Disgraced

by Natasha Knight

  Although it didn’t matter, did it? He loved me, but not enough. He’d walked away.

  I set my coffee mug down, tears coming anew. I went into the bedroom, where the scent of us hit me like a tsunami. Like a mad woman, I tore the comforter off, then the sheets. That was when Damon’s wallet rolled onto the floor. I looked at it, remembering. He’d taken it out of his pocket to get a condom. I’d told him no, that I’d wanted to feel him inside me. I’d wanted him to come inside me. Which couldn’t have been more stupid because I wasn’t protected. I was just desperate. Maybe I’d known all along it would be our last time. That he was here to say good-bye. Whatever it was, I’d needed it, needed him like that. Needed to be that close to him.

  I sat on the stripped bed and held it, held it like one held onto hope. Even though I knew I shouldn’t. That nothing would change. It couldn’t. He’d already chosen, and he hadn’t chosen me.

  Setting the wallet down, I lay in the unmade bed and pulled the bare comforter over me. Tomorrow, I’d return the wallet to him. Tomorrow, I’d give back the last piece of him that I still held. Because I didn’t want to keep any part of him. I couldn’t. It hurt too badly.

  When I woke in the morning, I got dressed and was ready to leave when I noticed the large envelope someone had slipped beneath the door. My heart beat fast as I stooped to pick it up, knowing what it was. I opened it to find one large folder and a smaller envelope inside. I took out the smaller one and opened the flap.

  “Shit.”

  A stack of bills greeted me, new, crisp, and green. All hundreds.

  No. Not again. There had to be five thousand dollars in here. I’d told Sergei no. I looked for a note of explanation, but there wasn’t one. Really, didn’t the cash explain itself? I was in the employ of a Russian mobster. A currently jailed Russian mobster.

  Setting that aside, I opened the larger envelope and spread the photos out on the coffee table. There were five eight by ten photographs, four men and one woman. I recognized two of the men, and if I wasn’t sure before, the warnings bells sounding in my head told me this was a bad idea now.

  Of the two I recognized, one was a regular at Club Carmen or had been for a while but had stopped coming altogether. The other, the one that baffled me more, was the photograph of Maxx, Alexi’s trusted bodyguard.

  What the hell was this? Why did Sergei care about either of them? What was he up to?

  The other three varied in age from about thirty to fifty, the woman being the oldest. Two were Russian, one Asian. Their names, ages, and distinguishing marks were written on the back. I wondered if he listed those because he knew the guests typically wore masks.

  I studied the images, trying to memorize the details, and decided I wouldn’t take the money. I’d return it to Stanley.

  But then what?

  What would I do after it was done? Go back to Italy? Live with Sofia and Raphael, be reminded of Damon every time I looked at Raphael because they were as identical as could be, physically at least? No. That door had closed to me. At least for now. I’d need to leave New York, though. Sergei had told me that much.

  Packing up the photos, I went into the bedroom and hid them between the mattress and box spring. There was no telling when Alexi would drop by, and I knew Sergei wouldn’t want him finding those.

  That brought me to Maxx. Did him lying to Alexi have anything to do with the fact that he was in the stack of photos Sergei sent? Alexi must have known Stanley worked for Sergei Markov. Alexi would have wanted to know what the hell I was doing with him if he found out, and I thought Maxx was loyal to Alexi. Was he?

  But I had something else to take care of first. I put on my coat and grabbed my purse, dropping Damon’s wallet inside.

  Rather than taking a cab, I walked the half hour to the church, hoping to collect my courage. The sky was clear, although another storm was coming in. My heart raced as I turned the corner. I’d already decided I would leave it in a pew for him to find rather than knocking on his door. I couldn’t chance seeing him again. I just wasn’t strong enough.

