by Vic Tyler
“If the middle Stepanov was there, you know what happened, West,” Kitty lilts. “I told you he likes them young.”
The little maid’s fists and arms quake, and she clasps her hands together in an attempt to calm down. But her body curls into itself instinctively.
His face darkening, West sharply snaps, “Quiet, Katerina.” He neutralizes his voice but doesn’t sound any softer when he speaks again. “If it’s true, how did you escape?”
Rumors, rumors, and more rumors.
If it is all true, daddy Stepanov spends a fortune covering the activities of his pedophilic third son, Andrei. Killing and paying whoever threatens to unveil him, ridding themselves of the proof and the victims.
Which is why we’ve all heard the rumors, but everyone who could prove them has disappeared.
“The youngest,” the little maid murmurs. “Rodion helped me escape.”
Sounds of amusement come from a few of the Twelve, but no one titters uselessly.
“How long were you with the Stepanovs?”
“Two years, three months, eighteen days.”
West’s gaze finally drops to the floor. “And this money.”
There are several thousands of dollars on the ground in front of me.
Not enough to order a hit from Venti, but it’s more than what a child could make in two and a half years. The only way she could make that kind of money…
Goosebumps bristle my skin, rage flooding my veins.
“I earned it” is all she says.
Despicable. I’ll kill every single one of the fuckers that ever touched her.
Silence befalls us, and when West doesn’t respond, the little maid crouches and crawls to him inch–by–inch.
This time, no one moves to stop her.
Her quivering hands clasp onto his shoes, and I can just barely make out her miniscule voice. “If it’s not enough, I’ll do anything you want me to. I’ll work. I’ll earn every penny.”
West’s voice seems to soften with the tiniest bit of pity. “And you want Feliks dead instead of Andrei?”
In a resigned tone, she murmurs, “For what I can pay, I’ve chosen my name.”
The thought is sickening. How she must’ve repeated those names, having to pick and choose her worse evil. Bypassing the scum that violated her so that she can avenge her family.
“Stand up, little Wintrehall. I will grant your request.”
Most of us startle at the words — at his uncharacteristic compassion.
West is fair but shrewd, business over charity.
He turns to Turan. “Put down the Stepanov brood like the dogs they are.”
The tiniest twitch of my eyebrows betrays my shock. Like me, no one else moves, but an uneasy shudder fills the room.
“You’re declaring war on the Stepanovs, West,” Turan protests. “The other mafia families might ally together if they think we’re threatening the balance.”
His black eyes flashing at his right–hand man’s outspoken insolence, West growls, “Are you questioning my order, Turan?”
“Yes,” the massive — and probably drunk — man snaps. Ballsy, stupid, and loyal to the point of being suicidal. “It’s enough that she’s asked for a hit on Feliks, but wiping out all of Stepanov’s sons? For what? Charitable revenge? That’s not our business, West.”
“It’s an action long overdue. The Stepanovs overstep their bounds at every turn. You advised to put them in their place. I’m executing their penance.”
Turan bursts incredulously, “By killing all of them?”
“Rodion,” the little maid starts, her eyes wide. “He’s innocent.”
West’s gaze bores into her, but she doesn’t flinch. “There is no such thing as innocence in this world, little Wintrehall. If the youngest was as faultless as you want to believe, he wouldn’t have let his brother have his way with you.”
She flinches and looks down but doesn’t protest.
West’s eyes find mine, and I stare back squarely at him.
Even though he’s looking at me, he addresses my mentor, “Your protégé will execute the hit.”
Turan grits exasperatedly, “West —”
“Enough,” he booms harshly before addressing me. “Congratulations, boy. You’ve received your first assignment as one of the Twelve.”
I nod, keeping my eyes on West even when the little maid looks at me.
Turning to the tall woman standing behind him, he orders, “Isla, bring Nadia in.”
When the head maid scuffles inside, her eyes widen, darting around at the sight of all of us surrounding her kneeling temp with cash littering the floor.
When West’s dead eyes lock onto the head maid, she flinches. “Is she your ward, Nadia?”
She presses her lips together and stands straight despite her face paling. “I hired her, Cardinal Westlake.”
Without another word, his gaze slides away a second later.
Compassionate, kind, and considerate Nadia.
What a shame. I did like her salted caramel chocolate tarts.
“Get her cleaned up,” West says as he walks back to his seat. “Put her in the east wing, and Isla will check on her later. Send in someone to clean this mess, and let the lieutenants back in.”
And just like that, the festivities pick up from where they left off.
Just like that.
When the rest of the lieutenants stream back into the hall, they’re curious, dying to know what happened, but no one dares to ask.
The Twelve return to the gaiety of the ceremony, seemingly unaffected. But we’re simply waiting to return to our quarters before letting out a single word about what we just witnessed.
Although most of the excitement in the hall dissipates like nothing ever happened, a string of tension underlies the mood.
Why her? We all wonder it. And it’s all I can think about for the rest of the night.
Even Kitty is distracted while I fuck her, and it’s not until the morning that we’re able to fully lose ourselves in carnal pleasure and let the incident escape our minds.
