91. Potriats of Elena.

Salvatore.

As I stood in my study, completely enthralled by the breathtaking sunset, I could not help but be mesmerized by the stunning view before me. The sky was painted in a mesmerizing mix of colors, with hues of orange, pink, and purple blending together seamlessly. The sun itself was a fiery ball of orange, slowly sinking below the horizon.

The rays of the sun shone directly into my study, casting a warm glow on my face. I could feel the heat of the sun on my skin, and I closed my eyes, savoring the sensation.

In the distance, the majestic mountains stood proudly, their outlines clearly visible against the backdrop of the sunset. Even the trees in my garden seemed to come alive, their leaves rustling in the evening breeze while bathed in the sun's golden glow.

But I could not continue to pay more heed to the picturesque scene. My attention was solely focused on Elena's portrait, which hung on the wall in front of me. It was a large, enlarged portrait, framed in an ornate gold frame. The painting had been done years ago, but I could remember the day as if it were yesterday. Elena had posed for hours, her face serene and sad, since she had not wanted to take it, her eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that I had never experienced before. I had fallen in love with her that day, and had commissioned the painting as a reminder of our love.

But all I had was her portrait. I reached out a hand and touched the smooth surface of the painting. It was as if I could feel Elena's presence there, her spirit alive in the brush strokes of the artist who had captured her beauty. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to calm myself. I knew that I had to let go of my obsessiveness and my possessiveness, to move on with my life. But it was so hard. Elena had been the one of my greatest possessions, and I couldn't imagine ever finding anyone who could replace her, or not having her as mine even.

I opened my eyes and gazed once more at the portrait. Elena's eyes seemed to be staring back at me, and for a moment, I felt as if she were still with me, still thrashing under me and crying because she hated me.

I stood in front of her portrait, my eyes filled with a mixture of desire and disgust. My words were vile and crass, as I spoke to the picture as though she were right there in front of me.

"Tell me," I started, my voice low and menacing. "Does Deangelo fuck you like I did? Does he know how to make you scream?"

My words were filled with a possessiveness that bordered on obsession. I had loved that bitch in the way that I could, and even though I do not know how to treat her well, she was still mine and she had no fucking reason to even try to escape me. But still, I couldn't help the desire that burned within me, the need to possess her once more.

"Come back to me," I continued, my voice growing louder. "Let me bend you over and show you what real love is. Let me leave my mark on you, like I used to. You remember, don't you? The red marks on your wrist and neck, from where I grabbed you too hard? I loved seeing those marks, loved knowing that you were mine."

My words were twisted and sick, but I couldn't help myself. I had loved her in a way that was both beautiful and terrible, and now that love had turned to hate, it was still impossible for me to let go.

"I miss you," I said, my voice softening as I finally admitted. "I miss your scent, your mouth. I miss the way you used to look at me, with those beautiful eyes of yours."

I closed my eyes, lost in memory for a moment. I remembered the way Elena had looked at him, the way she had smiled at me innocently before I decided that I had to have her. I remembered the way she had touched me, the way she had made me feel even though it was oblivious to her.

But then I opened my eyes, and the hatred returned. I couldn't forget what Elena had done to me, couldn't forgive her for betraying me in the way that she had.

"You're nothing," I said, my voice filled with venom. "Nothing but a cheap whore. And I'm glad that you're gone."

My words were a lie, of course. I wasn't glad that Elena was gone. I missed her every day, missed the way she had made me feel. But I couldn't let myself admit that, couldn't let myself be vulnerable. And so I stood there, in front of Elena's portrait, lost in a mix of desire and hate, until the darkness swallowed me whole.

But suddenly, I felt a hand on my crotch. It was one of my female staff, dressed in a maid's uniform. She had come to give me some pleasure, to ease my pain. I didn't even turn to look at her, my eyes still fixed on Elena's portrait. But I allowed her to continue, to give me what I needed. I didn't care who it was or what they looked like, I just needed to feel something, anything.

As she worked her mouth on me, I continued to talk to Elena's picture. My words were still filled with anger and hate, but they were mixed with pleasure now. I was getting what I wanted, what I needed. And it felt good.

But then it was over, and I came. I shoved the maid's head away from me and threw her some change. She adjusted her uniform, looking down at the floor in shame. I didn't care about her, didn't care about anyone except myself. And then she walked out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my anger. I didn't even remember her name, didn't care to know it. She was just a tool, a means to an end.

I walked over to another one of her portraits, which hung on the wall opposite my desk. In this one, she was just a young girl in the picture, with a bright smile and pigtails. But even then, I knew that she was going to be mine.

I promised myself that I would bring her back home, back to me by crook or cranny, that I would make her mine in every sense of the word and she would never dare to run away from me ever again, if I have to lock her up in a tower and have dragon guard her, I would.

But then I remembered Bruno Amato's question, and my anger flared up again. What if Elena had been sleeping with Deangelo? The very thought was enough to make me want to destroy everything in my path. I couldn't bear the thought of her being with another man, of sharing what was mine with someone else. It was a possessive and selfish desire, but I couldn't help it. Elena was mine, and no one else's.

I caressed the picture of her face, promising myself that I would do whatever it took to keep her by my side. But then my anger got the better of me, and I smashed the picture to pieces.

The glass shattered and the frame splintered, but I didn't care. All I could think of was Elena, and how she had betrayed me. It was a childish and petulant act, but it made me feel better somehow.

As I stood there, surrounded by the debris of my anger, I felt a strange sense of relief. The picture was gone, but Elena was still mine. And I would do whatever it took to keep her that way.