Ashes

by Aleatha Romig

  “Let Detroit implode,” I said, reaching for a chair and taking a seat.

  “And what?” Sparrow asked. “What if some asshole gains control who will cause more damage to that city or threaten us again?”

  “Do you think I give a shit about Detroit?” I asked.

  “You should. We all should. We need allies. Yes, we’re strong, but we’re stronger when we can count on allies and they can count on us. Just today, the allegiance you made with the Carlos cartel helped our mission.”

  Fuck.

  He was right.

  “Speaking of that,” Reid said, “I’ve been watching the local San Clemente news outlets.” He replaced the Ivanov bratva aerial view with a breaking news statement.

  * * *

  BREAKING NEWS: PROMINENT COUPLE, HUSBAND AND WIFE, FOUND DEAD. BELIEVED TO BE MURDER-SUICIDE. THE INVESTIGATION IS ONGOING AS TO THE MOTIVATION OF THE INCIDENT. IDENTITIES WITHHELD PENDING NOTIFICATION OF FAMILY.

  * * *

  “Once they find the documents we left in the safe, they’ll draw their own conclusions,” I said. Turning to Sparrow, I went on, “You’re right; I’m not thinking. I’m hell-bent on revenge, but there is a bigger picture at hand. We need to think about the longevity of the Sparrows in Chicago.” I sighed. “So much for being the levelheaded one.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Sparrow said. “I want revenge for Madeline and all the other victims, too. I can’t let that take away from our overall goals for Chicago.”

  “How’s she doing?” Mason asked.

  My shoulders slumped. “I really don’t know. She hasn’t said much about anything that happened, not more than she did on the plane.” I looked up at my friends. “She had a bit of a meltdown when Laurel told her about the institute.”

  “Araneae has counselors who could help,” Mason said. “Laurel said they’re qualified. She even interviewed some of them.”

  I knew that. “Yeah, Jana is even helping.”

  Jana was a survivor like Madeline. She has worked for Sparrow ever since the day we found her along with three other teenage girls, about the age of Ruby. From that first day, Jana showed an admirable amount of resilience. She was also pregnant. Today she’s happily married to a good man who has raised her son as his own. She also works for Araneae at her Chicago fashion office, the endeavor Araneae had before meeting Sparrow—Sinful Threads.

  After Araneae began the institute, Jana asked questions and one day confided in Araneae about her past. She wanted to help. What began as assisting with menial jobs around the institute’s residential center morphed into weekly counseling sessions. Hearing from someone who understands firsthand what the other women have endured—though no two stories are identical—seemed to be beneficial. Even survivors who have moved out of the institute with jobs and housing often return on Saturdays or Sundays when Jana is scheduled to speak. After she does, she listens to others who want to tell their stories.

  “I don’t know what Madeline is ready to do or even say. I don’t want to push her,” I admitted. Thinking of the metaphoric clouds that gather in her green eyes, I added, “I feel fucking helpless. That’s why I need to do what I can, and what I can do is kill every motherfucker who hurt her.”

  “I say we study the journals from Mrs. Millstone. She was dumb as shit to be so detailed,” Mason said.

  “Or smart,” Reid rebutted. “You said,” he continued, directing his comment to Sparrow and me, “that the Millstones were paying the Ortizes $25K a year.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not a lot.”

  I shrugged. “The amount of money to one person is subjective.”

  “No,” he said, “it’s objective. I have located the Ortizes with the information from one of the Millstone journals.”

  I stood, no longer able to sit. “You found them? Are you sure it’s them?”

  “I am not only sure it’s them, I’m certain they aren’t living on $25K blackmail a year.”

  Sparrow’s dark eyes narrowed. “How many of the journals have you read?”

  Reid smiled. “I’m only through half.”

  Shit.

  I looked at Sparrow with a grin. He and I had only gotten through a couple each on the plane. There was no doubt that when it came to obtaining and retaining information, Reid was our resident genius.

