a deadly punishment

FRANCESCA

THE CAR COMES to a sudden stop. To the left, there’s a thick forest, and to the right, a ditch with water rushing at the bottom. Apart from the water and the rustling trees, everything is eerily quiet.

There are no cars speeding by, and the only light comes from the harsh beam of our headlights. We’re on a lonely road that just screams danger.

“Stay here,” my husband commands before stepping out of the car with Fabio. The driver stays put, silent as a mouse, obviously scared of my husband.

Antonio has sent away all the extra men he brought along, leaving only one other SUV with us. That car is still running too.

I’m grateful for the tinted windows, because when the bodyguards step out of the other car and walk past me, they can’t see the fear reflected in my eyes.

Antonio saunters to the front and leans against the bridge over the ditch, casual as can be. He lights up a cigarette and holds it between his pinky and ring finger.

I hate to admit that he looks good standing there. But he also looks incredibly creepy and stalker-like.

The scenery would be beautiful under different circumstances. The place feels so serene and I’m tempted to roll down the window, but I don’t.

I have a feeling that it’s not safe, and Antonio isn’t at this dangerous site just for a leisurely stroll. Before I can wonder where Fabio is, I get my answer.

The trunk door opens and slams shut behind me. I don’t even need to look back to know who they’re dragging to the front. Jasmine’s familiar screams fill my ears as she’s manhandled to the front.

Jasmine squints and wraps her arms around herself after catching herself from falling. She’s standing before my husband. From where I sit, I can see everything like a movie.

The bright headlights help. I can see Jasmine’s swollen eyes and the fresh tears streaming down her face. What’s happening?

I have an inkling of what’s about to happen but I don’t want to believe it. I don’t understand. He asked for her himself, so why do this?

I’ve heard that mistresses sometimes have it even better than the wives. Why is she different? What makes her different?

I can’t hear what they’re saying. My husband speaks and Jasmine stares at him in pure fear. Her brown hair is messy and her cheeks are swollen with bruises.

Her clothes, a tank top and jeans, are stained with blood and dirt. It’s clear that she put up quite a fight before she was kidnapped.

Fabio stands to the side, alert. I know he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her for the Don.

His face is as stoic as always and his expression seems darker, as the lights only illuminate part of his face. They cast a shadow with Antonio and Jasmine in the spotlight.

I watch silently as Jasmine starts visibly trembling and I quickly realize why.

My husband pushes himself off the railings of the bridge and throws his cigarette down before crushing it with his sleek black shoes. He looks up and he has that dark, killer expression on.

He’s going to kill her.

I should look away. I should act like it doesn’t matter—I’m not new to crimes and murders. I should be able to handle it. But I can’t.

I can read her lips. She’s begging to be saved. The Don tsk-tsk’s and circles her, standing directly behind her.

He bends his head down and whispers something in her ear, his hands creeping onto her waist just like they did to mine on our wedding night.

It’s a blow to my ego, knowing that my husband is flirting with another woman and I can’t do anything about it.

He knows I’m watching. Maybe he’s not going to kill her.

I know I should be relieved. A normal person would be. But I’m not. It’s complicated.

My humanity won’t let me feel any less guilty, and my brain, which knows how much this affects my self-respect, doesn’t want her to live to ruin my life.

I can’t do anything about this, but I don’t want Antonio to have a mistress—even though I’ve been told many times it’s a man’s right to have many women. I’m sure that’s against the law: adultery is a crime.

And that’s not all. If she lives, she’ll live like a prostitute. She’ll most likely be gang-raped.

I don’t want that for her. She’s better off dying because I know a soft person like Jasmine would never be able to handle it. I know she wouldn’t be able to survive it.

I close my eyes and try to breathe. I’m not a good person. I’m sinful. Depressing and fearful thoughts are clouding my head. That’s not good.

I know I’m a sinner and extremely selfish. I’m only looking out for my own well-being, but I don’t have a choice.

When I open my eyes again, Antonio is standing there with a sickening smirk on his face and Jasmine is looking down at the railings of the bridge.

She looks back, a pleading expression on her face, but my husband doesn’t budge. He just stands there with his hands in his pockets and a sickening look on his face as if he’s enjoying her terror.

As if sensing my gaze, my old friend turns toward me. Despite not seeing me, her eyes are begging for me to say something, but what could I say? There’s nothing I can do.

I’m not some naive girl who lives in a silly, unrealistic novel who would run out and tell her husband to stop. I’ve been trained like a dog not to bark back.

I quickly cover my mouth and silence the scream that’s threatening to erupt from my lips. Jasmine, the one girl who was always so lively with me, pushes herself off the railings and into the large ditch.

This time I can’t hold back my tears. The driver glances at me through the mirror and gives me a smile. It’s as if he knows this isn’t over. And it’s not. This is just the beginning.

I can’t bear to see any more of this cruelty. She was innocent, yet he forced her to kill herself. He didn’t want to get his hands dirty.

I can’t shut my eyes when they bring out the guard who assaulted me. I clutch the leather seat beneath me, the memories flooding back. My body freezes, and I can’t look away.

The tattooed man who violated me is hauled out by other men. His face looks like it’s taken a beating. Antonio stands with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable.

The man—whose name I still don’t know—is shoved onto the road, landing on his hands and knees.

It’s all too real. Is my husband going to kill him too? I don’t want to witness another murder. I don’t think I can handle it.

But I also know that if Antonio hadn’t killed Jasmine in front of me, I would’ve watched him kill this man without flinching.

He’d laid his hands on a woman, and in my mind, that made him unfit to live. He’d intended to rape someone, to strip them of their dignity and will.

If this had happened to a virgin woman, she would be deemed unfit for marriage and family. She would be labeled a whore.

Men in black gather around the Don and the man. Fabio is among them. Some hold bats, others guns. Clearly aware that I’m watching, the Don turns toward me.

Even though the windows are tinted and he can only see my silhouette, it’s as if he can read me, read my posture. He probably can, given that he’s been groomed to be the ~capo~ since birth.

Like all dons in the Giordano Family, he’d had to kill his best friend and rival for the throne. I can’t entirely blame him for being so hollow.

The Family made him this way—emotionless and stoic. But none of this can justify his actions. He’s still in the wrong, and so am I.

At a flick of Antonio’s hand, the bodyguards move in front of my car. They’re armed with bats and other weapons. I can practically feel the fear clawing at my gut, making me want to vomit.

Why is he doing this in front of me? Why is he involving me in the business? I’m a woman.

I’m married to the Don and I still can’t figure him out. I’m no different from the others. As a man swings his bat, I can’t contain my terror any longer.

Finally, I let it out. I scream.