by Holly Hart
Call it a wild ride… Or call it what it was – depraved.
What scared me was that I never intended to reveal the darker side of myself to Cara. I thought I could hold it together, resist her, but she drew me in like a moth to a flame. She had a hold on me that broke through my mental walls – those I'd built up for strength – with the same ease as a bulldozer matched up against a dollhouse.
I rose, naked, moving with a killer's lean silence. I travelled with an economy of movement, barely rustling the sheets as I pulled back the covers. Cara sighed heavily as I plucked myself off the mattress, as though her subconscious recognized my departure, but she didn't wake.
I glided to the center of the hotel suite and sat, cross-legged on the thick cream carpet. My mind was ablaze with thought and worry, a cacophony of sound, fear, and emotion. It wasn't me. It was weak, and I hated weakness. I needed it gone.
I closed my eyes, arching my back so my chest thrust out. I knew without looking that if someone was sketching me, they would have been able to draw a straight line down through the crown of my head, down through my spine, through my hips, and down into the floor. The posture was natural, now; my flesh molded to fit it through the practice of long hours, which often turned into whole days without food, or drink; my only sustenance a meditative trance.
I never had a teacher. I didn't join a group of suburban Urbana mommas in their weekly yoga session. I didn't lie down on my mat at the end of class, close my eyes with the rest and relax for five minutes. I never told anyone what I was doing; never called myself enlightened to anyone who asked, let alone to those who didn't.
No, my practice was forged in a far harder school. It kept me sane, when the slow, steady hacksaw of solitary confinement threatened to pry open my head and flay the brain inside.
I made my own rules, built my own structures. I slowed my breathing: one, one thousand; two, two thousand; three, three thousand. I closed my eyes, inhaled long and slow through my nose, and out through my mouth. I clenched my toes, and then relaxed them. I squeezed the soles of my feet tight, and then relaxed.
I compressed my calf muscles, then my thighs, then my buttocks, and relaxed. The tension trickled out of me, slowly at first, like water, seeping down the smooth surface, through the first few fissures of a dam. My awareness of my body’s tension began to stream into the floor; my muscles continued to soften; and all conscious thought to dissolve. The trickle gathered strength and my conscious mind's walls were ruptured by the surge building behind them.
All of my stress, worries, self-recriminations and temptations began to flow down and out –
I was at peace.
My heart beat evermore slowly – regularly, but infrequently; forty beats a minute, then twenty, then ten.
Some say that Tibetan monks can hibernate through the power of the mind, make the body temperature drop by a dozen degrees. In this state, the men dressed all in red can pass for the dead, their chests still, their eyes blank, and their skin cold.
The mind is powerful; mine more than most. Worries floated to the surface, centered in my mind’s eye, and soared as their darkness burned away. My desires built the bones for a bonfire, stacked upon each other – a stolen glance, a hungered stare.
My soul threw the match.
They flared as one, to a blackened, charred nothingness.
I don't know how long I remained in that calm, healing silence before a sound drifted into the restructured chamber of my mind; nor did I know how long I had ignored it; a familiar noise, from a familiar voice. It bounced off my mind's hard marble walls, and it was gone. "Val?"
"Val, are you there?" It came again, and some remnant of the last attempt must have lingered, for the walls began to fall, and the deep, dark blackness fade. The voice became a rope, and I saw my hands on it, pulling me back to the sentient world. I heard a woman's voice. I knew that voice.
"Valentino!"
My eyes opened. They met Cara's green gaze, and I saw a strange cauldron of confusion, worry and unease hanging in them. I looked down. My cock hung loose between naked thighs, and my chest was still, not rising, nor falling. I barely needed air in that state, but I did now. I breathed in so that I could talk.
"What is it?"
"Your," Cara stammered. "your cell phone; it rang. I've been calling your name for, like, two minutes now. What were you doing?"
"Meditating."
"Oh."
Awkwardness hung in the air between us, that strange twilight zone that follows a couple's first fuck: our second first fuck. I felt it, but it didn't register. My mind was clean, clear – a blank slate.
