by Holly Hart
or with another man.
A man that was stable. A bread and butter man that owned property: a house with a white picket fence. A man that gave her safety instead of thrusting her knee-deep into a mafia blood feud. It broke my heart and made my stomach turn even thinking about it, but it was true.
My mind was made up.
You save Cara, or you die trying. And the second she's free you tell her to go make a life for herself: a life with a man who doesn't harbor a weird revenge fantasy; a man who's prepared to sacrifice for her – not make her the ultimate sacrifice.
Kitty's face looking up at me was what did it. I knew she liked me, but she still called me Uncle Val. I was the fun relative – not the mom who'd been there all her life. She cried herself to sleep last night, wailing for her mama. It was the first time I'd ever seen so much as a tear pass those lids. She's a strong kid.
But hell, she's two. She doesn't deserve this.
I looked down at the blank sheet of paper on the granite kitchen unit in front of me. It was the hardest goddamn thing that I'd ever had to write. It was a poem, a letter goodbye and my suicide note all wrapped up into one. I never was good with feelings. These last couple of weeks with Cara taught me more about how to live and how to love than the whole goddamn twenty-one years that came before.
If I'd had longer by her side, then maybe we wouldn't be in this situation. She'd be safe, and we'd be far away from this crooked town.
"Why did you care so much about some old man," I whispered to the silent kitchen. "When you could have had it all?"
I dropped the pen nib to paper.
It hovered there, and quivered.
And my mind went as blank as the note in front of me.
The front door chimed, and a burst of adrenaline dropped into my system. My fingers jumped to the blade that now lived on my hip, and the Japanese steel was in my hands in seconds. I couldn't use guns, not with Kitty here. I wouldn't risk her, not the way I did her mom.
I moved in a low crouch to the door, keeping my back pressed against the walls. I wouldn't put it past Arkady to mount a full on assault. He had enough men, and mine were slinking away by the second. They were like rats. They could smell a sinking ship. Most only flocked to me when I was the new young thing, the man who would be King.
And now you're nothing, I thought, broken.
My hand tapped the touchpad next to the front door, and Dimitri's face appeared. My shoulders sagged and released tension I didn't even know they were holding. I buzzed my lieutenant in.
"I didn't know if you'd come,"
Dimitri shrugged. "You asked. Boss, if you don't mind me saying..?"
Am I still the boss? After all this?
"Saying what?"
"You look like shit."
"I feel like shit."
"And you're dressed for war."
I looked down, and slid my knife back into its sheath. Dimitri was right. I was dressed all in black, with a gun holstered on one hip, and the blade on the other. "That's why you're here; at least, if you'll help."
Dimitri trained a long, steady look on me. I understood exactly what it meant. It was a transition of power. He wasn't my lieutenant, not anymore. I wasn't the boss. My power base was crumbling around me, my men deserting me, and he was no different. Except he was here, and they weren't.
"It depends," he said, after a long pause, "on what you're asking for. I can't fight by your side. I have a wife. She's not well…" He spread his hands. His eyes told a longer story – that he thought my course of action was futile. Most of me agreed with him. "I'm sorry, but –"
I shook my head. "I understand. You stuck around longer than most, Dimitri." I cocked my head to one side. "Why?"
His eyes filled with remembered hurt. I winced, thinking I'd somehow offended the one man left on my side. "I'm sorry…"
"Don't be, it's not you. It's –," he paused grimacing, as if the words wouldn't form in his head. "It's that I've got more reason to hate Arkady Antonov than most."
I stayed silent, knowing that my quiet would prompt more out of the man than anything I could say.
"You know why you got locked in that cell, boy?" He asked. I noted that he was no longer calling me boss. I shook my head. It was a question I'd asked myself a thousand times as the seconds ticked by into hours into weeks into years. I'd learned to stop asking, tried to stop caring, known that continuing was just picking at an open sore.
"I know that I was sent as ransom," I murmured. "To make sure a deal went through; a shipment of coke, maybe; or guns, I don't know. I was supposed to be back in a week." A rush of memories assailed me – the feeling of hopelessness, of being trapped in that concrete box.
What Cara's feeling right now.
"And why you were left there?" Dimitri asked sharply. "Why your own father abandoned you to die in that box?"
I shook my head. Whatever the reason, it seemed that Dimitri was as deeply affected as I.
"There was a scuffle;" he explained, "a skirmish; a stupid little thing between men who should have known better. Blood got spilled, and then more. It threatened to break out into all-out war between the old boss's group and Arkady's. And then…"
He paused, and I realized that I was standing on tip toes, craning my neck. I was desperate to know what could make a man like Dimitri, who'd always seemed as solid as a log, react this intensely.
Dimitri cleared his throat. "And then it happened. I was driving back from church with my wife next to me and my little girl in the back. Sarah." He picked up the pace of his words, as though rushing through them would make the hurt go away. "And Arkady's thugs put fifty bullets through the car. They didn't know she was in it, of course. But she bled out before I even made it down the block. She was three; only just a little older than yours."
"Dimitri," I breathed, closing my eyes and picturing what I'd do in his place. Picturing Kitty in my arms, her hair matted with blood. I'd never held my own daughter as a newborn, never known that joy. To have felt it, and then have it snatched away…
"So you understand," Dimitri said, his voice hard, "why I'm willing to help you."
I nodded. "I do. Your wife?"
"She doesn't walk so well, not anymore. She needs better doctors. But she lives, at least. Thank God. Thank you."
I clenched my fingers until they shone white. "Why didn't Sergei kill me? Hell – why didn't you?"
Dimitri closed his eyes and sighed. His nostrils flared as the air sped out. "I thought about it. Believe me, I thought about it. I guess the boss liked having you alive better. He liked to be able to have you beaten whenever he was having a bad day. It made him feel strong."
