by Belle Aurora
The alarm finally off, the security guard allows a moment of silence, before uttering, “Pretty sure Missy’s going to win.”
I turn slowly, looking affronted. “You’re on crack, dude. Natalie’s got this in the bag. Missy will be lucky if she leaves with her dignity intact.”
The guard snorts a laugh. “No way. Missy broke her leg, and she cries a lot. People love that sappy shit.”
I beg to differ. “Not true. Nat’s ruthless, a back-stabbing she-devil.” A sly smile tilts my lips. “Everyone loves a villain.”
The elevator door pings, and as we step out, I discreetly press the activate button on the app on my phone. The security guard’s walkie-talkie bleats. Stopping midstep, he lifts the device to his ear and holds down the button. “Radio room, copy.”
Nothing.
“Sy? Do you read me?”
Once more, silence.
The guard sighs, “Shit.” Turning to me, he mutters, “You got to be quick. I need to get back down.”
So I make of show of juggling my phone, my satchel, and the letter. “Sure thing.”
Pressing the second button on the app, the guard’s walkie-talkie comes back to life, hissing and crackling, “Get down here, Johnson! Code red in the basement!”
With another click of a button, the walkie-talkie dies once more. Johnson, now panicked, shakes and hits the radio. “Hello? Sy, come in? Shit.” He looks up at me. “I’ve got to go down. You stay up here until I come get you.”
The guard is already running in the opposite direction when I call out, “But Survivor, man!”
The elevator starts to close as I see him shrug. Before the doors close, I shout, “Then hurry your ass up!”
And with a single press of a button, the app I had made powers down the building. With one guard stuck in the elevator and the other lost in the basement, I’m free to do as I please.
Reaching up, I pull the hoodie up over my head and make my way to the office at the end of the hall, the one where countless Russian cuss words are coming from. With only the safety lights shining, I knock on the office door. Andrei booms, “Enter,” but I’m already inside.
Andrei beats the side of his computer, as if that will somehow make it work again. While he does this, I walk over to the side of the office to retrieve the crystal decanter of vodka and two glasses.
As I set them down and open the decanter, Andrei notices I’m not security. A heavily accented, “Who are you?” comes out of his jowled mouth.
I pour in silence, placing a full glass of vodka in front of him. I reach for my phone and, a moment later, the room is illuminated by strong white light.
Ah, technology.
I lower my hood, wanting my reveal to be something of nightmares. When Andrei spots my face, he blanches a single moment. Then he tips his head back and wheezes with laughter. His eyes dance as he shakes his head in disbelief. “Dead man walking.”
Inclining my head, I pick up my glass and sip. The vodka is strong but smooth, no doubt something expensive. Andrei lifts his own glass and downs the entire thing like it’s water. Being a Russian and over the age of fifty, I’d like to think he washes his face with vodka in the morning.
Andrei sits and gestures to me. “Why would a dead man come to me?”
I stare him in the eye and then take another sip. He knows why I’m here.
He watches me closely, thinking. His smile falls then disappears completely. After a moment, he sighs. “I suppose there is no stopping you.”
“It’s just business, Andrei,” I answer, steel determination in my voice.
He sits quietly before straightening. He nods. “Make it quick.”
I reach into my satchel, pull out my stolen .36-caliber and remove the safety. I lift my arm and point the gun at his forehead, then lower it. It’s his last night of living. I know I shouldn’t bother, but I do. “How ‘bout another drink?”
Andrei Ivanov smiles at me, and there is no malice in this smile. I don’t understand it.
“Why you smiling, Andrei? In two seconds, your brains are gonna be splattered all over your whiteboard.”
His shoulder jerks. “I am sick of living half a life, Twitch. My wife left me. My kids hate me. My business partners want my money. Everything I once lived for now wishes me dead. And I have no desire to live anymore.” He stands, filling our glasses. Lifting his own, he salutes me. “Na zdorov'ye.”