  Once I got to the church, I glanced down the alley that led to his door. It was empty. I went around to the church’s front entrance and pulled the large door open. The familiar scent of incense and candles engulfed me. All that prayer, hope, and despair hung heavy in the air. I walked in. I was alone. Mass would have ended half an hour ago. Would I run into him here? Would he be wearing his cassock? What would he do, what would he think, to see me here? And what would I do if I saw him like that? Even though I didn’t know Damon as part of the church, he was.

  I took a few steps into the softly lit space. Hardly any sunlight penetrated the intricately drawn stained glass of the windows. Sconces along the walls were dimmed but left on for those who would wander in to pray. The church doors remained unlocked during the day.

  I looked up toward the altar. Soft red glowed: the tabernacle lamp. Always burning. Always a beacon—except on Good Friday. The day of Christ’s execution. Why did I remember that?

  A chill ran down my spine. I walked up the center aisle, even the quiet rubber soles of my boots sounding too loud here, in this still, silent place. Maybe it was because I wanted to remain invisible, even from the long dead icons that decorated the walls.

  The crucifix that hung over the altar seemed to grow larger as I neared, and even though Christ’s eyes were closed, I felt those of the others on me. The saints. The martyrs.

  I’d been raised Catholic, but it had never meant much to me. I’d never felt anything one way or another. I didn’t puzzle away at philosophical questions, didn’t wonder if God existed. I didn’t care. Why did I tremble now? Why did my breath come short and strangled? Why did sweat bead across my forehead? What was it I felt? Not the nothing I expected to feel.

  Looking at Jesus hanging on the cross now, there, before me, large as life—larger than my life—felt strange. Wrong.

  I felt wrong.

  Jealous.

  Silence, like a tangible thing, stood still here, surrounding me. I stopped at the top of the aisle, steps from the altar, and just looked up at it.

  At him.

  As though he held some part of Damon, some piece of him I did not. A piece I never would.

  But I also felt a guilty triumph. Because I’d taken something He never could.

  I’d had Damon inside me.

  I’d taken his seed inside me.

  Shouldn’t that make him mine? At least in some small way?

  Couldn’t that be enough?

  A side door opened, and my heart leaped into my throat. I turned just as he stopped, both of us seeing each other at the same instant. Damon stood at the side door, framed by elaborate wood molding, wearing black from head to toe. But not the cassock. At least it wasn’t the cassock.

  He cleared his throat and entered, closing the door behind him. The sound of his shoes on the stone floor reverberated off the walls as he approached me. He, too, like Christ on his cross, grew larger as he neared, made me tilt my head back to see him.

  I don’t think I breathed a single breath as my heart pounded against my chest.

  Damon’s blue eyes searched my face, his gaze moved over my body, over my coat buttoned up tight to my neck. His gaze fell to my hand, and a moment later, his closed around it.

  I looked down to where he held me.

  No.

  Held it. The wallet.

  I’d forgotten.

  He was taking his wallet, that was all. He wasn’t holding me.

  But he didn’t take it. He didn’t move, and he didn’t speak. He just kept my hand wrapped up inside his. When I turned my face back to his and opened my mouth to tell him I’d come to bring it to him, I couldn’t.

  I picked up the faint scent of aftershave beneath the incense filling the space. It was like this small part of him, of Damon, separate of this place, of the church, of Jesus. Of God. Damon as man. Damon, human. Damon, flesh and blood and human.

  Corruptible.

  Corr
upt.

  No.

  I broke our gaze and shook my head.

  That was me. I was the corrupt one.

  What was I doing? What was I thinking? Why had I come here?

  I stepped back and drew my hand free of his. The wallet fell to the floor with a soft thud, sounding much louder to me than it could sound in reality.

  “Lina…”

  This was wrong. What I was doing here, why I’d come, why I’d truly come…what I wanted…wanting him when he was promised to another.

  I glanced at the crucifix again, and I swear I felt the accusation, the condemnation, the wrath coming from the closed eyes of the dead Christ.

  I was a thief. I would steal Damon away.

  I looked at Damon again, his blue eyes steady on me, watching me, filled with something that made them glisten…filled with sadness.