  “What are you insinuating about the way they live?” Sparrow asked.

  “They’re living in Naples, Florida.”

  “Because everyone moves from the Midwest to Florida,” Mason said.

  “Naples is an affluent area. Their money comes from investments and recurring deposits from a variety of shell companies.”

  “A variety?” I said. “So the pastor and his wife are blackmailing more than one entity.”

  “Roughly, fifteen different depositors from what I’ve found so far.”

  Sparrow leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Smart on their part. You know who you pay and forget?” His question was rhetorical. “Someone who doesn’t ask for too much.”

  “Can we trace the money?” I asked.

  “I’m working on it,” Reid replied. “From what I read in the journals so far, Dr. Miller received his merchandise from multiple suppliers, even those from out of the city. He had a reputation for a fair price, meaning dealers would bring merchandise from across the country. One shipment from say, St. Louis, may have five or six individuals.”

  My stomach turned with the reality that no longer was this quest abstract. My wife had been acquired merchandise.

  “As we know, runaways were prime for the picking,” Reid added.

  “Fuck, this is snowballing,” I said.

  Sparrow nodded. “Any chance we already shut some of those fuckers down?”

  “Shut them down,” Mason replied, “or moved their asses out of Chicago. I missed most of the cleaning you did after Allister’s demise and McFadden’s incarceration. However, looking at the money trails objectively, I believe some ran scared and others have found new markets.”

  Sparrow stood and ran his hand over his hair. “Right now, we need to concentrate on Detroit and…” He looked my direction. “…get rid of the Ortizes.”

  “Gladly,” I replied.

  “I’ll go with Patrick in the morning,” Mason offered.

  “You need to stay—”

  Mason cut me off with a wide grin. “Oh, come on. I collected a hefty price for this in my day. I’m offering you Kader’s services for free.”

  My eyes widened. “Kader.” It was the name he went by as a mercenary-for-hire in his recent past. “What do you have in mind?”

  “How badly do you want them to suffer?”

  “On a scale from one to ten,” I replied. “Fifty.”

  Madeline

  My slumber came in restless snippets between vivid dreams—or were they nightmares?—such as I hadn’t had in years. It was strange how reality took on another dimension in dreams. The scenery could change in the blink of an eye, or the passing through a doorway could transport the dreamer to another location. And yet as if a pawn on a board of chess, I was not in control. My dreams took me where they wanted.

  I journeyed from the cell-house basement to rooms upstairs. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t avoid the hands or bodies of the men. Paralyzed and repulsed, I was again surrounded by their stench, comprised of stale cigarettes, perspiration, and alcohol. It was on their breath and oozed from their secretions, creating a nauseating concoction.

  And then, such as a trained animal, I stood for inspection and awaited my reward. Brought to me such as one would feed a dog, a sandwich was dropped upon the dirty floor with orders to dress. My mouth dry yet relieved as the peanut butter’s protein and jelly’s sugar revived my livelihood, I followed Miss Warner down the narrow staircase back to the basement.

  The door opened but not to the cell room.

  No longer was I filthy but cleaned, my skin covered with lotions, and the soft scent of the
most expensive perfumes lofted around me. The tattered dress I’d worn for four months was gone. I was adorned to perfection with my stomach no longer hungry.

  The door opened wider. The dim cell filled with starving girls was gone. The numbers were fewer, yet their fate was determined.

  Facing me were the eyes of the women in the room in Andros’s compound.

  In reality, it didn’t make sense.

  Did dreams ever make sense?

  I was no longer the girl upon the concrete floor, but the madam preparing the women for their call to duty. All the while I longed to take their place, not out of some virtuous resolve. I wanted to spare them as no one had spared me. However, in the decision to not take their place, I’d willingly accepted their blood upon my hands. I wasn’t the one to harm them or ultimately kill them, but my role was intricately intertwined.