But it’s a brief reprieve because when I’m lying alone in my own bed, it all comes back.
One little girl disturbed the order. Something shifted the scales, and West holds the weights in his hands, scheming.
Not knowing what’s changing — to which side we’re going to be pushed and how heavy the impact will be — puts everyone on edge.
Now, we wait to see our new equilibrium.
chapter six
He visits me every night.
Cardinal Westlake.
I wait for the day that he tells me to peel this silky nightgown off and covers my now clean, honey–and–lilac scented body with his huge one, drowning me in his sweat and cum.
But it’s been one month now, and he hasn’t touched me.
Instead, he sits in the armchair by the fireplace of this massive bedroom I’m being kept in when he visits every single night.
He asks me questions, listens to the things I say, and sometimes just shares in the silence, conversing with me like I’m an adult. Like I’m a person.
What does he want?
He looks like he could play Santa Claus with round, rosy cheeks and a big belly. His smiles are warm, inviting, and jolly.
But I don’t let that deceive me.
Not anymore.
I’ve met lots of men, and it’s the men like Cardinal Westlake that are the worst. They look the nicest, but once their fancy, gentlemanly clothes are off, they hurt me.
They like hurting me.
All of them hurt me — all the men who’ve wanted things from me that other girls my age don’t even know about. Even the women, whether they paid me for their husbands or to punish me for something I didn’t do.
But it’s men like Cardinal Westlake that want to scar me and rip me, to ruin and break me while they violate my body in more ways than I thought possible. Even worse than the men that look as grimy and sleazy as you’d expect, the ones you
take one look at and know they’re not normal.
It’s men like Cardinal Westlake that deceive the eyes and the mind into comfort and delusions that make you think he isn’t capable of destruction.
It’s because of men like him that my body is marred with bruises and cuts, that I’ve experienced innumerable broken bones.
I know what a punctured lung feels like. I know what my throat cracking under a choking hand sounds like. I know what my skin slicing and splitting open feels like.
The scent of blood and men are always in my nose. It’s been over a month since a man has been inside me, but I can still smell it.
Simply getting used and left alone is the greatest joy I know because that means I can sleep without having trouble breathing or aching or contemplating whether death would be more painless than this existence.
So I wait.
I wait for Cardinal Westlake to bare his true colors.
Maybe he’s waiting until I’m a little older. I know I’m too young for some men. They’ve told me they’ll come back in a couple years.
I’m not sure if he’s saving me all for himself. No other men come in here.
The maids who come to this room are all women, and they give me looks, wondering how I went from working in the kitchen to sleeping on satin sheets on a four–poster bed in an opulent bedroom that’s bigger than my parents’ was at home.
I don’t know what I’m doing here. I thought I’d be thrown in a cell or chained in a shed with a bed–bug–infested mattress. Maybe ground up and fed to the Dobermans that bark and growl outside every night.
But I sit here comfortably — clad in nice, clean clothes that I never thought I’d wear again, taking baths and reading, and just waiting for something to happen.
Meanwhile, outside, something exciting will happen.
The Stepanovs will die.
If they haven’t already.
I wish I could watch.
I want to see Feliks’s life leave his eyes. I want to smell Ivan’s fear seep out of his pores. I want to paint the walls with Andrei’s blood. And if Karol is collateral damage, then I’m okay with that.
But I do feel guilty about Rodion. He’s the closest thing I had to a friend these past few years, but that’s not saying much. I don’t remember what a friend is supposed to be like. But I guess he was a friend.
He gave me food and water and sat with me in that dusty basement I was chained in, telling me about the outside world. And then, he smuggled me away into a crate with enough provisions and money for when I got out.
Unfortunately, Rodion’s greatest sin was being born a Stepanov, and if the price for getting rid of the other four is his life, then I’ll pay it.
Maybe something’s wrong with me. Normal kids wouldn’t sacrifice their friends.
But I am not a normal kid. I’m no longer a child.
Children my age run around with smiles on their faces, tugging on their mothers’ hands and jumping on their fathers. They talk about fun or inane things that I remember hearing my older sister talk about, and yet their words are foreign in my head and in my mouth.
I wonder what it would be like to be a child. What it feels like to grow up.
I wouldn’t know. I don’t know. Because I am not alive anymore. I am empty, and it is the best feeling I can ask for.
Once Cardinal Westlake lets me go, I’m ready to let go of this existence.
My body is fragile enough to shatter on the rocks on the coast or to drown in the ocean. It will be easy. I have nothing left to live for.
But Cardinal Westlake hasn’t released me from this velvet and satin prison. And it makes me uneasy.
How much longer will I have to wait? How much more agony will I have to endure until I can finally slip into painless bliss?
Hopefully he gets bored of me soon.
The heavy thuds on the door jolt my attention.
Cardinal Westlake’s knocks are different from everyone else’s. They feel like they hold the weight of the world as they drum against the thick wood.
I run to the door and pull it wide open, looking down at his expensive shoes as his huge suited body enters the room.
