by Shandi Boyes
When my words don’t get through to Dimitri, I use the weapon he forced on me to my advantage. I fire one shot into the roof, squealing when it takes out the light hanging above my head.
It rains shards of glass down on me and has Dimitri’s face the maddest I’ve ever seen. “You’re going to shoot at me, the man who lost everything so you could continue living your miserable existence? They swapped my wife for you! They made her take your place!”
He grips the barrel of his gun like it isn’t scorching hot from its recent firing, but instead of yanking it out of my grasp, he uses it to pull me in front of him.
With his hands curled around mine and his front squashed to my back, I can’t garner the strength to stop him from aiming his gun at the pinched skin between my mother’s brows. He isn’t just stronger than me, his closeness has more hold on my wickedness than my morality.
“For once, give your daughter the decency she deserves. Tell. Her. The. Truth.”
The reason for the extra thump in Dimitri’s pulse is exposed when the quickest gleam darts through my mother’s eyes when she spots the ring I inherited from my grandmother. For the first time tonight, I feel like siding with my family will place me on the wrong team.
Family members are supposed to be your go-to support network. They usually back you up in ways strangers can’t.
I’m not getting that vibe from my mother.
All I’m feeling is devastation.
I’ve seen her wear this look before. It was when she raced out of my grandfather’s barn, stating her eldest brother had been in an accident. When Nanna and I tried to race to Uncle Mike’s side to offer assistance, my mother and father held us back, declaring it was too late. He was already gone.
That was mere days before my grandfather cut my parents out of his will. He didn’t care about the tension it caused at Uncle Mike’s funeral. He wanted it documented that in the event of his death, every possession he owned was to go to my grandmother. When she passed, it was to come to me. My parents were to get nothing.
That’s how I inherited the antique Celtic ring Dimitri glared at earlier. Anything in my grandmother’s possession at the time of her death was classified as mine—including the ring she gifted my mother when she birthed her first child.
My God, how could I not have put two and two together until now? My mother inherited my ring first. She never took it off, so why was it in the wreckage of my Nanna’s accident?
“You were there. You…” I can’t say it. The words won’t come out of my mouth. Claudia’s wrongful imprisonment proves traffic accidents aren’t always as they seem, but still, this is too shocking to articulate.
Dimitri doesn’t face the same issues as me. He has no trouble spelling things out as he sees them. “Not only did your mother attempt to sell you when her stash got low, she killed her only sibling and her mother with the hope of a big payout. It will take a few days for preliminary reports to come back, but I won’t be shocked to discover your grandfather didn’t die of natural causes.”
I shake my head, too stunned by the honesty in Dimitri’s tone to make sense of it.
“Killing my nanna wouldn’t help my parents. If they wanted money, they would have needed to take me out as well.”
When I say that to Dimitri, he presses his lips to the shell of my ear and growls, “They didn’t want money…” His pause is the worst form of torture “They needed space. Space you gave them when you moved into a one-bedroom flat in the middle of the burbs.”
I’m confused as to what he means until my wide-with-terror eyes collide with my mother’s. She’s wearing the same smug glare she wore when Uncle Mike’s lawyer informed us he forgot to change his will when he married. When he died, all his assets went to my mother. Although he wasn’t a wealthy man, he lived more comfortably than my parents. They thought they had hit the motherload when their bank balance rose by six digits.
“What did she need space for?” Although I’m asking questions, I don’t need Dimitri to answer me to get the gist of what’s happening. It’s staring me straight in the face, eating away my morals as much as drugs stole the life of the woman kneeling in front of me.
“Was it for farming?” I don’t mean to plant potatoes, tomatoes, or zucchini. I’m talking about the farms Dimitri mentioned during our talk before we came to the basement, the ones I can’t forget no matter how hard my twisting stomach wishes I could.