  Or was it confusion?

  Or perhaps guilt?

  Without my consent, my fingers reached up to touch his face, skin soft and warm. Freshly shaved. Not rough like it had been when I’d last seen him.

  His hand wrapped around my wrist, not pulling mine away, but not drawing me to him either. His thumb rubbed against my palm, and I found myself stepping closer, watching the small movement.

  “What are you doing?” he whispered, his voice raw.

  He stopped then, tilting his head to the side as if something had just come to him, some realization.

  “What am I doing?” His throat worked as he swallowed. “Lina—”

  The door opened just then, and Damon stepped away, releasing me. I glanced at the man who stood in the doorway. The other priest. I looked down at my feet.

  The older man cleared his throat.

  I didn’t even look back up. Didn’t look at Damon one last time. Instead, I turned and walked quickly out of the church, something hot growing inside my belly, rising to my chest, something that would fill my throat in another moment, a thing that would shatter me if I didn’t let it out, if I didn’t let it rage.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to no one as I pushed the heavy doors open and stepped out onto the street where the early morning sun had given way to dark clouds. Wind foretold of another storm to come. A gust lifted my hair off my shoulders and had me hugging my arms around myself as I ran away from the church, ran from Damon, from God. My vision blurred as I willed myself to disappear from here, willed the earth to open up and swallow me whole and obliterate my mind, obliterate me, so I wouldn’t have to think, to feel, not anymore. Not about him. Not about Sofia or Alexi or Sergei. Not about what I had to do. Not about the feeling deep inside my gut that told me I was going to lose everything. That I hadn’t come close yet to the loss I was due. Because I still hadn’t paid the price for my sin. For trying to steal Damon away from his God. I still owed, and I’d still be made to pay.

  14

  Damon

  I didn’t care that Father Leonard stood watching me. That he’d seen us. Seen how close we’d stood. Felt the tension in the air that seemed to unravel any peace, anything holy here, that blasphemed against the sacredness of this most sacred place.

  All I could do was watch the space where she’d been, look at the closed doors from which she’d exited. It was like she was a ghost. Like she hadn’t been there at all. That’s how fleeting it had been. An instant. A moment in time.

  “Damon,” Father Leonard’s said in a deep tenor.

  I didn’t turn. I didn’t care. Tightness swelled in my gut, sealed my throat. As I bent to pick up the wallet she’d returned, I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, willing the breaking to stop, to wait at least until I was alone. Until I could break. Until there was no one to bear witness to my disgrace.

  But when Father Leonard’s hand touched my shoulder, I fell to my knees and dropped my head in shame—shame at my weakness—and agony, the loss of her like a weight in my gut, like a rope around my neck.

  He didn’t speak, and neither did I. A few minutes later, he squeezed my shoulder and quietly left. Left me there on the floor, on my knees before the altar. I looked up at it. At the crucified Christ. At the candles burning before him. At the Tabernacle lamp.

  Body and blood of Christ.

  What was it we made of it? What was this thing, this ceremony to celebrate the most holy? What did we seek? Salvation? Absolution? Comfort? Love? Wasn’t that what it was all about?

  Church was where this had all started. Where my doubt began to spread. Four years ago in Pienza. Four years ago when her sister had been with my brother. When Lina had been waiting for Sofia, and when I’d stepped in when Sofia hadn’t come. It was just an outing, me showing her one of my favorite Tuscan villages. After lunch, we’d gone into the church there. A simple but beautiful ancient structure. It had been empty of tourists, which was strange that time of year. Lina had been sixteen. Fucking sixteen. I’d been twenty-four. And it had been innocent.

  We’d sat in the cool, quiet place, the second to last pew from the back. I’d said a prayer. I still remember the moment I realized I’d been saying it aloud. I found her watching me, her face intent, eyes wide.

  “I’ve never seen someone so…lost…in prayer,” she’d said. “You’re truly devoted.”

  “I’m not. I have more doubts than you can imagine.”

