Enzo Amato | Spiteful Marriage

The iron tang of blood still lingers in my memory, even if my skin now smells only of cedar and clean soap. I keep a shower and three spare changes of clothes at the dock warehouses for a reason. Today, I needed a fresh suit before noon.

My right hand throbs in time with my pulse. I flex my fingers, feeling the familiar, satisfying sting of freshly split knuckles tearing open just a fraction more against the healed scars.

It’s her fault. She knows it, too, even if she doesn't know the specifics of who bled for her mood this morning.

She had sat across from me at breakfast, her silence so absolute it was weaponized. She hadn't thrown a plate or snapped a vicious insult like she usually does. She had simply looked right through me, her eyes fixed on the frost clinging to the windowpane, drinking her tea as if the chair at the head of the table were completely empty. True indifference. It’s the one language she speaks that genuinely grates against my spine, the only thing that threatens the meticulous, godlike control I’ve built over time.

So, when a mid-level foreman from the shipping firm decided today was the day to get bold and negotiate his kickbacks, he didn't get a negotiation. He got me, in a soundproof room smelling of salt and damp concrete. I didn't use a weapon. A bullet is too quick, too merciful for the kind of foul, restless energy my wife had dressed me in. I used my hands.

I broke him down methodically, driving my fists into his face and torso until his ribs cracked under the weight of my frustration, feeling the wet give of cartilage as his bravado dissolved into a gurgling, bloody mess. I didn't yell. I didn't even raise my voice. I just worked the violence out of my system, painting my knuckles red until my breathing steadied and the suffocating grip of her morning silence finally let go of my throat. I left him strapped to the chair for Dante’s crew to clean up, showered, changed into a fresh funeral-black three-piece, and went back to running a pristine legitimate business.

Now, the heavy front doors of the estate close behind me, shutting out the chill of the evening. I'm already shrugging off my overcoat, the weariness of the day sitting heavy in my shoulders, when I notice Dante waiting in the foyer. Not his usual post.

"Boss," Dante's voice has gone thin, lacking its usual gravel. "Your wife just spent three hundred and ninety thousand. On a coffin."

I stop, my hand pausing on the knot of my tie. "A coffin."

"Gold-plated," Dante says, swallowing hard. "Conti's flagship. She had it delivered to the dining room while you were out and left the receipt on your plate."

The temperature in the foyer seems to drop, though my pulse remains unnervingly steady. The muscle in my jaw tightens, grinding. Conti's.

"Conti's." Twelve funeral homes to my name, and my wife went to the competition. "I could've buried her wholesale."

But she didn't just go to the competition. She went to the one name guaranteed to set me off. The one family I’ve spent the last three years systematically bleeding dry. It's a calculated, brilliant little strike. My beautiful, spiteful wife, using my enemies as leverage just to see if I'll finally crack. She wants to see the monster.

Dante shifts his weight, anticipating the order to freeze her accounts, to drag her out of her chair, to finally put an end to this expensive, humiliating game of defiance.

"No. Raise her limit." I pull the tie free and leave it draped around my neck, unbuttoning my collar, rolling up my sleeves and pulling off my leather gloves. Let her see the bruises on my hands.

Dante blinks, entirely out of his depth.

"She's picked out the box she's putting me in, Dante," I say, my voice dropping into that flat, quiet cadence that usually precedes a visit to the docks. "Gold-plated. That's the closest thing to a love letter I've had off her since the wedding."

I brush past him, the heavy scent of dark tobacco and worn leather trailing in my wake. I don't walk to the dining room to confront her. I walk to observe.

When I reach the archway, I stop, letting the shadows obscure me. I always want her unguarded first. The gold-plated monstrosity dominates the room, a glittering monument to her sheer audacity, parked right in the middle of our formal dining space.

And there she is. Sitting at the far end of the long mahogany table, her posture perfectly straight, casually cutting into her dinner. She started without me again. Of course she did.

She is a masterpiece of contempt. I want to ruin it. I want to press my thumb to her fluttering pulse, pin those stubborn wrists above her head, and make her choke on her own defiance until she begs for a release I’ll drag out for hours. I want to recite every single one of her insults back to her while she comes apart for me.

The receipt sits on my empty porcelain plate, a crisp white flag of her rebellion. Another trophy to file in my study.

My hands drop to my wrists. I straighten the heavy gold links bearing the Amato crest. Once. Twice. The metallic clink is the only sound in the hallway, a tell Dante knows means I'm locking the beast back in its cage.

I am not angry at her. I am intoxicated by her.

But the Contis? The Contis allowed my wife to weaponize their business against mine. That kind of pride gets people killed. My knuckles ache with a fresh, desperate need to split against bone all over again. Tomorrow, the grace period for the Conti family ends in Warehouse 3.

"Beautiful craftsmanship," I finally murmur, stepping out of the doorway and into the light.

Her fork pauses mid-air, her eyes flashing toward me with that familiar, glorious venom.

"But if you wanted to see me in a box, tesoro," I continue, my voice warming, slowing into something almost gentle as I close the distance to the table. "All you had to do was ask."