To your health.
Oh, the irony.
My hand lifts with swiftness, and a second later, a bright flash accompanied by a loud bang echoes throughout the office, Andrei Ivanov falling backward on the floor in a bloody heap.
And for the first time in my life, I actually feel bad about having to kill someone.
Shaking my head, I walk over to the window and open it. Climbing out, I walk down the fire escape and type out a text.
Me: Meeting with Number 1 was short.
A moment later, I get a response.
Happy: Glad to hear it. Don’t think you’ll be so lucky with No 2.
Thanks, fucker.
Don’t I know it.
But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.
Being the wife of Dino Gambino affords me some leniency. I get to do things other wives do not. But in saying that, I don’t get the freedom those women get.
I get to attend family meetings. Something no other woman is allowed to attend. Of course, I am a mob princess married to a mob prince and heir, who will become king of the domain when his father passes.
I do not, however, get to do anything on my own. Whenever I step outside of the house, I have someone on my tail. That person is there to “protect” me, but I know that it’s just another way for Dino to break my spirit. I understand the message he sends every time I’m blindsided.
I own you.
Any other woman in my position would make the most of their free days, go to a café with her friends, get her nails or hair done, or just go to lunch, and for a while, I did, but my friends got sick of the dogs on my ass, and without meaning any harm, they stopped reaching out. I shouldn’t have been shocked by it, but I was. I was hurt and upset. I can’t say I blame them. Dino did what he set out to do.
He alienated me from my friends and relatives.
I wasn’t allowed to visit people without a reason. Not even my family.
I know what you’re thinking. Why not just do it anyway?
Simple answer:
Because it isn’t worth the price of broken ribs, or rape.
More complex answer:
I am afraid of my husband. And I am afraid that one day, he’ll kill me without meaning to.
“I don’t understand why you were there all day yesterday,” Dino utters as he focuses on the road.
I fight a sigh as I attempt to answer without a note of sarcasm. “I was there because my sister just lost her husband, Dino. Veronica is heartbroken. She needs support.”
He huffs through his nose. “She’s got other brothers and sisters. She doesn’t need you there all day.”
I grit my teeth and try again. “Yes, but my other sisters are young and don’t understand what it would be like to lose a husband. She just needs someone to talk to.”
He turns to me, searching my face. “Would you be upset if I died?”
The question has a spark of excitement flair inside of me. I want to crow, “Fuck no!” but instead, I reach over and grip his hand, frowning, trying in vain to ignore the staccato beat of my rapidly beating heart. “You know I would. Don’t even joke about something like that.”
His eyes narrow at me, searching for any signs of insincerity, but he finds none. His hand tightens around mine as he mutters a gruff, “I love you, Ana.”
I smile, but it’s stretched thin, flat as a deflated balloon. “I know, baby.”
I spent an hour covering the bruise on my temple before we left. Dino’s brother Gio is rough in bed and usually used as a punishment to me when I do or say something Dino finds offensive. Gio i
s a large man, even bigger than Dino, and I’m a small woman. Gio is also emotionless. Heartless. Needless to say, the punishment works, because Gio enjoys it so much that he always takes it a step too far. Every time Dino calls on Gio, I’m left a broken shell of a person. Each time, a piece of that shell crumbles away. I worry that soon enough, there won’t be a shell left and I’ll just be, open and agreeable, with no part of Alejandra left inside of me. After Gio rapes me, Dino helps me shower, washing me with care, kissing every bruise, every scrape, normally ending making love to me gently while I cry, a broken woman. All the while, he croons, “See how good I am to you? You can have this all the time, baby.” He normally finishes with a whispered, “All you have to do is love me.”
Sometimes, days go by without me seeing the nasty side of Dino. Sometimes, things are so good that I’m transported back to when I was eighteen, when we laughed often and spoke for hours. In those rare times, I willingly give myself to Dino, knowing I won’t have my best friend back for long. And it never does. Last long, that is. Often, I’ll wake in the middle of the night and look over at my husband. My chest will pang with sadness, because I know that the angelic-looking man sleeping by my side is nothing but a vicious monster.