If my intuition is true, if my parents are knee-deep in the industry responsible for Fien’s captivity, this is worse than them switching a product mid-sale. They’re selling babies for crying out loud—stolen-from-the-womb babies.
When I spot Dimitri’s nod in the corner of my eye, I want to fold in two. The only reason I don’t is because I have more pressing matters to attend to. It isn’t just my mother’s life at stake anymore. Mine is on the chopping block too.
“You need to tell him who you work with and that I’m not involved.” The last half of my sentence is voiced more punchily than the first half. I’m not just desperate to save my hide, I don’t want anyone thinking I’m associated with such a callous, cruel world, much less Dimitri.
“Tell him!” I scream when my mother’s silence works me over as well as Dimitri’s hand pummeled her face. “For once, protect me as you should have when I was a child. Put me first for a change!” Blinded by a rage too hot for me to think rationally, I curl my index finger around the gun Dimitri directed at her head. “Tell him! Tell him now!”
“I don’t know who they are,” she chokes out on a whimper, shocked I’m treating her as poorly as she treated me my entire life. “We didn’t exchange names. We weren’t a part of the production side. We were just… we…”
“Were a dumping site,” Dimitri fills in when words allude her.
I never thought I would have a wish to kill someone, let alone the ability, but it’s a close call when my mother bobs her head at Dimitri’s claim. She isn’t a victim like I believed during my childhood. She’s as bad as my father and just as abusive, and once again, I’m done playing nice.
Two
Dimitri
When I entered this room hours ago, my first thought was that I should crush Roxanne’s windpipe as Smith’s whispered words crushed my soul. I should destroy her as her parents destroyed me. At one stage, I even considered keeping her parents alive so they could witness me torture their child as they had mine.
None of my previous suggestions are being considered now.
Despite my intuition begging me to reconsider, I don’t believe the anger blistering out of Roxanne is a ploy. Just like earlier tonight, she’s prepared to slay for me by killing her own blood. If that can’t convince me she’s on my team, nothing will.
Audrey was taken as her replacement. She was kidnapped purely to fill the slot Roxanne’s absence caused, but for the life of me, I can no longer place the blame for that on Roxanne’s shoulders.
I looked away.
I fucked up.
This isn’t Roxanne’s fault.
In all honesty, Roxanne is so under my thumb, if she had the opportunity to switch places with Fien, she would in a heartbeat. I have no doubt about that. It isn’t just men who are led by their libidos. Women are just as bad. The way Roxanne stared at me in the alleyway all those months ago is proof of this.
There’s just one difference between her and women like my wife.
Some sit back and watch the shit unfold.
Others get into the nitty-gritty.
Roxanne is the latter.
The way she put her life on the line earlier tonight proves that as does the obvious twitch of her index finger. It’s curled around the trigger of my gun, ready to be pulled back. She’s just waiting for permission.
Permission I won’t give since it would change her in an instant.
Your first kill never leaves you, and when it’s your blood, it haunts you long after you’ve entered your grave. That’s one of the reasons my father is so fucked up. He may not h
ave killed my grandfather, but he was responsible for the bullet that pierced his brain.
I feel Roxanne’s sigh more than I hear it when I lower the gun I’m forcing her to aim at her mother’s head. She knows this isn’t the end of her mother’s punishment, she’s just glad she isn’t going to be her torturer.
I promised to protect Fien no matter what. Even with my emotions not knowing which way to swing, I’ll keep my promise. I just need to make sure the right people are being held accountable. I won’t lie, it will be a hard road, but even a man bogged down with grief knows a child can’t be held responsible for their parents’ actions. I’ve never accepted culpability for my father’s crimes, and Fien will never be at fault for mine, so why the fuck am I writing a new set of rules for Roxanne? I could blame grief, but in all honesty, I’ve worked that excuse to death the past twenty months. It’s time for me to stand on my own two feet. I’m a man. I can admit my mistakes.
For the most part.
