ELEVEN - GUILT

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Irina felt like she'd been caught between a rock and a hard place since Alfie's late night call the other day. Hearing his voice profess his fatal intentions towards Luca had done nothing but cause havoc in Irina's mind, torturing her as she lay awake in the evenings, staring at the blank ceiling in the darkness and seeing a haunting image of Luca's dead body in painfully close reach.

She wasn't sure why Alfie had called her that night and the more she thought about it, the less it made sense. She wondered why he asked her about where her heart lied, if it was with Luca or if it was still in her own hands. The question confused her, but the fact he'd admitted to Irina that he was going to be the one to take Luca's life was even more confusing.

Irina wasn't sure what the right thing to do was. Part of her wanted to tell Luca everything, to let him know to stay away from Alfie, to get out of England and to not look back. Though she knew deep down that even if she did say that to him, there was nothing on earth that would stop him from fulfilling his vendetta, not even her. She cared about Luca, even though she didn't want to admit it, and even the thought of caring about someone other than herself was painful to come to terms with, it was her reality. She didn't love him, her feelings weren't even close, but she found herself imagining a world where she would never see his smile or hear his laugh, feel his presence beside her while they slept, or the kiss of his rough lips on her smooth skin. The world she imagined was much darker.

The other part of her wanted to confront Alfie. She had a million and one questions that needed answers, and yet she still wasn't sure which question she'd ask first if she had the chance. Perhaps Alfie knew Irina wouldn't tell Luca about his intentions, or perhaps he simply did want to know whether she was in love with the Italian. Either way, Irina was no closer to finding out that truth than she was to finding an ending to the drama she'd wound up in the midst of.

Irina hauled herself out of the armchair in her living room late on the following Saturday evening. Her conscience had been eating away at her which, in combination with not hearing from Luca in over four days, was enough to sway her mind.

She pulled on her coat before hailing a cab to take her across the city to where Luca resided most of the time. There had been a stage where he was living with her for a handful of weeks, but that had come to a swift end when Irina realised she wasn't ready to be sharing her space with someone yet.

It was a twisted relationship in the best and worst way, like two blossoming roses caught in a tangle of thorns. Irina hadn't realised how deep she'd been pulled in by him until she started to wonder how difficult getting out might be.

She knocked on the front door of Luca's home. There was a weak glow coming from behind the curtains that told her somebody was home, even if it wasn't Luca, he often had the men who guarded his home stay in spare bedrooms between shifts.

The door opened and a thick-set Italian man with a dark beard and slicked back hair stood in the hallway, staring down at Irina, backlit by a candle chandelier.

"Is Luca here?" She said, hugging her coat around her body as the wind blew.

"No, he's away on business. I'll tell him you stopped by."

Defeated, she nodded and began to walk away. Her feelings began to overwhelm her as she walked along the pavement through the city. She didn't want a relationship with Luca and yet she felt somewhat upset that he hadn't told her where he was going, especially at a time when everything was so uncertain and according to him, unsafe.

She left Luca's side of the city feeling even more confused than she had done when she'd arrived. Armed with the intention of doing the right thing and letting the man she cared about know who was going to kill him, she began to feel embarrassed about being turned away. Part of her wondered whether Luca was even away at all, perhaps the lack of contact was his way of cutting things off with her.

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