Absolution Savage Duet Part Two: Russo Saga Part Five

by Nicolina Martin

  “Don’t you worry about that too, now. Go on home. You’re finally free of that bastard. Go start the life you were meant to live. You and the little doll.”

  As the plane starts moving across the tarmac, I throw a quick text to Mom as Stephan’s words burn in me. Free? I’ll never be free of Christian Russo.

  Part II

  Beginning

  Chapter 12

  Middlebro

  Christian

  The memories of the last few days are blurry at best. Or is it weeks? I wake sweaty, haunted by the usual nightmares where I keep losing something important. The scenarios change, but the lingering feeling is always the same.

  Fighting to draw my next breath, I clutch for whatever is wrapped around my chest until I remember there never is anything. The tightness is inside my chest, not around it. I can never get enough air.

  The sheets I lie on are dirty and smell of unwashed bodies. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here, coughing myself sweaty, burning up with a fever I try to quell with Advil, crawling between the bathroom and the bed. Ray’s demented mother thinks I’m her son. She’s getting food delivered that she barely touches. I have no appetite either, but I try to chew and swallow a little every day. I have to get my strength back. I have to get help.

  She’s thin as a stick, Mrs. McGonaghan, and can’t have much time left in this life, but even so far gone in her dementia, her worry about her son, or who she thinks is her son, is palpable.

  I feel genuinely sorry for her. When I leave, if I leave, she’ll lose everything.

  For the first time there’s a tiny bit more vigor in me, and I flex my thigh muscles experimentally, wondering if I dare to sit up. I drink a sip of water, fighting the urge to vomit, then roll over on my side and push myself up, swaying, pain searing my chest. I cough. Cough up unmentionable things. Cough until I taste iron, until I spit blood. My attempt at standing fails miserably and I fall on all fours, panting.

  She has to have a phone. As I begin to crawl, I pray to a deity I’ve never trusted, all the mandatory church visits in my life a joke, a charade, the confessions to the priest laughable, the tattooed cross on my arm an attempt in my mid-twenties to find him. I never did. But now I pray.

  Forgive me father for I have sinned.

  I have sinned so fucking much, and maybe this is my penance. If he exists, if there is forgiveness, now would be a good time. I don’t know if I’ll survive this, but fucking hell, I’m not leaving without a fight. Gasping for air, I make my way from room to room. She’s in the same chair as she was sitting in when I literally fell into this house the first time. Next to her on the table is a phone that must have been new in the seventies. It must have been white once. Now it’s grimy from decades of dirty hands gripping the handset.

  At first, I think she’s died, but then she slowly turns her head and looks at me, her face as empty as ever. I reach for the phone, clutching it to my chest as I finally allow myself to lie down again, sweating floods, coughing my lungs up.

  Thank you, Lord!

  With trembling fingers I call the number to my most trusted, most capable brother. He’ll know how to sort this.

  “Yeah?” comes Nathan’s voice through the receiver. I might not have heard anything as beautiful in my life.

  “Nate,” I croak.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Chris. I… need help.”

  “Damn man, I didn’t recognize your voice. What’s up? What’ve you gotten yourself into now? Don’t tell me you’re about to throw in the towel again?”

  “I’m... really ill. I need—” A set of violent coughs renders me unable to speak. Finally I manage to gasp the next word, “help.” I curl up in a fetal position. I don’t know if I can get up from here again today. I’ve used up the little energy I had.

  “Where are you?”

  Where am I? For a moment my mind is blank. Then I see images, rather than thinking coherent words. Kerry. Her hideaway.

  “Middlebro.”

  “What? Where the fuck is that?”

  “Canada. South… of Winni… peg.” I’m salivating, fighting the urge to throw up again.”

  Nathan is quiet, I hear him breathe.

  “What’s up with you?”

  “Fell in… water. Almost drowned. Think I got pneumonia,” I whisper.

  “Can you give me a little more detail? I’ll come pick you up asap, but I can’t look through every—”

  “McGonaghan. A house in the woods. McGonaghan, Nate. Please come.”

