by A. C. Bextor
When they make it to the door, Ciro’s confidant and advisor, Pete, steps inside the room. His eyes follow the men until the door closes behind them.
“How much did you hear?” Ciro questions.
While Pete takes a seat, Ciro notes his oldest friend’s weary expression. More times than not, Pete’s conscience to do good with all they’ve been given gets in the way of the dirty business that must be done to keep it running.
“I heard enough.”
“And?” Ciro prods.
“And I think you’re up to something. Care to share?”
Ciro momentarily considers Pete, a smaller man than he in stature but more powerful in will and mind. He’s known Pete for decades, having grown up together. If there’s anyone he trusts to help him spin this opportunity to the Palleshi advantage, it’s him.
“I don’t know everything yet. I’m still processing why Josef came to me with this. As far as Vlad is concerned, Josef shouldn’t be a threat to Klara. An addition to his life, yes, but no threat.”
“But you are,” Pete surmises.
“First I want to see what Josef will do. I don’t trust him. He’s lying. And I won’t make any moves against Zalesky until I know what moves I can make. If any.”
“And what about Killian? Do you think he and Josef are working together with the Russian?”
Ciro shakes his head and steeples his hands in front of him. Killian Dawson, the Irish mob boss, knows better. Even if the two heads of families haven’t spoken in years, Ciro believes Killian knows his place, and it’s not inside his business.
“No. Killian wouldn’t be stupid enough to jeopardize Liam’s safety. That’s not who he is.”
“But he doesn’t know Liam anymore. You’ve seen to that,” Pete begrudgingly accuses.
“Not now, Pete,” Ciro admonishes.
Liam, the teenage boy Ciro raised since Liam’s parents’ death twelve years ago, is the only tie between the Irish and the Sicilian families. Being that he’s the product of Ciro’s younger sister and Killian’s youngest son, Ciro promised peace with the Irish in exchange for sole custody of Liam. Pete has always disagreed, feeling that peace should be given in the wake of Liam’s parents’ tragic deaths.
Ciro protested against the notion of death bringing family together.
“I’m putting some of the men on Killian,” Ciro states.
“But you just said—”
“For precaution only. If Killian has anything to do with Josef, or Vlad for that matter, we’ll know. And if he does, the long-standing agreement between us will be void.”
“You’re playing with fire,” Pete insists.
“Maybe so, but if that’s the case and Killian has his hand in any of this, it’s best not to put it out until some Irish blood is lost in its blaze.”
My eyes open to the dark at the shattering sound of breaking glass.
Three days ago, Vee dismissed me after I forced a plate of dinner in front of him. Once I left, sheltering a bruised ego, I went to find Veni. He’d been busy in his room, listening to rock music so loud the noise nearly pierced my ears.
Veni is his father’s son; him doing whatever he wants, whenever he wants, doesn’t come as a surprise.
Throughout the last few days, I’ve chastised myself for attempting to understand how and why Vee came to be who he is. I’ve ridiculed my thoughts, imagining him as a child doing the same youthful things Veni does. I’ve wondered if there was ever a time in his life that Vlad Zalesky felt cherished, cared for, or loved. My curiosity soon led me to the realization that I’ve never seen a photograph of him—not as a child, teenager, or adult.
Did he ever live as freely as Veni’s been permitted?
Has Vee ever cared for or loved another person with the same possessive intensity that he has for his sister and his son?
I don’t imagine he’s had many opportunities to have anything more than what he does now. Which doesn’t appear to be a lot.
Breaking through my thoughts, a man’s voice violently curses. Standing up, I rub my eyes and make my way out of my bedroom, which is off the kitchen between two housemaids’ rooms.
After walking down the narrow hallway toward the light shining in from the kitchen, I take a single step around the corner to find Vee leaning his powerful body against the counter.
His light brown hair is scattered in disarray. His camouflage pants are the same as he always wears. His shirt has been removed, his chest bare and on display. His facial expression is a painful combination of sickly and gaunt. It doesn’t look as if he’s slept at all.