My heart stops harmonizing its beats with Roxanne’s when she sinks to the far corner of the room to suck in some much-needed breaths. Her eyes reveal she’s as mad as hell and ready to kill, but they also expose she wishes the outcome of her mother’s poor judgment could be anything but death.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t feel the same way. I hate killing women. Their punishments usually come with an automatic clause for mercy. However, this isn’t something I can let slide. Not only did Sailor organize the kidnapping of my wife, she attempted to sell her daughter before killing the only person who gave a crap about her. That, in itself, deserves a much harsher punishment than death.
After sliding on the safety on my gun to ensure my teetering moods won’t cause an accidental firing, I nudge my head to the door. “Head up with Rocco and pack. We need to be at the airstrip by eight. I’ll meet you there.”
Hearing the words I don’t speak the loudest, Roxanne strays her wide-with-fear eyes to my side of the room. “Dimi—”
“Go.” I keep my tone stern, assuring she knows I’m not suggesting she leave. I’m telling her to go. “I’ll only be a minute.”
My reassurance that I won’t torture her mother for hours on end does little to ease the heavy groove between her brows, but it does get her feet moving.
After glancing at Sailor for the quickest second, she makes a beeline for the door. Even with my pulse booming in my ears, I hear Rocco exhale when Roxanne breaks into the dimly lit corridor. He was waiting with three body bags, confident no amount of pleading would see Roxanne’s family escape conviction for the second time.
Roxanne’s gall ensures he will only need two.
Once the door closes with Roxanne on the other side, I devote all my attention to her mother. I want to maim, I want to kill, but more than any of that, I want to give Fien’s mother the burial she deserves.
I’m not a religious man, but Audrey’s family is. Until her body is returned to the ground, her soul won’t rest. I’m happy to give them closure if it means they won’t contest Fien’s custody. They’d never win, but the less I have to worry about, the easier it will be for Fien to settle once she’s returned.
“Where is Audrey buried?” My words are somewhat calm for how hot my veins feel. I’m seconds from blowing my top, but I am showing restraint, the shackle of my go-to emotion solely for Fien… and perhaps Roxanne.
When Sailor’s eyes lift to mine, I realize just how fucked she is, and for once, her undoing has nothing to do with me or my crew. She’s been taken by demons way worse than a man’s possessiveness. Drugs fuck you over in a way no man can. She’s lost to it, completely fucking gone.
“I don’t know—”
“Where did you bury my wife!”
She recoils at my shouted words, but they get her talking better than my fists ever could. “I took your daughter to get checked over. When I returned, your wife was gone.”
I don’t know her well enough to know if she’s lying or not, but I do know one thing, pretending she gives a shit about Fien won’t sit well with me. She didn’t care about my daughter when she was forcefully removed from her mother’s stomach weeks too early. She didn’t care that her daughter was emotionally abused by her husband. She cares about no one but herself. The way she treated Roxanne her entire life is proof of this.
If Audrey hadn’t arrived at Slice of Salt when she did, who’s to say Sailor wouldn’t have gone ahead with the original plan to sell Roxanne. She said it herself, Rimi wanted anyone. That anyone could have been Roxanne, and for some reason, that annoys me more than knowing she’s responsible for Audrey’s death. Don’t ask me why. It’s fucked for me even to think this way, but I’m merely being honest—for once.
Sailor’s eyes shift from her dead husband to me when I drag a chair over from the side of the room. I balance one of the chair’s legs onto her ring finger before taking a seat. Her tear-choked scream is similar to the one Roxanne’s suitor released earlier tonight when I removed the finger he sneakily dragged up Roxanne’s arm. He thought the severity of his punishment didn’t fit his crime. I believed otherwise. He’ll think twice before he ever touches something he doesn’t own again.
If I truly believed Sailor had more information than a standard bottom-dweller in this industry, I’d torture her for the next several hours until she spilled the beans. Since I’m aware that isn’t the case, I use her open mouth to my advantage.
