Matteo. My family. Myself. I’ve never questioned any of it. Until now.”

  The Father turns to face me. “Why now?”

  “Because now I have someone that loves me. Someone that looks at me like I hung the fucking moon and the stars for her.”

  The Father nods, chuckling under his breath. I’m sure he doesn’t appreciate the use of my f-bomb in his holy home.

  “What about her makes you question what you’ve done. You’ve never done so before, correct?”

  “Because I never cared before. But now I do. Now that she’s having my baby, I do.”

  “You feel undeserving,” he observes.

  “I am undeserving. She’s the light to my darkness. She’s a bright beacon where I leave a taint. She has the kind of innocence about her that could shred through the darkest of souls, flaying them open.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Because the first time I ever laid eyes on her was when I felt the first tear though mine.”

  “I’d imagine, this woman…is stronger than most. It would only take
a strong woman to love you—and in turn, be loved by you.”

  “Strongest person I’ve ever met.”

  His brows raise. “That’s saying a lot, coming from you.”

  I scoff. “I’m not strong. Killing and torturing people doesn’t equate to strength.”

  He nods. Pursing his lips. “That’s true. But you know what does require strength? Falling in love. Surviving a childhood of loss. A childhood of torture. That requires all the strength in the world.”

  I press my lips together, keeping my mouth shut because I don’t necessarily agree, nor do I disagree.

  “I hurt her. I’ve been hurting her. By lying to her, and I’ve only been lying to her because I’m trying to keep her safe. From me. From this life and all the people that want to get rid of her and him. I can admit that I was wrong. That I took things too far in my anger. In my need to make him pay for what he did to her.”

  The Father follows along with what I’m saying as best as he can. He’s been around my family, the famiglia long enough to get the gist.

  “So you were playing punisher and executioner. For what, may I ask?”

  “He tried to take her from me. Then he tried to kill her. And my son.”

  “I see,” Father says, sounding deeply upset by this news. “You know, son, the Lord works in mysterious ways. Placing people in our paths, each for different reasons. I think he placed this woman in your path to help you heal. Because this is the first time you’ve ever repented for your sins and I can tell you’re truly sorry.”

  “You’re saying that he intended for all this to happen? For this man to hurt so many people? Likely hurt her and take my kid from me? Sounds like some God.”

  “No, Diavolo. I’m saying she was placed on your path. Everyone else’s decisions are just that, theirs. God gives everyone free will and what they decide to do with that is theirs. Many people are quick to blame either God or the Devil for their decisions, but the Devil is merely a fallen angel, a rebelled son, who feeds off the wrong decisions. The bad seeds and souls. He doesn’t have the power to create the monsters, just hold them. Only you have the power to create the monster. To feed off the darkness. With each decision you make that’s what it is. When something wrong happens in people’s lives, they’re quick to ask God, ‘why did you do this?’ and when everything is great in their lives, they forget to thank him for all that good. It’s human nature to cast blame, seems to me most people cast it on the man upstairs and the Devil.”