.ᐟ WRATH ── christopher sturniolo
𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝟏𝟖 : : 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍, 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄
⤷ all scenes & previous scene
⤷ cw . . . mentions of violence, abuse & heavy angst
“Chris!” Her voice floated down the hallway. Chris smiled without thinking. It had been so long since he’d heard her sound like that. “What is it, doll?” he called back, already moving toward her room.
He pushed the door open—and froze. Stella stood in the center of the room wearing a long, flowing white gown. The pink diamond necklace and matching set he’d bought her glowed faintly against her skin, drawing his breath out of him.
She turned toward him, eyes bright, cheeks flushed as if she’d just been laughing. Chris swallowed. “God… you look beautiful, doll.” The closest he'll get to seeing her in a while dress,
A soft smile curved her lips as she crossed the room and slipped her arms around his neck. Her touch was warm, her perfume brushing against him like a memory that hadn’t faded at all.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her in, resting his forehead against hers. For a moment, the world felt perfect.
Then Stella pulled back gently, fingertips dragging down his chest before she turned away and glided to her vanity. She sat down, picking up her comb, one he remembered buying her, and began brushing through her long black hair.
He watched her, mesmerized. Something about the scene felt… delicate. Like the air could shatter. Her eyes met his in the mirror. Soft, knowing, and almost sad.
“You remember I love you… right?”
Chris blinked. “Yeah, of course I do. Why?”
She smiled—a small, aching smile that made something in his chest tighten. “Good,” she whispered, setting the brush down. “Then don’t be afraid.”
She rose from the vanity slowly, turning toward him, gown gliding against the floor.
“I miss you, Chris,” she said gently. “I hope you know I'll be waiting to meet you again.”
And the world dropped out from under him.
Chris jerked awake, gasping—her name tearing from his throat before he even realized he was sitting up.
Just like it had been for four months.
For a second, he even turned his head, but the vanity was empty. The chair was untouched. Everything was just as she left it… all nothing but memories.
His hand clawed at the empty side of her bed before his brain caught up with reality. He started sleeping in her room, which made things easier. The pink sheets he once made fun of stayed on. The stuffed animals he once mocked still stayed there, because it was their home.
He didn’t call her name. He didn’t reach for her. Four months had taught him better. This was just another night of seeing her alive…only to wake up alone.
He sat there for a moment longer, staring at the empty vanity, until the red numbers on her bedside clock pulled him back.
His schedule was packed—he made sure of it. If he kept every hour filled, every minute accounted for, there was no room for the kind of grief that could break him in half. That was one thing about Chris Sturniolo that changed after she died: he didn’t give himself time to mourn, nor did he have time.
He pushed himself out of bed. His joints ached. He forced down a glass of water even though he wanted whiskey. He opened the fridge and grabbed whatever looked most like food. Anything other than liquor and smoke. She hated how much he relied on both.
A soft brush against his ankle made him look down.
Smokey sat staring up at him, tail flicking in that impatient way Stella used to laugh about. But right now there was just silence. However, no silence can be louder than the absence of that beautiful laugh he used to hear every day.
“Alright, bud,” Chris muttered. He filled the cat’s bowl, watching the tiny thing eat like it had been starving for hours. At least someone in this house still had an appetite.
When he stepped into the hallway, two of his guards straightened immediately. They didn’t greet him. They didn’t ask anything. They knew better.
Because Chris Sturniolo at 6 AM, freshly torn out of a dream of his dead wife…was a man stitched together by routine alone. He moved through the house like a ghost.
The kitchen light flicked on, and he sighed, bracing himself. Today was a special day. It wasn’t until the brightness filled the room that the ache in his chest twisted again.
For a split second, Stella sat at the kitchen island the way she always did—legs tucked into the stool, hair messy from sleep, hands wrapped around a mug that was always too big for her. She’d look up at him with that small, warm smile that made mornings feel less like mornings.
He blinked, and she was gone.
Just cold marble and empty space.
His eyes drifted to the corner of the counter out of habit. The weekly baked-goods tray she used to refill every Sunday morning. Cookies one week, brownies the next. Sometimes, muffins when she wanted to “force” him to eat breakfast like a normal human.
