Don't Need You - Lilian Monroe Page 0,8

a damn. He’d get jealous when I went out with my friends until I was afraid to go out at all. Day by day, Angelo ruined me. He made me feel worthless until I didn’t even know myself anymore.

Blamed the miscarriage on me. Called me a failure.

But in public? Mr. Affectionate. Model boyfriend. My mother’s favorite.

Yeah, I want to kiss that waitress and give her a fucking award. At least I have an explanation when people ask me why, oh why would I ever want to break up with Angelo Berretti? He’s such a fucking catch.

His fist tightens, and I reach behind me, needing to grab something. To put some item—anything—between my fear and his wrath. My fingers curl around a lamp. Angelo watches the movement and scoffs. His eyebrow arches, challenging me.

I dare you to use it, his eyes say. Fire burns black inside him, and part of my frozen body melts. I curl my fingers around the lamp and clutch it in front of me, bending my knees as I take a protective stance. My muscles tighten, ready to pounce.

Angelo watches. Assesses. Probes the distance between us with his alcohol-laced stare.

After a long moment, he scoffs. Angelo gives me his back and walks toward the door.

Two more steps and I’ll be safe. He’ll be gone. My knuckles are white around the lamp. I can’t feel my fingers. My breath is shallow as my vision narrows.

One more step. He’s almost at the door. I can almost relax.

But Angelo gives me one parting shot. He roars, reaching back to smack the box of cannolis I’d left on the table. It flies against the opposite wall, sending cream and pastry flying. The box lands on my yoga mat, ruining my candles and incense burners.

He glances over his shoulder, giving me a cruel smirk.

The symbolism isn’t lost on me. I started meditating and doing yoga about a year ago. It was through that simple act of self-love and betterment that I was able to gather the courage to actually break up with the monster when I got the chance. Now, he’s in my apartment, shitting on the very thing that helped me leave him. Lovely.

Angelo grunts, then wrenches the door open and stalks out. I wait a second, drop the lamp, and rush behind him and turn the lock. I slide the little chain across, too, even though I know it wouldn’t stop him. Turning to lean against the wall, I drop my head in my hands and let out a low sob.

I can’t deal with this anymore.

I broke up with Angelo over six months ago—much to my family’s dismay. They’ve been pushing me to take him back, and they don’t understand why I won’t.

I told my mother about Angelo’s anger. About his fits. About the four fist-sized holes in my drywall.

Her response?

He’s a man, Serena. Your father was angry, too. It’s normal. I turned out fine and our marriage survived. Your father would want this for you.

Her words made me want to cry and scream and tear my hair out, but all I could do was stare. If you think you turned out fine after that much abuse, you’re probably not fine at all—especially if you’re pushing your own daughter to endure the same fate. It’s like once my father died, my mother just blanked out the past and only remembered the whitewashed version of him.

Model citizen. Small business owner.

As I lean against the wall, adrenaline quickly fading from my bloodstream, I feel like crumpling into a ball. Angelo’s not a man. He’s a dog. He never treated me right, from the moment we started dating to the moment I found out about the waitress. I can pretend that things changed when I got pregnant, but the truth is, he always had a mean streak. He just stopped hiding it after I lost the baby.

How many waitresses have there been? He’d be gone until two, three in the morning. If I dared to ask where he’d been, I’d get his hand squeezing around my arm so hard it’d leave finger-shaped bruises for days. The stench of alcohol would be heavy on his breath, and his eyes would be black. Not brown. Not the pale hazel color they were in a certain kind of sunlight.

Pure, midnight black.

But my family sees the prominent business man. They see the future husband. They see my three sisters—two older, one younger—all married with kids.

Me?

I’m an old maid who can’t even hold down a boyfriend who was