Chapter Twelve

On impulse, I surged to grasp the bottle, but it moved faster, rising with an eerie grace to fill my glass with a generous pour. It hovered so close, I could feel the heat radiating off its body—Giovanni's heat, his scent clinging to it like a forgotten dream. That familiar, intoxicating scent—leather, cologne, and the faintest whiff of something musky wrapped around me, blurring the lines between memory and madness.

Without thinking, I leaned in, my lips trembling at the edge of confession, drawn to it by some twisted force. My vision blurred. My hand shook, nearly spilling the wine before it caught me—its hand gripping mine. Warm, but steady. So damn steady.

"Careful," it whispered, its voice a chilling echo of Giovanni's.

I licked my lips, struggling to control the rising panic, the words that clawed at my throat, begging to escape. 'Plan... why does it want me plan?'

"Why should I?" My voice was too soft, too uncertain. I hated how vulnerable I sounded. How I searched its eyes for a reassurance and there it w... that comfort in its gaze—those familiar gray eyes, and yet, not at all the same.

"It's our first child, after all," it said, and the smirk that tugged at its lips was cruel, almost gleeful. I am thus reminded again that this is not Giovanni. The smile twisted like a knife in my chest. I could barely suppress a sick, bitter laugh. 'This bastard was playing with me.'

"Our?" My voice cracked with disbelief, horror mixing with something else—to claim Giovanni's face was one thing but his child too was something worse.

It nodded, pulling me closer, and the heat of its breath against my ear sent a shiver racing through my body.

"Giovanni's bastard child," it whispered, venomous. "The one the pig upstairs is carrying."

Time seemed to break. My chest tightened, and the air became a thick, suffocating fog. Giovanni's child. The thought lodged itself in my brain, but it felt wrong. Twisted. This thing wasn't even pretending anymore.

The shadows twisted around us, creeping in like liquid darkness, warping the features of its face. The soft candlelight flickered, and in the uncertain glow, its face blurred and contorted into something monstrous.

"I must say," it crooned, its voice slithering through the air like something alive, "never thought I'd be treated to a Giovanni stew" A deep, guttural chuckle followed. "I've have to admit, delicious."

Its eyes, once Giovanni's, began to crack—literal fissures snaking across the gray irises, splitting open like dark, bloodied wounds until nothing but a black abyss remained. That void, swirling with unspeakable depths, pulled at me, tugging at something primal and horrified within. Its once brown hair stretched and warped, elongating into a cascade of shadows, each strand blacker than the night, writhing like serpents.

Its skin...oh goodness, the skin. It deepened, taking on a shade that shimmered unnaturally, glowing faintly, as if it had been kissed by the flames. An unnatural warmth, the color of decaying embers, pulsated beneath the surface, as though its body was alive in ways I could not comprehend.

It was breathtaking—beautiful and grotesque—an exquisite nightmare and at that moment, I wanted it. I hated it, but God help me, I wanted it.

I blinked, and it shifted again—Giovanni's face, cruel and mocking.

Another blink, and it was something else.

A third blink—and the glass in my hand shattered across its face, the sharp crack reverberating like a gunshot in the room. Wine sprayed everywhere, crimson droplets raining down like blood. Somehow, a candle toppled, its flame catching the tablecloth, and the fire erupted with a roar.

Flames danced greedily across the table, devouring everything in their path. The oppressive heat seared my skin, sweat dripped mixing with the splattered wine, turning my world into a chaotic blur of heat, flame, and horror. 'Ah...I've done it again...I've let my emotions get the better of me.'

Shadows writhed along the walls, grotesque shapes cavorting in time with the inferno but despite the chaos. It began to grin. This grin...it spread across its face like a disease, growing wider and more grotesque with each moment. It knew. It knew just what little to do to have me repeating this murderous scene and I had snapped in response. Crossing the line into madness, and it reveled in it.

A deep, rich laugh rolled from its throat, thick and wet. The sound twisted my stomach into knots. My fingers curl around the neck of the bottle as I swung again, desperation turning my strikes wild. On the nth swing, the bottle slipped from my hand, shattering against the floor. Shards of glass glistened like jagged stars, scattered among the spreading pools of wine.

I didn't care. I reached down, snatching a shard of glass without hesitation, without thought. Only instinct...only emotion. 

And I drove it into the thing. I dove the shard into him. 

Time slowed, every heartbeat felt like an eternity as the glass pierced the expensive suit, the illusion of Giovanni's flesh giving way to something else—something wrong. The shard slid in with a sickening ease, and a thrill shot through me, cold and hot all at once. This grotesque intimacy, more obscene than anything I had ever known.

I struck again, again and again. Each thrust a release. 'A violent, bloody release.'

His body jerked with every blow, blood—too much blood—spurting, soaking my hands, my clothes but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. The deeper I plunged the glass, the deeper something dark within me grew. The fire roared in approval, flames licking at our feet, the heat blistering the air between us.

The glass cracked in my hand as I pressed harder, my knuckles white. I'm sure some of the blood belonged to me but I didn't seem to care. A low, gurgling groan escaped its lips—a death rattle. The weight of what I'd done—what I was doing—pressed down on me, but it was too late to stop. I stared into his eyes, watching the light fade, and in that moment, the grotesque beauty of it all washed over me like a baptism in blood.

He whispered my name—Juliana—and the world stopped. The flames, the blood, the madness...everything fell away. All that was left were his eyes, those gray eyes, softening as they pulled me deeper, deeper into the abyss.

I leaned in, mouth trembling, and kissed him.

I kissed it—tasting the blood, the wine, the rot of death on its-his-its lips. My tongue slid into its mouth, and I tasted Giovanni—faint, but there. It was the same mouth that had savored my husband hours ago, and I licked at the remnants of him, hungry and desperate.

My stomach churned in revulsion, bile rising, but I kissed harder. It kissed back, just as hungrily, its hand gripped my hand which I didn't realize was trembling. I clutched its collar with my bloodied free hand and deepened the kiss.

I tasted him again. Giovanni.

The kiss grew more frantic, electric, a twisted dance of longing and disgust. I sucked its bottom lip, desperate for more, for the echoes of the man I had loved, and hated, and lost. 

For a moment, nothing else mattered. Nothing except this kiss. This horrible, beautiful kiss that bridged the chasm between love and hate. 

Then reality crashed down, jagged and sharp. I pulled away, gasping for air, the bitter taste of blood and wine on my lips, and I realized the terrible truth.

This was not Giovanni.

But Lord help me, it felt so good.