The clock above the stove reads 2:22 a.m.
“Klara,” he sighs, aimlessly lifting his hands in the air. “I need help.”
Swallowing hard, I stare at his other hand. The blood is dripping in streaks. The thickening beads trek down his arm, forming thicker drops as they fall to the dark ceramic floor where they end in a splatter against broken glass.
In quick steps, I make my way to him. As I do, the residual crystal of the tumbler pierces the bottom of my foot. I wince but don’t stop moving forward. Grabbing a towel, I gently cover his palm first before securing the towel in place.
“You’re good with your hands,” he scathingly teases, a small, cruel smile claiming his lips. “The touch of a woman, both swift and deliberate.”
Vee’s never spoken a crass word to me. Yes, sometimes I’m treated with his indifference, but he’s never intentionally made me feel uncomfortable.
Shaking off my weary nerves, I turn my concentration to the cloth, spreading the material thin to cover the gaping, bleeding wound. The sticky blood adheres to my fingertips.
“I wonder if you’re as good with your mouth,” he taunts further. “I’ve thought about how good your lips would taste on mine if I forced you to let me feel them.”
The tense heat in my chest rushes to my face, flushing my skin and covering it in a sheen of sweat. My mouth opens, taking in a badly needed breath.
Vee reaches toward me and, using the pad of his thumb, caresses my bottom lip as I hold his injured hand in both of mine. His touch is warm and inviting, however disturbingly so. His eyes grow dark as he watches our connection, giving it his complete attention.
“Your face is red, beautiful girl. You’re wondering how mine would taste now, too.”
“I….”
Visions of what Vlad and I would look like together, giving in to heated desperation, flood my senses. My insides pulse, considering how he may feel driving himself into me without restraint.
I wonder what he would think or say if he knew it’s him I think of so many times when I’m alone.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” he insists. “That you aren’t curious about how hard you’d come at my touch.”
Nearly speechless, I gasp. “I don’t….”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“You’re drunk,” I accuse. “That’s how you hurt yourself.”
Vlad’s eyebrows arch at my tone; my observation clearly hit a nerve.
“I’m not drunk enough that I didn’t smell your innocence coming at me from across the room,” he hisses.
“Vee,” I whisper urgently, focusing on his eyes as they stay trained to my mouth. “I need to look at your hand.”
I swallow hard as the stench of smoke and whiskey reclaim my lost concentration. When he doesn’t take his hand away from my chin, I roughly pull back, distancing myself from his touch.
Once free, I pull his wrist closer in order to add pressure to the wound. Leaning his head forward, his mouth now inches from mine, the mist of the alcohol and the stale stench from his cigarette coat my face. Vee doesn’t smoke, which attests to his state of drunkenness.
“You have no reason to pull away from me,” he steadily simmers. “I won’t hurt you.”
At his simple promise, I part my lips to agree, but nothing comes out. Sensing I’m still scared, he reaches up and brushes away the hair falling into my eyes.
His voice gentles as he a
sks, “Do you believe me? That I won’t hurt you?”
“Yes,” I reply, the flutters in my stomach waking more confusion in my head.
A hazy confliction fills Vee’s eyes as they glisten. In their dark centers I make out my own reflection. Uncertainty bellows between us. The sight of Vee’s tongue darting out to trace his bottom lip, along with the finger he’s using to trace the apple of my cheek, holds me captive.
Outwardly, Vee is a handsome man. The strong contours of his face, the rigidity of his body, the dark complexion of his skin, the untamed abrasiveness in his voice when he speaks directly to anyone.
He’s the epitome of a beast, stepping into the sun and puffing its chest before exhaling fire, announcing itself to the world in all its terrifying glory.
However, Vlad Zalesky is more than just beautifully magnificent.
He’s also a terror of mass destruction. A villain without a cause. A tormentor of the weak. A tyrant to the lost. And I’ll never forget.
