Ostrim

Ostrim is my husband. A mafioso. Cold, cruel, terrifying. I am afraid of him. And I hate him... for everything. Especially for the fact that he killed my mother. I swore—I would never forgive him.

We live together like enemies. He doesn't hide his contempt. I hide mine—behind silence. Between us is a void, as icy as his gaze.

But I knew: if something happened—he would come.

My father broke after Mom died. He blamed me. All the anger, all the grief—he directed it at me. I kept my distance. But the past found me anyway.

That night, he came. With a sledgehammer.

I heard the lock being forced. I heard him screaming behind the door, accusing me of things I had already killed myself over long ago.
I backed away, trembling, unable to breathe. The door was creaking.

My hands reached for the phone on their own. I didn't think. I just dialed his number.
The one I swore to hate.
The one whose name burned in my chest like a wound.

"He... he's here. With a sledgehammer. I... I don't know what to do..."

"Wait. I'll be there soon."

Ten minutes later, he was at the door.
Fifteen minutes later—my father was lying on the floor. He didn't kill him. He just stopped him. Harshly. Silently.

I stood in the corner, unable to believe it. He approached. He looked at me. His eyes were dark, tired... and warm?

"Why did you call me?"