The darkness that had overwhelmed me the night before was gone. My control was back. I got noiselessly to my feet, and Cara's eyes followed the cock dangling between my legs until she felt my gaze dancing across her face. She ducked away, red-handed, red-faced.
I didn't care. In this state I could have walked from the Brooklyn Bridge to Midtown naked as a baby and not noticed so much as a sideways glance. I grabbed my cell phone from the pocket of my suit pants, discarded with such speed the night before, and re-dialed the missed call. Dimitri. It barely rang once before he picked up, in a hurry.
"Boss, I'm outside."
I looked longingly down at Cara's naked skin – at the bruises I'd left there like an elaborate cave drawing – marking her out as mine. She stared back, chin high and proud, not cowed as a lesser woman might have been. I raised an eyebrow as I realized there wasn't a trace of embarrassment left on her face.
I felt my cock stiffen. The way I saw it, my newfound strength didn't mean I couldn't screw her, it just meant that the darkness inside me couldn't rear its ugly head.
"Dimitri, this better be goddamn life or death."
The stout man's strangled voice sounded even higher through the cell phone's tinny speaker. "Believe me, boss, you want to see this. And, boss –?"
"What is it, Dimitri?" I growled, though long tendrils of fear started growing in my gut, weaving together, squeezing it tight.
"Close the curtains."
I met my lieutenant in the concierge's office. The man hadn't liked it, but any protest died unborn when he saw the grimace on my lips or the gun at Dimitri's hip. I clapped him firmly on the shoulder and tucked a hundred dollar bill in his top pocket. He left in a hurry, not even bothering with a word of thanks.
I liked him more. I couldn't abide men who wasted my time and theirs with idle talk. Though I'd often found flecks of gold nestled amongst the chaff such men spewed from busy tongues – people often say a lot, when you listen – I remained focused on Dimitri and his news.
"Curtains, Dimitri?" I paused to let him squirm, and raised an eyebrow when he didn't. "What the hell."
The short man clutched a brown manila envelope tight to his chest. It was the kind sealed with a short length of green twine. He thrust it out, and I noticed that his hand rested on his hip, fingers drumming against the leather holster. “Curious,” I noted.
"You opened it?"
"It was couriered to my house. Hand delivered to me, no name." The Russian gangster delivered the facts in an accurate, staccato tone of voice, but I thought I detected a hint of reproach in his studied calm.
I prided myself on my ability to pick up on my men's deepest desires. When you're a surfer, riding a wave made up of men with guns, necks broader than sewage pipes, and with an accepted history of regular betrayal, it pays to make sure your soldiers are happy.
It was especially important in my case. Not only was I young and, in their eyes, inexperienced, but I'd seized control. I'd earned the leadership by spilling blood, not blood ties; I didn't kid myself that everyone was happy about it. The surprise would be if there weren't snakes in the grass, men waiting to pounce on my slightest mistake. I couldn't give them the chance. I couldn't slip.
I considered my next move carefully. Dimitri could either be my most loyal ally, or my greatest threat. He was popular amongst the men. No way could I simply execute him with
out all my support draining away like water through clasped hands. If I wanted to exact revenge on my father, I needed him onside. My fingers were itching for the touch of the manila folder, but I resisted that siren call.
"Your kids were there?"
Dimitri's eyes widened as he appreciated my restraint. He nodded. "They were. I didn't know you knew."
"Two, right? Elsa, and…?"
"Abel," Dimitri finished with a gratified smile. I'd known his son's name – of course I'd known. I’d learned a long time ago that absolute knowledge is the second most powerful weapon in a leader's arsenal. The first is the ability to let your followers think they have a stake in your future, in your conversations and in your decisions – even better if it's real.
The bratva, the Russian mafia, is no different from any other family. If there's trust, then there's love, and you'll die for one another. But if that trust is broken, then it's worse than any knife in the back…
"Abel," I repeated with a smile. "That’s a good strong name." I closed the yard or so of distance between us and stretched out my arm. Dimitri reached out with the manila envelope, his face falling as he realized – or thought, that the moment was over.