And Lucifer was said to be the most beautiful angel in heaven.
I’ve become so good at pretending that sometimes, I confuse myself. At times, I get lost in my own act, and for a mere moment, I bask in false happiness.
Then I remember. And my soul crumbles away slowly, as waves of an ocean of unhappiness wash over me.
Pulling my hand to his mouth, Dino presses light kisses to my knuckles. And my stomach flutters. Not from lust, but fear.
I’ve seen this many times before.
This is the calm before the storm.
At any moment, Dino will snap. And I will be punished.
My heart races as my body trembles. The blood drains out of my face, and suddenly, I’m parched. I swallow, but my throat sticks. My hand tightens around his in an attempt to mask my fear.
The black tinted windows of the car begin to rise, and my tongue thickens. I bite the inside of my mouth. Resolve works its way through me as I realize the storm is coming early today.
This is new. I haven’t been beaten in a car before.
My eyes close and I hold them closed, no matter how much my mind tells me to beg forgiveness for whatever it is I have done. My lightly shaking hands begin to tremble as I await the first blow.
The first knock is the most painful.
“It’s warm out. You cold, bella?” I hear the confusion in his voice. I turn to him, jaw set, and open my eyes. His eyes, strangely warm, search me, looking for signs of trouble.
It hits me that the storm hasn’t come. In fact, I had likely brewed it in my head.
Tears fill my eyes. I blink rapidly, shooing them away. My voice hoarse and strained, I respond and smile, but it shakes. “I’m not feeling the best today. Stomach ache.”
This is my life. This is me. Living in fear.
A weak, pathetic woman with a violent and dangerous husband.
His brow creases. “Want me to take you home?”
Sniffling, I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. I’ll lie down at the house.” I turn to look out the window. “It’ll be nice to see my old room.”
We drive on, only a short while from my father’s house, when Dino comments, “You’ve lost weight.” He side-eyes me. “I don’t like it.”
It’s hard to eat when you no longer wish to live. I’ve contemplated suicide more in the past month than in the entire six years of my marriage. The more I think about ending my life, the more advantages I see in the course of action.
No Dino. No worries. Only freedom.
Who doesn’t want freedom?
This time, I can hear the concern in his voice. It fills me with relief. I can play on this. “I just need rest.”
He presses a hand to my forehead. “You’re clammy. How long you been feeling like this?”
I respond immediately. “A week or so.”
His nostrils flare in frustration as he scolds, “Why didn’t you say anything? It could be serious.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not serious, Dino. It’s a stomach bug.”
“You don’t know that.” He pauses a moment, before declaring, “I’m calling Dr. Rossi as soon as we get to the house. I’ll have her come by tomorrow.”
Oh, thank God.
After so many years of unpredictability, I’m surprised he played into my hand so easily. This is exactly what I wanted. I need to talk to Dr. Rossi, privately. Dr. Manda Rossi is the daughter of one of Vito Gambino’s associates. She knows everything about me, every gory detail. On more than one occasion, Manda has attempted to coax me into escaping Dino. Every time she’s called to my bedside as I lie battered and bruised, unable to move, Manda cries for me, with me. She is one of my dearest friends. Maybe my only friend.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, but if it’ll make you feel better, okay,” I utter submissively.
Dino holds my hand during the remainder of the journey, watching me closely, worry in his eyes, as if I’m about to expire.
If only.
As I watch Miguel Castillo eye-fuck Ling, who seductively licks her lips his way, I wonder why the fuck I’m sitting in an empty conference room putting up with this.
Then I remember.
Money. Lots of money.
Money doesn’t do anything for me. No doubt I like having it, but I can do without. The thing is, I have people who depend on me. More than half of my income is taken out of my many bank accounts before I’ve even had a chance to bask in my unseemly wealth, supporting my family.