When I ram the barrel of my gun down her throat, it shuts her up in an instant and has her paying careful attention to everything I say. Although I don’t have a lot to say, it’s best for her to listen. Paying attention is the highest form of respect. Without it, there will be no possibility of me offering her any leniency.
I don’t mean from death, her expiration date is well past perished. I’m merely proposing a quick, clean death compared to letting Clover have his way with her. He won’t rape her, that isn’t his kink, but he’ll be more than happy to add additional splits to her cheeks.
“This is your last chance, Sailor.” I speak slow to ensure the hammering of her heart doesn’t affect her ability to hear me. “Where did you bury my wife?”
Three
Roxanne
When the ricochet of a bullet being fired booms into my ears, I grip a designer dress so firmly, its pricy threads pop. I’m on the third level of Dimitri’s New York compound, packing for a trip to God knows where. However, I still know the direction the noise came from. Not only did the devastating vibration tickle my toes, it also chipped away a piece of my soul like it did when my father carried Uncle Mike out of my grandparents’ barn a decade ago.
I was barely ten, but the deathly swing of Uncle Mike’s arm revealed he was gone. His skin was mottled like my father’s. Even with my parents saying otherwise, I often wondered why he looked the way he did. He was run over by a tractor not placed into gear, but he was marked and nicked as if he had been in an underground cage fight.
Since I was so young, I never suspected my parents were involved in his accident. Only after seeing the flare dart through my mother’s eyes an hour ago did reality dawn. My parents didn’t witness his accident. They killed him as they most likely did my grandparents.
My grandparents would never admit it, but everyone knew Uncle Mike was their favorite. He helped without being asked, never accepted a dime for his time, and agreed with their decision not to sell their little slice of heaven in the middle of a busy metropolis. His decision had nothing to do with money. Unlike my parents, he had done well for himself. He wasn’t close to wealthy, but he had a humble, happy existence. He was married and expecting his first child in the spring.
Last I heard, Aunt Melissa was residing in Arizona. Her child was born three months after my uncle’s death. I don’t know if my cousin is a boy or a girl. When my uncle was laid to rest, it was as if his little family no longer existed.
After dumping my dress into a suitcase open on the floor, I drag the sleeve of my dressing gown under my nose, removing the mess pooled there. T
he past hour has flown by in a blur. I’ve been packing and guzzling down vodka like the man I willingly gave my virginity to isn’t in the process of torturing my mother.
Estelle always says blood doesn’t make you family, but still, I expected to feel some sort of grief at the thought I’m about to be an orphan. I feel a little empty and somewhat confused, but I also feel like the purge of my emotions will be good for me.
It’s a sad reality, but by Dimitri wiping my slate clean, I’ll have the chance to move forward without constantly looking over my shoulder. Although I never imagined it being this bad, I’ve always known there was something not quite right with my parents. It wasn’t just the sex and drugs, there was a handful of other things that set alarm bells off in my head. I was just too young to understand what they meant.
I don’t face that same issue now. My father didn’t make me watch because he wanted to embarrass me. He was grooming me to take my mother’s place, preparing to sell me as he had her. That’s why some of his ‘friends’ gawked at me like they did my mother. They knew it was only a matter of time before I’d eventually be offered up as well.
With my stomach a twisted mess of confusion, I pace to the large window in my room to drink in the tranquil setting you wouldn’t expect this close to a major city. The rugged terrain with a skyscraper backdrop has me recalling the time my mother dropped me off to live with my grandparents. For years, I thrived on the fact she cared enough about me not to let my father hurt me.
It was silly of me ever to believe.
While seeking financial aid for school, I discovered my grandparents had a significant mortgage on their estate. They had lived on their little ranch for over a decade before my mother was born, so it should have been paid off years earlier.
I initially blamed bad money management for their poor credit.
Even with my head blurred with alcohol, I’m not so stupid now.