“Fix this,” he growls, straightening once more. His voice is low and restrained as he pushes his injured hand toward my face. Once he’s released his hold, he steps away and weakly points to the kitchen table. “Over there.”
“Maag’s first aid kit is in the main bathroom,” I explain. “Sit,” I prod, walking at his side and helping to guide his large, highly intoxicated body into a chair.
I place his injured hand on the table. Mine covers his and I push down.
“Apply pressure. Not a lot, but enough to stop the bleeding.”
Doing as I tell him, he nods and then replies, “Don’t be long.”
Returning with everything I’ll need, I find Vee still seated at the table but resting his head on his arm. His broad shoulders move in sync with each steady breath he takes. Whether he’s passed out, sleeping, or merely taking a mindful break, he appears quiet and at peace.
My fingers tremble with curiosity. I wonder how the eagle tattooed on his back would feel beneath my fingertips. And I’m curious as to what reaction that same touch would incite from him. Refusing to give either the opportunity, and fearing the rejection which would surely follow, I press forward.
Walking toward him, I announce, “Okay, we’re ready.”
Grabbing the chair next to his, I position and make myself comfortable. When I reach for his hand, he teasingly pulls it back just out of arm’s reach.
My eyes scan his forearm streaked with protruding veins and dark tattoos, passing up to meet his bulging bicep, directing themselves back to the contours of his exposed chest. I feel him studying my face. He’s touching me with his eyes, burning my skin, and basking in my nervousness without my consent.
“I need to get a better look,” I state sternly, though under his scrutiny my confidence is weak.
Tensing, he allows my touch. When I finally bring myself to chance a look at him, the clenching of his jaw paired with his pulsing temples suggests pain. Or maybe this is his repugnant reaction in having to request my help. Vlad Zalesky doesn’t ask for anyone’s help, let alone in the middle of the night because of a cut to his hand caused from over drinking.
“Do you have the slightest idea what you’re doing?” he inquires, studiously watching as I unwrap the towel with care.
“No. Not really,” I reply. “But there’s no one here to help. I can wake Maag if you’d rather she—”
“No,” he cuts me off. “You’ll do it.”
Once the makeshift bandage is removed, I toss it to the side.
“I need a bowl and water to wash the cut,” I explain.
It takes no more than a minute to ensure the tap water is warm before filling the glass bowl and carrying it back to the table. I hadn’t noticed the intensity of Vlad’s gaze until I’m again standing at his side.
“You’re frightened,” he callously assumes, looking up. Before I can respond, he adds, “You’re terrified of me.”
Hearing his clearly stated observation and hating the manner in which he nonchalantly claims it, I sit, taking his hand and laying the back of it flush against my open palm. Blood continues to drip, hitting the side of my wrist before trailing into the water and tainting it pink.
“Tell me, Klara,” he starts. With his upper body’s adjustment, I envision he’s tilted his head to the side, but I don’t lift my eyes to confirm. “How old will you be on Saturday?”
Remembering the party Faina has planned and wondering if Vee will be there, I answer simply, “Twenty-one.”
“Twenty-one,” he ponders to myself. “And I was right earlier—you’ve never been touched before. Have you?”
My eyebrows furrow before a disturbing awareness steels my spine. I lift my eyes to his to find he’s not being facetious. His question is honest, almost thoughtfully sincere. The change of his disposition is a direct difference from what I’ve always known him to be. But it’s also a glimpse of the shielded edge of him I’ve always suspected he’s kept buried deep.
“Touched?”
Leaning toward me, another current of smoke and whiskey fans my face.
“You’ve been alone here, in my home, all this time—all these years. I assume no man under my roof would touch my property without permission, so I can assume the only person who’s ever brought you pleasure is—”
My face flushes. While it’s true no man has ever touched me, I’ve also never openly discussed the intimate act of giving myself pleasure with anyone. Especially Vee—a man I find fascinating beyond compare to any and all others. A man I’ve not only looked up to all my life, but one I’ve become dangerously curious about. The only man my thoughts turn to when I’m alone in my room at night.