His shoes are so shiny I can see my hazy reflection in them. A lot of things about him are shiny. Like the sheen of his silk ties or the gold watch on his wrist or his diamond studded cufflinks. Especially those glittering jewels on his hands, a ring on nearly every finger. Does he take them off when he bathes? Or when he poops?
“Good evening, little Wintrehall.”
Cardinal Westlake doesn’t sound any kinder or softer than the night I met him. He simply speaks facts. The intonations of faked emotions in his voice are obviously measured. I know because I do it too. But he’s much better at it than I am.
“Good evening, Cardinal Westlake.”
We walk to the fireplace in silence as we take our seats, and I close the book I was reading and set it aside on the settee. I don’t bother to check the page number because if I have to leave now, there’s no point in remembering. I won’t finish it anyway.
“I have news for you.”
My face jerks up to look at him, but his expression gives nothing away. His eyes are shiny too — black as coal but cold, only ever burning because of the dancing flames in the fireplace reflecting in them.
“Tomorrow will be your last day here.”
My heart pounds in my chest.
Is tonight the night he claims my payment? Or is he mercifully releasing me?
“You’ll be going to a good home in Santa Monica. To a nice couple who’s eager to adopt you.”
Reality crashes in around me, and I swear I can hear it shatter. “What?
“They’ve been thoroughly vetted, so you needn’t worry. Everything’s been taken care of, and perhaps unbeknownst to you, your father, Mylo Wintrehall, left you a sizeable trust for when you turn eighteen.”
Cardinal Westlake leans back into the plush armchair, his black gaze pinning me in place. “With the controversy surrounding your family’s death, your relatives were unable to claim any of your family’s remaining assets, and you’ll inherit your sister’s share as well. My men are taking care of the formalities. If you choose to live practically, you can easily live on what your father prepared for the rest of your life.”
A home. A family. A living.
He’s giving me life.
And I don’t want it.
“Cardinal Westlake.” The carpet burns my knees as I throw myself at his feet, unable to contain the panic in my voice. “Please don’t make me go.”
His eyebrows twitch, but his face doesn’t betray anything else. “You’ll be able to return to society. With some effort, of course, and reliable therapists have already been secured for your transition back into civilian life.”
“No!” My fists clutch his silky pant legs. “Please, Cardinal Westlake, don’t make me go. I can’t. I can’t live like that.”
“It’s what’s best for you,” he says firmly, standing up. “You don’t belong in this world, and you have an opportunity to live. Take it, child.”
“No,” I sob. “Please don’t decide that for me. Don’t make me do it. I don’t want to. Let me choose my fate.”
“And what is that?” His voice sharpens, booming in the large room. “To die a pitiful death like a mongrel on the streets?”
“If that’s what I want, then let me.”
His face hardens. “Don’t be stupid. Your life has been hard, but it has been too short to make that decision. If you want to take your own life, do it once you’ve returned to the surface world.”
“Cardinal Westlake, please,” I beg. “I can’t return to something I never knew. I can’t pretend to be a daughter to normal parents, a friend to normal kids, a member of normal society. It’d kill me anyway, so let me choose how I die.”
His eyes flash, and his jaw clenches unforgivingly. There’s a fiery anger lurking behind the black orbs rooted to me, but his voice is ice cold. “Your parents would t
hink you a coward.”
I sob from the cold reality. “They’re dead. They think nothing.”
Wrenching himself from my touch, Cardinal Westlake heads towards the door. “You promised me you’d earn the payment for your request. Consider your life your payment. It no longer belongs to you. It is mine to do with what I will, and you will live.”
He leaves me crying in my room, what he demands crueler than anything I imagined.
chapter seven
In the middle of the night, I open the window and peer down to the ground.
It’s far. Even though I’m on the second floor, the distance looks farther than it should be.
But maybe that’s just because I’m scared.
If I fall and break my leg, Cardinal Westlake will fix me and ship me out. I need to survive intact and sprint to my end on my own terms.
I wait until the halls quiet and the staff goes to bed when I strip the sheets and make a rope.
The bed is too far to tie it to, but there’s a curtain hook that looks sturdy enough to support my weight.
I throw the rope over, and it’s almost long enough to touch the lawn. I’ll have to fall a few feet, but I’ll scrape my knees at worst.
My arms shake as I steady my way down.
To freedom.
And as soon as my feet touch the grass, I take off running.
It’s silent all around me except for crickets chirping in the forest behind the manor and my pulse drumming a war cry.
The green is plush and pillowy, quiet under my bare feet as I escape across the lawn. It would’ve been nice to sleep on when I had to spend my nights outside.
Past the line of trees lining the edges of the grounds, I come to a stop only when I face the wrought–iron fence surrounding Cardinal Westlake’s complex.
It’s too high to climb, and I’m not confident that I can pull myself up the smooth bars anyway. But I might be able to squeeze through. It looks like a narrow fit.
Doubt fills me with each passing second.
I’ve gained a little weight since I’ve been sitting around and eating, being fed like a pig out for slaughter, except in my case the worst fate is being given life.
“If you’re done running, go back to your room quietly.”