  Standing in a dense fog, I lifted my hands, mesmerized by the way the thick red liquid dripped from my fingertips, leaving a sticky residue. I searched the vast emptiness, yet there was nothing for me to use to clean the crimson from my skin. Beyond my fingertips, it seeped down my wrists until it dripped from my elbows.

  And then I saw my attire, my white dress.

  Only once in my life had I worn a white dress.

  Though through the years, white dresses appeared in my closets in the bratva, I never wore them, never removing their tags and always moving them to the back of the closet. Along with the consumption of peanut butter and jelly, a white dress was my hard limit. That reality brought a bubble of laughter from my chest as I smeared the blood over the white material.

  “Good for you, Madeline,” I spoke into the fog. “You set your limits high. No white bread smeared with peanut butter and jelly and no white dress. Yet sex on command or standing nude in a crowded room were acceptable behaviors. How about cleaning, dressing, and preparing women for torturous rape?”

  My head shook as rage flickered to life within my veins.

  For years it had been present, a weak, dying ember barely receiving the elements necessary for its survival.

  The fog disappeared.

  I was back in the bathroom at Club Regal as the door opened.

  Like a gust of wind to a dying spark, Patrick was before me, with his broad shoulders, blond hair, and piercing blue eyes. The man I’d married a lifetime ago. With the opening of that restroom door, he’d given me strength to fuel the fire and rekindle and strengthen my fury.

  Anger that had been tempered grew as if I were now the Marvel character, the one who transformed from a mild-mannered man to a hulking green monster,

  My eyes opened as my pulse thumped in my ears.

  Side to side, I turned in the darkened room, registering where I was.

  A hotel room during a tournament.

  No.

  I inhaled Patrick’s scent in the air and upon the sheets, his unique spicy cologne and clean, fresh aroma.

  Sitting up, I fumbled with a lamp upon the bedside stand. A golden illumination filled the bedroom. Yet my dreams were too vivid; I lifted my hands with my fingers wide as I searched for the blood.

  Visibly, they were clean, but I knew the truth. They weren’t.

  The clock on the bedside stand read after one in the morning, yet I was alone.

  When did Patrick leave?

  Where did he go?

  Pulling the blankets away, I peered at my own nakedness with disgust and repulsion. My stomach contorted as I recalled the many men who had touched my skin. I had to rid myself of their touch.

  With hurried steps, I made my way to the attached bathroom. Sliding open the glass doors, I turned on the water, spinning the handle to the hottest setting. To my delight, I didn’t need to wait; steam began to build as the water fell. Without regard for my safety, I stepped under the spray and adjusted the temperature to the hottest I could tolerate.

  My skin reddened as the water continued to fall.

  How many showers would it take to wash it all away?

  I reached for a bottle of bodywash gel.

  Popping the lid open, the clean, fresh scent brought back thoughts of Patrick. With the bottle still in hand, I squirted it upon a cloth. My hands were first and then my arms, scrubbing and scrubbing, I washed harder and harder with no regard for the abrasion to my skin.

  A sob bellowed from my chest as I lowered myself to the tile floor, resting upon my knees as the scent of bodywash filled the glass stall, mixing with the hot spray and steam,

  I’d failed.

  It wasn’t enough.

  It would never be enough.

  The blood would never be gone.

  Lying on my side, I pulled my knees to my chest.

  Perhaps there was hope. Maybe if I lay under the hot spray long enough, it would go away.

  “Madeline, fucking hell, what are you doing?”

  My eyes and face ached as I looked up, watching as Patrick turned off the shower. Fully dressed, he stepped inside the steam-filled stall.

  What was I doing?

  The loss of the spray brought a sudden chill to my skin.

  Wearing a t-shirt and soft sweatpants, he knelt beside me on the shower’s tile floor.

  My head shook. “You’re getting your pants and shoes wet.”

  Patrick reached for my shoulders and pulled me to his chest. “I don’t give a fuck about that.” His strong arms wrapped around me, bringing me closer. “Maddie girl.” He pushed me away to arm’s length. “Jesus, that water was scalding.” His blue eyes searched my skin. “Are you burnt?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Here.” He offered me his hand as he stood and stepped out of the stall. “Let me help you with a towel. How long were you in there?”