He walked past it like it didn’t kill him inside.
Everything in the house felt like her.
He poured himself coffee, but even that hurt—because he remembered the way she used to complain that he made it “too bitter,” and how she’d pour half a cup of milk and sugar into hers. He lifted the mug to his lips anyway. It tasted like nothing.
He leaned against the counter, staring at the quiet home that once breathed when she was in it.
He used to be a colder man.
And Now? Now he was that man again. Not because he wanted to be—but because losing her hollowed out the softness she’d carved into him.
No one in his world saw the grief behind his eyes. No one heard the way he still whispered her name in his sleep. No one knew that every morning he walked through this house and felt it swallow him whole.
He was a mob boss at the end of the day.
He set the mug down. Straightened his shoulders. The guards waiting in the hallway didn’t need to see the way his hand trembled, or the way his jaw locked to keep himself from breaking.
Chris Sturniolo didn’t mourn in front of people.
Today he was visiting his dear wife’s grave.
He scooped Smokey into his arms on the way out—the now full-grown grey cat curling into his chest, purring softly, unaware of the weight pressing down on the man holding him.
“Come on,” Chris murmured, voice low, rough. “We’re going to see your mother.”
The guards at the door straightened when they saw him approach. None of them spoke. They never did, not since the night she died. Especially not after witnessing what just even mentioning her could unleash in him.
He walked past them, Smokey tucked against his black coat, and made for the car parked in the driveway. The morning was cold, a grey, muted kind of cold that sank into the bones. Fitting, he thought bitterly.
He opened the back door and gently placed Smokey inside, the cat pawing at the window as if looking for Stella. Like he always did.
Chris shut the door, exhaled shakily, and climbed behind the wheel.
No soft voice humming to fill the silence. No leg tucked under her on the passenger seat. No small hand resting on his thigh when she got cold. Just the hum of the engine and Smokey’s faint meows in the back.
The cemetery came into view, and a patch of newer graves toward the hill.
Chris parked the car and sat still for a moment, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened.
He had only been here twice.
He didn’t think he could survive a third time.
But today he had to come.
He forced himself out and took Smokey with him. The cat immediately nuzzled into his neck. He walked towards the gate, and memories slammed into him so hard he almost stumbled.
He remembered standing, helpless, and feeling like he failed the one thing he actually gave a damn about. He remembered how small her casket looked. How wrong that felt.
There was hardly anyone there. Her life had been lonely before him. And her death was too. It was he, Matt, Nick, a few maids who adored her, and a handful of his men who had to be there, but secretly came for more than just her respect.
He didn’t cry at the funeral.
He had stood completely still beside that wooden box as the priest spoke words he couldn’t hear. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.
But the moment he walked through the mansion door again, the moment her scent hit him, the moment he saw her slippers next to the bed, the moment he realized she wasn’t coming back—
His men heard the crash. He had knocked over a lamp. Maybe a chair. He couldn’t remember. He just remembered the sound he made— a strangled, raw sound he hadn’t heard from himself since he was a child.
No one intervened, and no one stepped forward.
Because they knew it wasn’t anger.
Real, heart-shattering grief.
Now, standing between the graves of her parents, he felt that same collapse threaten to break him again.
Stella Sturniolo, Forever 21.
He let out a slow breath, bending down to place Smokey on the soft grass. The cat pawed at the headstone, mewing softly. Chris swallowed hard.
“Happy anniversary, doll,” he whispered. “I made it.”
His voice cracked. He crouched slowly and set a bouquet down at the base of the headstone. White peonies and soft-pink roses. Her favorites.
He still remembered the way her eyes lit up the first time he bought them for her. How she smelled them like they were the sweetest thing she'd ever touched.
His fingers lingered on the cold stone longer than they should have. He traced her name with his thumb, slow… reverent… heartbroken.
“Got your flowers,” he murmured, forcing a weak smile. “Didn’t forget.”
Smokey nudged his shin, small body brushing against him, as if sensing the ache radiating off him. Chris picked the cat up, breathing him in like he was the last piece of her he had left.
“You’d hate seeing me like this,” he said, voice low. “You always wanted me to eat in the morning, remember? Told me if I skipped breakfast again, you were going to sit on my lap and force-feed me.”