I shook my head. "No, give me your hand."
Dimitri stretched it out, a mystified look on his face, brow furrowed. I grasped his wrist, held it tight and pulled the man towards me, into an embrace. "Your family is my family, Dimitri. Understand that."
"Boss, you don't –"
"When it's just us, my friend, use my name. They used your family, threatened them, and they'll pay for that."
"Arkady is old-fashioned, bo–." Dimitri pulled himself up before he said it. "Old-fashioned. He wouldn't move to hurt a family member. He knows too well what that would mean."
"Otverzhny," I hissed, the word leaping into my mouth from whatever far-off crevice of the brain my rusty Russian had taken up residence.
Dimitri nodded, a look as black as thunder rolling like storm clouds across his face. "Outcast."
I released Dimitri from our embrace. "Be that as it may, my friend, my father will bleed. Arkady Antonov wasn't long for this world before he did this foul thing. For now, I give my apologies."
My lieutenant thrust the manila envelope toward me. "Taken, but not needed. But, boss," he said, emphasizing the word for effect. "You really need to see this."
The second I pulled the single sheet of paper – glossy, a photograph – from its sheath, I understood Dimitri's warning. "Curtains," I muttered, my stomach clenching again into knots. My blood ran cold as I considered what it meant. It was a warning, plain as day, and had one simple meaning: stay away.
The photograph was black and white, eight inches across, and five down. It was taken with a high definition camera, through a long lens, but from a nearby rooftop. All the implications –
all the possibilities – were terrifying.
It showed Cara on her knees, facing away from me. It showed my hands wrapped in her hair, my biceps bulging as I tugged back hard, and an expression somewhere between pain and ecstasy written on her face.
It showed me naked, cock out, ready to mount my lover. But none of that was what worried me. If I went to a PR agency to get a photo like this off the Internet, they'd call it "reputational damage", charge me a fat retainer, and probably fail. A much simpler would be to send a couple of my guys with a message…
No, what shook me to my core was what was daubed onto the photo – a red cross in a red circle – a sniper's crosshairs written in blood. And Cara's face in his sights.
Terror threatened to overtake me, a choking, rising tide of fear that grasped at my esophagus and tore at every inch of my thoat. Whatever happened, I had to keep her safe. She was my responsibility now. I dragged her into this mess by failing to stay in control, and now she was a target – one my father would never be able to resist.
Stay calm.
I expelled every last milliliter of air from my lungs, until my body screamed for oxygen. It was the quickest way I knew to get myself back into my trance state, to clear my mind so that my decisions weren't guided by anger, or fear.
That was what my father, Arkady Antonov, wanted. Following the path he wanted was the quickest way to end up with a bullet in my head. My lungs screamed. My mind cleared.
"He knows."
Dimitri tipped his head forward once. "He does. I guess he knew the second we went for his men…"
His implication was clear. What he didn't say was as important as what he did – and failed. He wasn't blaming me, and was, all at once. The truth was, I'd put my own hand up and accepted every ounce of blame going around. Cara's appearance had thrown me for six.
Gunshot be damned, if it had been anyone else, I had no doubt that my father's men would be lying in shallow graves by now, or else cold and hard in a city morgue fridge. But now it was Cara's life on the line, her body that might end up chilled and rigid, and I needed a plan.
My brain worked at a thousand miles per hour, thoughts traveling down pathways clear of all emotion, stress and fear. It was my gift. It was my curse.
And then I had it – the way I'd keep Cara safe. I’d found the kernel of an idea, at least – a spark, a seed, but one that needed a fertile soil in which to grow. "Dimitri, say what you said about my father again."
"Arkady? He's old school. A hard bastard and the shit he does to women?" He shook his head. "He’s disgusting."
An icy chill sped through my veins. "No. What you said about family."
"Boss, you don't need to worry about my family. I told you, he won't hurt them."