  My weak legs wobbled as I stood.

  Gripping his large hand for support, I steadied as cooling droplets trickled from my long hair. No longer warm, the opening of the shower stole the heat. My flesh covered in goose bumps. “I-I don’t know how long.” My teeth began to chatter. “I’m cold.”

  Worry and concern swirled through Patrick’s blue orbs as he reached for a plush large towel and wrapped it around me. “Come with me.”

  I didn’t follow.

  First, I needed to see.

  Prying my hands from the terrycloth cocoon he’d created, I lifted them, splaying my fingers. “I need to wash my hands.”

  Patrick’s head shook. “They’re clean.”

  “No.” Tears stung my eyes.

  Had I been crying in the shower?

  I couldn’t recall.

  A lump formed as I tried to swallow. “No, don’t you see it? I can’t get them clean. And…you…”

  My head fell to his chest as my wet hair dampened his t-shirt.

  In one swift swoop, Patrick lifted me, cradling me against his strong chest, and carried me to the bed where I’d awakened. With the covers already tossed back, he laid me upon the soft sheet, and with the towel still around me, he lifted the blankets, covering me to my chin. It wasn’t enough. My chattering teeth wouldn’t subside, and now my entire body trembled to the point of convulsion beneath the newfound warmth.

  Looking up at the man I loved, I saw his despair, knowing it was me who brought it. More tears came as his expression broke a piece of my already-splintered heart. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” he asked as the mattress dipped and he sat along the edge.

  “I can’t do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “I don’t know how—I don’t remember how,” I corrected, “to be me.”

  Patrick’s lips curled. “There’s no secret formula, Maddie girl. I’ve changed since we were first together. You have too. That’s what people do.” He reached out and teased a rogue strand of damp hair away from my cheek. “I want all of you.” His warm finger caressed my cheek. “Don’t hide anything. I promise I can take it.”

  More tears teetered upon my eyelids and cascaded down my cheeks. “What if I can’t? What if I let it all out and it bre
aks me?”

  “Then I’ll be here to help you pick up the pieces.”

  My lip trembled as I noticed our open bedroom door. “Is Ruby?”

  Patrick stood with a nod and walking across the room, he closed the door. “She is, but she’s asleep. I checked on her before I came in here and heard the shower.”

  Taking a deep breath, I looked up at the ceiling. In the center was a stationary ceiling fan. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “You don’t have to start tonight.”

  I nodded. “If I don’t get it out, I’m afraid of what it will do. It’s building.” I struggled to breathe. “I don’t know why, but it’s all here, all at once like never before.” Closing my eyes forced out more tears. “I can’t get away from it.” My head shook. “Which makes no sense because I am away and so is Ruby.”

  Patrick stroked my hair. “Do you want to let it out?”

  I shrugged beneath the blankets. “If I let it out, I’m afraid of how you’ll see me, how you’ll look at me.” I snuggled under the warm blankets of Patrick’s bed. “I don’t know when I’ve been so terrified.”

  He nodded as he pulled the t-shirt over his head, kicked off his damp shoes, and stepped out of the soft pants. Wearing only his black silk boxer briefs, Patrick started to lift the covers. “On or off?” he asked. The only light was the one on the bedside stand.

  “On.”

  After he settled upon the bed, he lifted my head and shoulders, wrapped his arm around me, and pulled me to his side. “Start wherever you can.”

  My head buzzed with memories, a wasp’s nest of incidents I’d compartmentalized away were now alive. Individual moments in time swarmed, all vying to be released and all ready to inject their stingers.

  I reached out to hold his hand as we had when we were young. Our one-room apartment came back to my mind. I let out a breath. “I had been sick after we moved into the mission and finally realized I might be pregnant,” I began. “One day, Kristine…”

  Patrick