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The iron tang of blood still lingered in his memory, even if his skin now smelled only of cedar and clean soap. He kept a shower and three spare changes of clothes at the dock warehouses for a reason. That day, he needed a fresh suit before noon.

His right hand throbbed in time with his pulse. He flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar, satisfying sting of freshly split knuckles tearing open just a fraction more against the healed scars.

It was her fault. She knew it too, even if she didn't know the specifics of who bled for her mood that morning.

She had sat across from him at breakfast, her silence so absolute it was weaponized. She hadn't thrown a plate or snapped a vicious insult like she usually did. She had simply looked right through him, her eyes fixed on the frost clinging to the windowpane, drinking her tea as if the chair at the head of the table were completely empty. True indifference. It was the one language she spoke that genuinely grated against his spine, the only thing that threatened the meticulous, godlike control he'd built over time.

So, when a mid-level foreman from the shipping firm decided that day was the day to get bold and negotiate his kickbacks, he didn't get a negotiation. He got Enzo, in a soundproof room smelling of salt and damp concrete. He didn't use a weapon. A bullet was too quick, too merciful for the kind of foul, restless energy his wife had dressed him in. He used his hands.

He broke him down methodically, driving his fists into his face and torso until his ribs cracked under the weight of his frustration, feeling the wet give of cartilage as his bravado dissolved into a gurgling, bloody mess. He didn't yell. He didn't even raise his voice. He just worked the violence out of his system, painting his knuckles red until his breathing steadied and the suffocating grip of her morning silence finally let go of his throat. He left him strapped to the chair for Dante's crew to clean up, showered, changed into a fresh funeral-black three-piece, and went back to running a pristine legitimate business.

Now, the heavy front doors of the estate closed behind him, shutting out the chill of the evening. He was already shrugging off his overcoat, the weariness of the day sitting heavy in his shoulders, when he noticed Dante waiting in the foyer. Not his usual post.

"Boss," Dante's voice had gone thin, lacking its usual gravel. "Your wife just spent three hundred and ninety thousand. On a coffin."

He stopped, his hand pausing on the knot of his tie. "A coffin."

"Gold-plated," Dante said, swallowing hard. "Conti's flagship. She had it delivered to the dining room while you were out and left the receipt on your plate."

The temperature in the foyer seemed to drop, though his pulse remained unnervingly steady. The muscle in his jaw tightened, grinding. Conti's.

"Conti's." Twelve funeral homes to his name, and his wife went to the competition. "I could've buried her wholesale."

But she didn't just go to the competition. She went to the one name guaranteed to set him off. The one family he'd spent the last three years systematically bleeding dry. It was a calculated, brilliant little strike. His beautiful, spiteful wife, using his enemies as leverage just to see if he'd finally crack. She wanted to see the monster.

Dante shifted his weight, anticipating the order to freeze her accounts, to drag her out of her chair, to finally put an end to this expensive, humiliating game of defiance.

"No. Raise her limit." He pulled the tie free and left it draped around his neck, unbuttoning his collar, rolling up his sleeves and pulling off his leather gloves. Let her see the bruises on his hands.

Dante blinked, entirely out of his depth.

"She's picked out the box she's putting me in, Dante," he said, his voice dropping into that flat, quiet cadence that usually preceded a visit to the docks. "Gold-plated. That's the closest thing to a love letter I've had off her since the wedding."

He brushed past him, the heavy scent of dark tobacco and worn leather trailing in his wake. He didn't walk to the dining room to confront her. He walked to observe. He always wanted her unguarded first.

When he reached the archway, he stopped, letting the shadows obscure him. The gold-plated monstrosity dominated the room, a glittering monument to her sheer audacity, parked right in the middle of their formal dining space.

And there she was. Sitting at the far end of the long mahogany table, her posture perfectly straight, casually cutting into her dinner. She had started without him again. Of course she had.

She was a masterpiece of contempt. He wanted to ruin it. He wanted to press his thumb to her fluttering pulse, pin those stubborn wrists above her head, and make her choke on her own defiance until she begged for a release he'd drag out for hours. He wanted to recite every single one of her insults back to her while she came apart for him.

The receipt sat on his empty porcelain plate, a crisp white flag of her rebellion. Another trophy to file in his study.

His hands dropped to his wrists. He straightened the heavy gold links bearing the Amato crest. Once. Twice. The metallic clink was the only sound in the hallway, a tell Dante had learned meant he was locking the beast back in its cage.

He was not angry at her. He was intoxicated by her.

But the Contis? The Contis had allowed his wife to weaponize their business against his. That kind of pride got people killed. His knuckles ached with a fresh, desperate need to split against bone all over again. Tomorrow, the grace period for the Conti family ended in Warehouse 3.

"Beautiful craftsmanship," he finally murmured, stepping out of the doorway and into the light.

Her fork paused mid-air, her eyes flashing toward him with that familiar, glorious venom.

"But if you wanted to see me in a box, tesoro," he continued, his voice warming, slowing into something almost gentle as he closed the distance to the table. "All you had to do was ask."