  “Where can I reach you?”

  I look at the phone. No number. I look at the woman, and give up the thought.

  “I don’t know,” I say faintly, a feeling of helplessness creeping into my chest.

  “Middlebro, McGonaghan. I’ll find you. Gimme a day.”

  “I don’t know if I have a day.”

  “Sure you do. Nothing fucking kills you. Keep breathing, bro. Keep yourself motivated. Gotta go. Got some phone calls to make.”

  “Thank you,” I gasp, then I let the phone slide out of my grip. I feel for it on the floor next to me, trying to put the handset back in its place, but I’m too uncoordinated.

  My head is heavy and deep shudders run through me. I just need to sleep.

  Voices penetrate the fog. Men’s voices. My heart jumps to my throat. They’ve come for me. The cops. Nathan can’t have gotten here yet.

  “Chris?”

  I’m still on the floor, curled up, my mouth dry as sandpaper, my lips cracked.

  “Nate,” I croak.

  The sound from the TV is too loud. Mrs. McGonaghan is nowhere to be seen. It’s dark outside. How long have I been here?

  “Chris! What the fuck?” My brother darts to my side and crouches next to me. I’ve never seen anything so pretty. And he’s got a pretty fucking face as it is.

  “Hi,” I whisper, “took you long enough.”

  “In here,” he shouts.

  Steps, a rustle, voices, more people.

  “Can you stand?”

  I shake my head.

  Nate frowns, then looks up, over my shoulder. “We gotta carry him. You got any belongings here?”

  “No.”

  “You owe me a story, dude.”

  I nod.

  Strong arms grip under my arms and legs, steadying me in a tight grip between three men I’ve never seen before, big, burly. The ceiling comes rushing toward me and I close my eyes as a violent vertigo tilts my world.

  Cold. Winter. Snow.

  I tense up, the nightmare overwhelming me. My hands and feet hurt at the mere memory.

  A car ride. I slip in and out of consciousness.

  A whirring sound that increases until it’s unbearably loud. The sucking feeling in my stomach tells me we’re lifting.

  “A helicopter? You clever bastard.” I gasp.

  “There you are. You had me worried for a while. You went totally offline the whole car ride.”

  I try to smile, then darkness swallows me.

  The whirring decreases. Stops. A door slams, more cold. Wind whips in my face. Tiny flakes of snow, sharp as nails. Lifted. They put me on a gurney and roll me across a roof, through a door, corridors. Nate is by my side the whole time.

  “Where are we?” I croak.

  “Mount Sinai.”

  “Huh?”

  “Hospital, you imbecile.”

  For the first time in a long while, I allow myself to relax. My body is heavy on the thin, hard mattress as a sense of calm washes over me.

  “Thank you.”

  Then everything fades.

  ***

  San Francisco

  Kerry

  It’s a long, long flight. We’ve been in the air for eight hours, and I’ve been on my feet since five this morning. Cecilia is fine. She has slept a lot, oblivious to the changes that are about to take place. Myself, I’m a tight knot of anxiety and pain. Pain for the one I’ve lost, that I never really gave the chance, and anxiety over meeting everyone agai
n, especially Mom.

  I’m exhausted when I pass through customs with my bags on a trolley and Cecilia perched on top of them. She’s delighted to be doing something else than sitting on that boring plane, points at everything and chatters endlessly. I’ve slept, but nothing seems to help against the bone-deep tiredness.

  Walking slowly, I scan the crowd for my mom, my stomach clenched in worry that she won’t be here, that it won’t be all right between us. When I spot her well-known features, I hold my breath until she sees us, her eyes darting between me and Cece. I don’t breathe until a big smile spreads on her face and she begins to wave for us to come to her.

  I fall into her arms, almost choking from the bear hug.

  “Mom.”

  “Kerry!”

  I hold her back at an arm’s length. “Mom, this is Cecilia.”

  My little daughter looks up when she hears her name.