Cutting him off, I answer, “No. There’s been no one else.”
My hands shake as I carefully continue pulling pieces of the pebbled glass from his palm. In reaction to my dedicated ministrations, Vee’s hand abruptly pulls away. He scowls in evident pain before taking in a ragged breath and laying it back on top of mine.
“But you must’ve had thoughts about how it feels,” he gathers. “Most women your age have already been with a man. You must be curious as to what it’s like.”
Fearing his reaction to my answer, in truth or lie, my heart pounds against my chest. The cords in my neck are tight, tensing as I swallow.
“N-no, I d-don’t,” I stutter through the lie. “I mean, no, I haven’t thought about it.”
Thankfully changing the subject, Vee acknowledges, “Faina tells me you’ve been doing a lot to help her with her charity work.”
“I have,” I answer proudly. Vee knows about my dedication to her and her various charity projects for children. “Faina has taught me a lot.”
“She cares for you. She worries what will happen when the time comes for you to leave here and find a life of your own.”
My stomach twists. All those years ago, Vee’s killing of my father and banishing of my mother left me alone. Vee took me into his home, allowing me to become a part of his family. Long ago the bitterness I’ve felt toward him for taking my father’s life faded. I can’t imagine a life without Maag, Veni, and Faina. Or even Abram, Rueon, and Gleb.
“I don’t know if I have enough life experience to find my way alone,” I casually reply, dabbing the open areas of his hand to ensure the glass has been removed. “How much is enough?”
“If you’re asking, then it means you’ve thought about leaving before.”
“Yes,” I admit. “Sometimes.”
“And you never considered running away? All these years, you’ve never thought of walking out the door while hoping to find a place far from here? Far from me?”
My eyes sting. Looking down, a single tear falls to land on my wrist. Of course I’ve thought about how my life would be had my parents still been in it. The thought of my mother, whom I adored, summons memories. The memories of the time I had with her remind me of her loss. A loss I’ve relived mentally more times than I can count.
“Look at me, Klara,” he unobtrusively bids, his voice sha
llow, dropping to a faded whisper.
I refuse his request, continuing to care for his hand. The bleeding has stopped, along with his determination to pull it from my grasp.
“I think I could find my own way,” I finally reply with false honesty.
“But if you left, you’d miss Faina,” he submits.
“And Veni,” I include. “They’re my family. I love them and would miss them terribly.”
All the work I’ve done on his hand so far is ruined. At the mention of my admiration for his son, Vee’s hand balls to a fist, crushing my fingers as it does. A sharp pain shoots up my arm when he tightens more. My eyes close. The tears I was holding fall to my cheeks in an uninterrupted cascade of humiliation.
“You’re much older than my son, sweetheart.” His coined sentiment sinks my chest. The viciousness in his tone dismisses the endearment as soon as it’s heard. “And let’s not forget that, technically, Veniamin is still a child. You’re a young woman.”
“Veni is already a young man,” I correct, dismissing his insinuated insult. “He’s not a child,” I reply brokenly, refusing to wince in pain again.
Often I’ve looked at Veniamin and wished for more than what I expect this life will give him. He’s sixteen, an age to be molded. A precarious time in his adolescence where he can be casted for good or made to be… more like his father.
“Explain,” Vee insists, finally releasing my hand. Thankfully, he no longer appears angry, only curious.
Stretching out my crushed fingers below the table so he can’t see, I desperately gather my composure.
“I told you. Veni looks up to you. He admires you, as he should.”
“He tolerates me because he has to,” Vee corrects. “Sometimes I don’t have the faintest clue how to communicate with him.”
“Then you’ve missed it.”
“Missed what?”
Shaking my head, I keep my eyes down to focus on his hand. “Like you said, he’s sixteen, yet he doesn’t really know you or what you do.”