He let out a shaky breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.
“I haven’t eaten breakfast in four months. I keep—”
His voice broke again, and he shut his eyes.
“I would’ve taken your place,” he whispered. “If I had even one warning. One second. I would’ve died for you.” Chris lowered his forehead to the top of the headstone, breath shaking. “You hear me, doll?” he whispered against the granite. “I would’ve traded you my life.”
A tear slipped down the side of his nose. He didn’t wipe it. Chris closed his eyes again, letting the silence settle. And then it came.
The one that lived in him like a ghost.
Their first meeting…A little over a year and a week ago. He could still see it with horrifying clarity.
Stella was sitting next to Damain, wrists trembling, eyes wide and confused, like she didn’t understand what was happening. She looked so small, so heartbreakingly young.
And he had looked at her and didn’t think twice. He’ll admit it now that she’s gone, but he knew deep down the moment he saw her, there was no going back. She looked so beautiful.
She wasn’t even bargaining for her life. She just stood there, looking like a terrified angel shoved into hell. He’d never seen innocence look so bruised.
Chris’s throat tightened as the memory pulled harder. She didn’t know that walking into his life that night was her escape. He’d saved her from a monster, and he had sworn he’d keep her safe.
His hand curled into a fist against the grass.
His voice came rough, the words dragging themselves out of him:
“I pulled you out of that hell… just to put you in another one.” His jaw clenched so hard it shook. “I should’ve known,” he whispered. “I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve—”
“He was going to come after you the second he found a way,” Chris continued, voice cracking. “I should’ve been quicker. Fuck—I should’ve had more men outside. I should’ve—”
His breath trembled violently, his shoulders shaking.
“You died because I wasn’t enough,” he forced out. “Because I didn’t protect you right.” Smokey let out a tiny meow, curling tighter against his chest. “But I will spend every day,” Chris whispered, leaning his cheek to the cold stone, “remembering you.”
He could never forget her. God, as if forgetting were even possible. Her last words were carved into him deeper than any bullet wound he’d ever taken — don’t forget me. As if he ever could.
She was the only woman he had ever felt this way for. A little over a year. That was all she’d been in his life, and somehow she’d left behind a heartbreak meant to last a lifetime.
He hadn’t touched another woman since. The thought alone made his stomach twist. It felt wrong. As if he were betraying her by even considering it. In his mind, he was still married—still hers. Still bound to the woman who no longer existed.
He hated admitting it, but he knew the truth.
He was ruined for anyone else.
He straightened, brushing the dirt from his hands, and muttered softly, “I have to go, doll…” His voice was barely above a whisper. He placed a final touch on the flowers, lingering with one last look at her name carved in stone.
“I love you, Stella. Rest well, sweetheart.”
Smokey rubbed against his leg, a small comfort in the empty morning. Chris picked him up. Turning away from the grave. He didn’t look back again—he couldn’t. His wife's memory would haunt him, as it always had.
The universe had handed them only a year, a glimpse of what should have been, and it wasn’t fair—but love doesn’t require fairness. He had loved her truly, and it still hadn’t been enough. But that didn’t make it any less beautiful or any less real.
Chris’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, his chest still heavy from the visit. One thing was certain: his wrath was back, and he was still that cold-hearted bastard who lived in a dream of the perfect woman for a while.
And he had to continue with his day.
His grief was a reminder that even his cruel self would love, and how lucky he was to have loved someone so much that living with the memory of them was enough to endure the pain of living itself.
And that was the reality of everything.
He just had to convince himself she didn’t die; she was just away for a while.
That she was in a better place. She was finally resting, after almost a lifetime of mistreatment. Her life had been brief, yet hard. So now she’s peacefully resting forever.
And as the years go by, soon Chris will realize that sometimes the people you love leave you halfway through your story. Or sometimes they’ll stay, by leaving you the memories of unfinished promises and words.
The world barely knew her; her presence had left almost no trace. Soon, those who had crossed her path would forget her entirely, and she would fade into nothing more than a memory.
Yet, she would live on in the heart of the most feared and wanted man alive.
And he'll love her forever, until his very own last breath.
Goodbye, Stella, we hardly knew you, doll.
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