  “Ce, this is your grandma.”

  Grandma doesn’t even hold a meaning for her, but as my mom crouches before Cecilia and starts cooing and making funny faces, I have a strong feeling we will rectify that sooner rather than later.

  Mom stands again, and takes my hand. “How are you? I’ve been so worried. You left that letter for me, so at least I had something to hold on to, but in my darkest moments—”

  “Mom. Please take us home.”

  She nods resolutely and grabs the trolley. “Do you wanna see a new city, Cecilia?”

  Cece looks up at me, her face full of questions.

  “I don’t think she has any concept of ‘city’.”

  Mom gives me a strange look. “Oh. Okay. We’ll have to do something about that.” She turns the trolley and begins to push it through the crowd as determined as when Moses split the Red Sea. “Cecilia, do you like the ocean, then?”

  I clear my throat. “I… don’t think she knows that either.”

  “Oh my God. Where have you been living? In a hole?”

  Right outside the entrance stands a large burgundy SUV I recognize. “Mom, did you park here?”

  She shrugs. “I found it convenient. The parking garage is so far away.”

  I look at the large concrete building situated right across the street. A walk that would have taken her two minutes. “Aren’t you afraid to get fined? Or towed? Jeez.”

  The doors click open. “Isn’t this comfortable, though?” She grins mischievously. “I bought a seat for Cecilia. I hope it’s the right size.”

  I buckle up my daughter in a perfectly sized seat, and help Mom with the second bag, sending me into a coughing fit that feels like it lasts for days.

  Mom lays her hands on my shoulders, her face laced with concern. “You need to have someone look at that. I’ll call my doctor asap.”

  “It has been looked at,” I gasp. “It’s okay.”

  She frowns and shakes her head. “That is not good enough.”

  I climb into the backseat next to Cece. “Let’s just go, please. I wanna go home.”

  Mom jumps in. Her vigor amazing for being close to sixty. “My place or yours?”

  “Do I have anything at my place?”

  “Of course, hon. I stocked your fridge. There are diapers and soap, shampoo, everything. Your bed is made.” She glances at Cecilia who is staring at all the people who rush by. “I think we need to buy a bed for her as well.”

  “You don’t have to do everything. And thank you!”

  “I’ve… I’ve missed you so much. Please allow me. I want you to feel at home. And to never leave again.”

  Tears well up in my eyes as my chest tightens. I don’t ever want to leave again, and I might not have a reason. Salvatore said he won’t come after me, and Christian… Christian is dead. A pang of pain hits my chest. I wipe my eyes and nod.

  “My place,” I croak.

  We’re home.

  My steps echo in the well-known rooms as I close the book and walk up to the giant window. It’s night and I can’t sleep. Too much has happened. I’m standing at almost the same spot as when I camped here those first days after Christian’s attack. The same ache as always clutches my chest and makes me press the heel of my palm to cover my heart. Why does it hurt so much? We barely knew each other, and what I know about him is absolutely horrifying. A life of violence. A killer. How did I ever see something else in him?

  Outside it’s quiet and still. The bridge glitters faithfully, its lights dimmed in the slight fog over the bay, hovering eerily. The moon is full and blood red, huge, hanging right at the horizon, reflecting in the peaceful ocean. The tranquility of the scenery in a way the same I experienced in the cabin, and still so very different.

  I grip my side and fight the urge to cough. If I start it never stops and I know by now that if I subdue the reflex it passes after a while. I know I’m not supposed to, they told me the cough is meant to clear the airways, but I cough until I taste blood, and that just can’t be right.

  Mom ran errands the whole first day, mobilizing every old lady she knows, finding a crib for Cece, cooking for us, staying way too late.

  Christmas has come and gone almost unnoticed. Mom was here for a few hours and doused us with gifts. I should be the one sucking up to her, but she is so happy that we’re back that I just let whatever happens between us run its course. It’s a strange and a bit strained dynamic, but how can it be natural after everything we’ve been through?