  I stared at her, taken aback myself at my admission.

  She gave me a faint smile and slipped her hand beneath mine on the church pew. Not over it, but underneath.

  A strange sensation had bubbled in my gut, something brand-new. Something filling with…hope.

  Lina watched me. At sixteen, she was a woman—but not. Not really. Not for me. And yet, for all the faith in the world, I couldn’t pull away, couldn’t drag my gaze away. In fact, I shifted my hand a little so my fingers wound around hers, feeling her soft, warm flesh, her small fingers touching my own. There was something in that touch, in that gaze, that shouldn’t have been there. That I shouldn’t have allowed.

  To this day, I don’t know why I did that. To this day, I never confessed it. Not to a single soul. But I repented. Because it ruined her. Because then, like now, she was vulnerable and young, and I was now, like then, selfish. I didn’t even have the excuse of youth. Celibacy perhaps. A lack of that sort of…entertainment. Whatever it was, I’d known then it was wrong, and I knew now it was wrong. But the reasons were different.

  Then, it was wrong because I was committed to the church, to Christ. To God.

  Now, it was wrong because I was of two minds. And I dragged her along without any thought of her. Of how she would hurt. Of how I’d hurt her. Damage her. Ruin her. This time, permanently.

  15

  Lina

  The night of the party, I had an early shift at the club. Once it was over, I’d head upstairs to the penthouse to change, wondering what ridiculous outfit he’d have me in this time. If I’d be painted gold again. I hated that paint. It made me feel like I couldn’t breathe. But if things went as planned, tonight would be it. I’d be done.

  Except that when I got upstairs, Maxx was waiting for me just off the elevator.

  “Kat,” he said, gesturing down the hallway with a cocking of his head.

  “I’m supposed to be serving. I think this is the changing room,” I said, pointing to the door straight ahead, which opened as I finished my sentence, and two girls stepped into the hallway. This time, they were painted silver instead of gold, and instead of the thong we were allowed the other time, they each wore a fine silver chain that hung from their hips and hooked onto a ring each girl had pierced on her lower lips.

  I admit, I stared, shocked, until Maxx cleared his throat.

  “This way. Mr. Markov is waiting for you.”

  I allowed myself to be led toward a door I’d never entered before. He opened it and stood aside. As far as the eye could see, everything was either red or gold—carpets, curtains, the upholstery on the furnishings. It all reeked of too much money and too little taste.

  He led me through the main room to ano
ther one, where Alexi sat behind a desk, reading something on a laptop. When we walked in, he closed the lid of the laptop and looked up at me. Maxx stood back at the door, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Kat.” Not quite a greeting. “Sit.”

  I obeyed. Like a dog.

  “You look…tired.”

  “I’m fine. Just anxious about the party.”

  “Hmm.” He stood and walked around the desk to lean against it. He folded his arms across his chest and cocked his head to the side. “Anxious, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  He shifted his gaze to the ceiling, then back to me. Every movement seemed calculated, purposeful. It made me nervous.

  “Trust is a difficult thing to earn, hmm?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “It’s important to trust one’s employees, isn’t it? For example, Maxx. I trust him. He and I go way back, isn’t that right, Maxx?”

  Silence as Maxx stood at the door, unresponsive and looking at something just beyond me. I guess he knew he wasn’t meant to respond.

  “When they put my father behind bars, I had to challenge each of his employees. I had to start from scratch. I let many go. But I still made mistakes.”

  I shifted in my seat, imagining what he meant by letting many go.

  “You know my father and I, we don’t see eye to eye. Never really have.”

  “I’m not sure what this has to do with me, Alexi.”

  He stretched his arms out and studied his fingernails. “Your relationship with my father was a close one, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at?”

  “I know you don’t like to let on that he fucked you, and I understand that. People would lose respect.”

  “I didn’t. He didn’t.”

  “I mean, I ignore the rumors. I understand what jealousy can be like, especially for such an attractive young woman.”

  “Get to the point, Alexi.”