And there it was: the way I could save Cara's life.
The only problem: I had to marry her.
7
Cara
I came crashing back to earth at a million miles an hour, hitting with the kind of impact that makes a crater a mile wide. Val had ripped my life apart with the same easy power as the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs – in the blink of an eye so fantastically imposing he blocks out the sun, the next he’s nowhere to be found.
I'd be lying if I said I had my life together before he turned back up, but now, everything had changed. I was sore in body, exhaustedly tired, totally used – and completely satisfied. My mind was everything but the last.
I watched as my hand trembled before reaching out to lift up the frayed length of old rope that held the gate closed at Angie's small cottage. I shut my eyes tight, blinking back a hot, angry tear.
An hour ago, I'd finished up a hundred dollar breakfast: juice made from oranges flown in from Spain; freshly-baked toast; and slices of richly-cured bacon almost as thick as my thumb. But I'd eaten alone, cheated of his attention. I'd tried to savor the meal anyway, but without him by my side it tasted like ash.
Now, I was home.
Well, someone's home, anyway, because it wasn't really mine. Lexie's little one-story cottage was more of a home for me than any I'd ever had. I'd babysat here, so she and her husband could have an evening's fun. Maisie and Poppy sometimes seemed as much my kids as hers. I'd wept here, after Val left, and laughed in front of silly movies, too. I'd slept here; bathed here; cooked, cleaned and played here.
But it wasn't home. It was a refuge.
Every time I came here, that's how I saw it; because, more often than not, I was here to seek solace in Lexie's healing embrace. Or else I'd fled here with Kitty by my side to escape another one of my father's drunken rages. Outside, I had to hold it together, for my daughter's sake.
But inside ...
… inside I was broken, spent, chewed up and spit out by the constant battle to hide from the barrel of Russell's unruly temper; by the endless exhaustion of having to stay one step ahead; by the continuous stress of having to cater to his ever-changing demands; and when that failed – as it always did – by throwing myself into the line of fire to protect my daughter. In the end, I was the one who bore the brunt of his rage. As it should be; I was the mother.
But mothers aren't invincible
. We're people, too. We cry when we're hurt; we bleed when we're cut. We just have to hold it together more than the rest, because the world doesn’t let us take the easy route.
So, when I saw Lexie's small cottage, I didn't see the happiness inside. I saw the broken gate, and the flaking paint. I saw the weeds growing either side of the concrete sidewalk that led to the porch, and the broken window pane to the left of the front door, patched up with cardboard and duct tape.
I saw it ever more clearly now. Now that I'd tasted the riches that the world had to offer, I only saw what was damaged and I hated myself for it.
"You asshole," I muttered under my breath, squeezing the fraying rope in my hand so tight the torn fibers rubbed like sandpaper against my skin. I pulled against it, tearing the fibers against my fragile skin, drinking in the pain as I lost myself, Val’s intoxicating face seared behind my eyelids.
"You did it again. You found me, made me hope again, made me feel again, and then you left me, again."
Resentment flared inside me like a brush fire. Hot, at first, but contained; just a spark flying from a crackling campfire. Then it caught, and the dry brushwood of grudges held for years, nurtured it to a roaring flame that couldn't be held back. My voice, choked by fierce hatred, escaped in an angered hiss.
"You left me to this, with your daughter, because I see you in her eyes every day. You left me and your child and went to live your life." I closed my eyes, careless of anyone around me who might hear the words spilling from my mouth. I blinked, but couldn’t shift Val’s gorgeous, stubbled face from my mind – harder now that he'd grown to a man: stronger.
My anger boiled over, and the kaleidoscope turned, shattering the picture into a thousand tiny fragments.
"And worse," I croaked, anger turning to sadness, turning to loss in an instant. "You lied to me. You said you never touched a woman but me. But how can that be true? With the life you live, a dozen girls must throw themselves at you every day. You could screw a dozen girls in a dozen cities and still be back on your jet in time for dinner…"