  On New Year’s Eve I watched the fireworks light up the sky, standing on my patio with a blanket tightly wrapped around my body. I felt no joy over a new year. I can’t see the future. It’s a black hole, as black as the void in my heart.

  Cecilia is sleeping soundly upstairs, snoring, still having a bit of a cold, but she’s healing quickly. Quicker than me. Sometimes my little girl seems to be made out of steel and reminds me whose daughter she is—too. Myself, I haven’t lain down yet. I drink tea, think, write a little, and just exist.

  Dawn is only an hour away. Yet another sleepless night lies behind me. Yet another warped day awaits, where I’m barely awake, barely believing I’m back here, and at the same time hypersensitized, experiencing everything so clearly as if through a magnifying glass. Every scent, every breeze, the faint sun on my skin, walking the streets of my hometown, my daughter’s breathing, every heartbeat.

  Every memory.

  ‘Cecilia has accepted her new surroundings with a child’s amazing capability to adjust. She keeps talking about ‘Daddy’. I simply tell her he’s gone.

  I’m done with lying.

  At least to her.’

  Tossing the journal on the kitchen counter, I take a sip of coffee and then I smile wickedly at my daughter. “I’m coming to get you! Tickle tickle tickle.” She squeals and runs across the room, climbing up on the couch, me chasing after her. I have a coughing fit and fall into a sweaty, coughing, laughing heap, pulling her to me. When she grows tired of hugging, she slithers out of my grip and picks up paper and crayons and starts drawing circles, squares and dots—whatever it is she’s drawing.

  The dots remind me of whirling leaves in a late autumn storm, and I shudder from the memory. I wonder how much she remembers—how much she will remember. She hasn’t asked where he went, why he’s gone. Maybe she’s too small to follow up on the ‘Daddy’s gone’ statement. And when she’s older she won’t recall any of this.

  Unless I help her.

  I don’t know how to keep his memory alive. The easiest would be to just not talk about him, but that wouldn’t be fair to either of them. How will his heritage affect her? She was conceived in deceit, and her father was a murderer, and not just any murderer. He was a professional assassin.

  It’s a pedagogical nightmare.

  Cecilia comes running and pushes a drawing into my hands, then she runs off to her writing corner again. As I try to think of Christian’s good traits, at least one, I study the multicolored circles on the paper. She trusted him from the first moment. She saw something in him I couldn’t. I’ll tell her about that. About ho
w they found each other despite everything. He did save her life. I cling to the memory. That is something to hold on to and to let her know about.

  Night comes. As always horrifying images haunt me. Fear. Darkness. Violence. Death. My daughter sleeps without a care in the world, my worry grows. I’m postponing something. I owe Christian the truth. I need to tell his family that he’s dead.

  I have to go to Salvatore.

  Chapter 13

  Luciano Salvatore

  Not a lot of things surprise me, but when Ivan knocks on my door and announces that Kerry Jackson is standing outside my gates, requesting to see me, my jaw drops. Miss Kerry fucking Jackson who went completely off grid with her baby, our newest Russo addition, in tow. Christian has looked for her ever since, for more than a year, and come up with nothing.

  “Let’s see what she wants, then.” I nod for him to go get her. “Bring in the young lady.”

  Ivan doesn’t let one single emotion cross his face as he backs out, talking in his radio.

  I stand and walk over to the window. Staring at the robot lawn mower as it zig-zags across the well-trimmed green surface, my thoughts sprawl in all different directions. How long has she been in town? Did Christian know this? Did something happen to the kid? If she’s endangered the child, she’ll be really sorry she came back.

  Christian lies in a bed attached to a ventilator, in a medically induced coma in a hospital in New York. He’ll pull through, but the fucking doctors won’t give us any useful information about his future. We still don’t know what happened to him and how the fuck he ended up in the near-wilderness in rural Canada, but I have lost one of my best men, that much is clear. If I can find out the hows and whys of that, if there’s someone I can make pay for the damages to the closest thing I have to a brother, then I’ll destroy that person with my own bare hands.