My family is important to me. I love them unconditionally. And being the most successful of my uneducated kinfolk, I do what I can for them in whatever way they need it. Usually, they need financial assistance. And, thank the Lord above, I can help there.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and smile at the display.
Speak of the devil.
I turn to Miguel. “Is there anywhere I can speak privately?” I nod down to my phone. “This is important.”
Miguel stands, holding his hand out to Ling. “I would be happy to take Miss Ling for a tour of the house.” Smiling like a kid in a candy store, Ling takes his hand and moves to his side. Miguel looks over at me. “The house is large. The shortened tour will take at least fifteen minutes.”
I nod my appreciation. “Perfect.”
Once I’m left alone, I answer. “I was wondering when you’d call.”
The irate woman on the line yells a rushed, “Are you out of your damn mind, Julius?”
It’s so good to hear from her I don’t even bother admonishing her for cussing at me. Instead, I smile. “I take it you got the delivery.”
“The delivery?” I hear the astonishment in her voice. “The delivery?” She pauses a moment before shouting, “A delivery is a bunch of flowers or-or-or a new DVD player. A fruit basket is a delivery, Julius. This is not a delivery. This was freight. Cargo! A goddamn shipment, Julius!”
Chuckling through my nose, I divert attention away from me. “Are you gonna yell at me all day, or are you gonna let me speak to my niece?”
“A car, Julius. It was a car.”
My smile dampens. “Why do you keep saying was?” After a moment of silence, I close my eyes, and grit out, “Tonya, tell me you didn’t send it back.”
A sigh, then a defeated, “No, I didn’t send it back. But I should’ve. And if she hadn’t seen it, I would have.” My sister sounds tired as she tries to argue with me. “You can’t do things like that, Jules. You aren’t responsible for us. You need to stop buying things for us—things we don’t need, mind you—because you have guilt. Unwarranted guilt.” Her voice softens. “You’re not responsible, sweetheart. You never were.”
My chest tightens at her softly spoken words. “You saying she isn’t going to need a car?” Silence. “She’s sixteen now. Any day now,
you’re going to take her, and she’s going to get her license. And before you argue, she will get her license. She’s smart. Like her mama.”
She growls and I know I have her. “But a Mercedes? What sixteen-year-old needs a Mercedes? Sixteen-year-olds need a bomb. A rust bucket. Not a fifty-seven thousand dollar car.”
I grin. “You went on the damn website, didn’t you? You probably calculating how many budget dinners you could afford with that money.”
She doesn’t laugh, but I hear her smile on her whispered reply. “Nine thousand one hundred and twenty-five.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “You’re not on a budget anymore, Tonya. You can live a little. Buy clothes, visit a spa, get your hair done, go see a movie without smuggling in premade popcorn.”
Sniffles. Then more sniffles. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”
I sober immediately. If there is one thing I would never question, it would be my sister’s love for me. “I know it. I feel it. And I love you more, tater tot. Now let me speak to her. Gotta wish my girl a happy birthday.”
A quick shuffle of the phone sounds through the speaker before my niece, Keera, comes online, screeching, “Oh, my God! Oh, sweet baby Jesus! LORD JESUS! Like, oh my God! I can’t believe it! It’s amazing! I don’t believe it! Oh, Lord!”
Quelling my laughter, I try sounding like a father figure should. “You best stop using the Lord’s name in vain, Keke. Birthday or not, you hush now.”
Using her inside voice, she still rushes out her words, but uses a milder tone. “The delivery guy asked for me. By name. And Miosha was over at the time. My stars, Uncle Jay, she was pea green with envy. Like, super green. Before I’d even signed my name, the entire school knew about my new car. Popular people I’d never spoken to at school suddenly started saying hi to me. Boys are trying to talk to me, too. You have no idea what this has done for my popularity.” She adds a whispered, high-pitched, “Epic.”