I’m trying something new with our love Billy Russo here. His broken mind does eventually wake up to memories, flashbacks, random moments and experiences in his life. This series of one-shots, drabbles, etc-- most likely unrelated-- is going to basically give insight into some of those re-encountered memories.
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Thanks for reading!
(1)
"Lieutenant William Russo."
Her voice was thick with disgust; her expression no more than a sneer.
Billy waited. He waited for her eyes-- those intoxicating eyes-- to focus on his face, for her mind-- her brilliant mind-- to register what she was seeing.
“How unfortunate."
She stayed there, standing in the threshold of the entrance to her penthouse suite, and as the seconds ticked by, her sneer turned into a gratified smirk. Billy Russo was hideous; he was ruined. His face had been mangled. He’d been shot and cut and the evidence of that was all over his once flawless face. It used to make her heart race, back before the mere thought of him made her stomach turn.
But now… now his face wasn’t so perfect. In fact, it was marred with scars— thick, pink, evident scars, the tissue that had been stitched together puckering in jagged lines. She focused on one in particular, high up on his forehead and dangerously close to his hairline. He was wearing a beanie, but she suspected his always styled hair was something else he’d lost.
The satisfaction she felt was impossible to hide. What had happened to Billy wasn’t just fitting, but sadistically amusing. “What a shame, you used to be so pretty.”
Billy’s nostrils flared. He stood to his full height— no more slumping of his shoulders, no more averting his eyes— and his gaze went straight to hers. He was staring her down just like she was him, and she saw his jaw flex. What really jarred her, if just for two seconds, was the look in his eyes. He could play angry, but she knew that look because she'd become quite acquainted with it from looking in the mirror. It was shame. And never had she seen Billy Russo with shame in his eyes. She found herself pushing back from the threshold of the door, turning away and walking inside. Whatever he wanted, he wasn’t getting.
Standing outside the door was enough for Billy. It was darker there, and though he had his hoodie pulled up over his head, he preferred standing in the shadows. It reminded him of being in combat, staying hidden from the enemy, a phantom until they rounded a corner. Then, he was the face of death. Now, the shadows hid part of his ugliness.
Even so, he stepped inside after lingering outside for a few moments, squinting as his eyes got acclimated to the light inside. The kitchen was alight, and the open floor plan allowed Billy to see through the penthouse to the living room, the floor-to-ceiling windows presenting the celebrated New York City skyline to any onlooker inside. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he seemed almost transfixed by his surroundings. Eyes narrowed, his eyes darted around his surroundings, an eerie familiarity settling over him like a foggy morning mist.
She saw his expression out of her periphery and smirked. She felt a soar of satisfaction in her chest and retrieved her wine glass from the counter where she'd placed it when she got the door.
“I made some changes,” she said, turning around to admire the view for herself. “Just a few— new furniture, those couches you had were too dark. They were doing the lighting a disservice.” Turning her head to look at him, her attention strayed, focused at the scarring on his cheek. He’d been so carelessly and messily stitched. “I always hated those couches. I’m not one to hide my distaste.”
Finally, he blinked and turned to look at her head on. Reaching upward, he pushed the hoodie from his head and ran a palm over his scalp. Shrugging his left shoulder— it ached— he settled his gaze on her own. She'd told him why this place gave him that odd feeling; she'd connected the dots without Billy saying a word. This penthouse— her penthouse— had once been his.
He remembered fragments of stories he’d been told: a company, Anvil, one he’d built from the ground up with money he’d sold himself for. A CEO, filthy rich and powerful witt his tailor-made designer suits, ridiculously expensive cars, woman after woman after woman… his penthouse.
She saw something new in his eyes, an amalgamation of emotions all built into one look. She saw regret. She saw shame. And she caught something all too familiar, so strikingly Billy, she felt chill bumps pop up over her spine— she saw a flash of anger.
“This place is mine.” Billy spoke through clenched teeth. His eyes never wavered from hers. He’d looked around his surroundings enough, noticed some things unchanged that incited a recognition so strong, it was visceral. He may not remember how it became his—he supposed it had something to do with this Anvil operation he was told about—but the semantics of how meant nothing to Billy then. For months, how and why had been all he cared about.
“Was yours, Lieutenant.” Her voice was smooth, cool. She enjoyed taunting him; she found pleasure in it. “A lot of things were yours.” Her eyes were ice cold, but beyond that, they held a haughty look of pride. “Look at you now.” Boldly, she reached for his face, and with one fingertip, traced the crooked, puckered scar over his left cheek. Billy Russo was destroyed. And nothing had given her as much pleasure—except, perhaps, the countless nights they’d spent tangled in sheets and in one another. It had been a lifetime ago.