"And you?"
The silence lingered between us.
Dimitri opened his eyes and shrugged. I noticed they were wet with sprouting tears, but it wasn't my place to comment. "He asked if I wanted to stick a boot in, of course he did. And I thought about it. Sometimes I couldn't sleep and I'd get in my truck and drive all the way down to that warehouse we kept you in –"
"But something stopped you," I said in a whisper.
"I just kept thinking," he murmured so softly I had to prick my ears to listen. "That if your own father hated you that much, then it wasn't my place."
I smiled. "I'm glad you didn't."
Dimitri's face was streaked with silent tears. He nodded, and the spell between us broke. "So what would you have me do?"
"Come."
I didn't stop until I got to the kitchen island. "I need you to take this," I said, handing him an unmarked envelope.
"What's in it?"
"A cashier’s check and an email address. A couple of million dollars – enough to get you and your wife as far away from this city as you want; as far away as you can get. It's enough to get your wife whatever treatment she needs. But I need you to take Kitty with you." My voice broke, and I gripped the granite surface for strength.
Dimitri grasped my shoulder. He didn't offer any words, but the gesture spoke more th
an he knew. "And the email address?"
"Keep checking it. Every day. You should only receive one message. Either it'll be from me, or…"
I paused to steady myself.
"Or the trustee of Kitty's inheritance."
Kitty,
I wish I got the chance to get to know you. I hope you don't hate me, but I understand if you do. In your shoes, I'd hate me too. If you're reading this, then you're old enough to know what happened; to know that I failed you, and your mom; to know that she trusted me with everything, and I couldn't keep her safe.
I left you before I knew you. The second I learned how much I loved you, I left again. Believe me, giving you up to be raised by another man and wife – it was the hardest decision I've ever had to make. Letting Dimitri and his wife raise you when I never got the chance myself…
But if you're reading this, then I never deserved that chance. I never earned that right.
Dimitri's a good man. I trust him. He had a daughter once, a little girl called Sarah. Sarah never got to grow up. She never got to live the life she should have. Dimitri will treat you like his own daughter.
You don't know me, and you never will. Maybe you've already torn this letter up into a thousand pieces, and the shreds already line the floor. Maybe you didn't get this far. But if you did, if you have any regard left for me, then read these words.
Never trust without checking.
Stay true to yourself. Lead, don't follow.
Cherish love when you find it, don't let it slip away.
And stay the hell away from danger.
I love you.
Your father,
Valentino –.
22
Cara
The longer I rotted away in this basement, the more I came to terms with my coming death.
I realized that I wasn't afraid to die.
But I couldn't help but fear what would come before it.
Anatoly's threat – or his promise as I imagined he'd call it – echoed in my ears. When I tried to sleep, I remembered his hot, starved touch on my skin. I remembered the looks of bitter desperation he cast in my direction. I dreamt of the way he would use me, break me, and abuse me. I would wake to the sound of my own fevered screams.
The lack of light sharpened all of my other sense, and sent my imagination running wild. It whetted my terror.
Put yourself in my shoes. Imagine blind folding yourself and turning off the lights. Now just stay there for a few seconds, a minute, or an hour. I doubt you could, but let's say you did. Soon, the only way you'd be able to tell the time would be by counting your heart beating, or your breath or the condensation dripping off the wall.
But how often do you breathe?
Does your heart slow after doing nothing for hour after hour?
Or is it minute after minute?
You don't know. You feel you never will. And by now the darkness is everywhere, it's everything. It's all you've ever known and all you ever will. Your ears become as powerful as a blind woman's. Your nose as well adapted as a dog's –
and your sense of touch –
Let's just say that Kitty's right to be afraid of the dark. If you've ever lain in bed at night, and imagined a bug crawling across your skin, then think this: I lived that fear. I heard rats scurry across the basement floor. My ears strained to pick out the sound of their tiny claws tapping on the surface of my one-time dinner tray. They learned to distinguish between different rodents. The fast runners, I guessed, were the men; the light ones – who barely rustled against the floor – kids.
And the plodders, I guessed, were the pregnant women. Baby factories, waiting to add more mouths to my terror.
Hell, maybe that was all a load of crap; just the crazed ramblings of a mind losing its grip on reality. But I knew this.
I learned to kick when they came too close.
I learned not to sleep, to stop them chewing my toes.
But even worse than the dark, I learned to fear the light.
Because the light meant that Anatoly was coming. The rats would scurry, but the biggest one of all would descend into my territory. It meant I had to bear the smell of his decomposing mouth. It reminded me of what would happen to my body once this long, terrifying purgatory came to an end. It was a vision of my future and I detested it.
The key turned in the lock.
It turned slowly. He turned the key slower every time. It was like he was taunting me. I heard each individual click as the tumblers fell inside the keyhole. I flinched as the deadbolt thundered open. I listened as the hinges squealed their protest. I waited and I pressed myself up against the wall, seeking its non-existent protection and repeating a mantra in my head.
Survive, or die.
But don't let him have you.
Survive, or die.
"Is that you, baby?" I called, hating every word that escaped my mouth. I imagined what Val would think if he could hear me. I hoped he'd understand. No, I knew he would.
"Have you come to keep me company again?"
Boots thudded down the basement stairs. I cringed and waited for the click of the light switch to echo through the tiny cell. Last time it hadn't come. Last time, Anatoly approached me in the darkness: hidden by it; cloaked by it. Last time, he did things to me that I'd never forgive; Things that I couldn't forget.
But, thank God, it was still not the greatest indignity. At least he'd spared me that; so far. Survive, or die.
"Baby?"
The single, harsh light bulb in the center of the room flickered on. My short, stocky captor threw a short, stocky shadow. A stocky shadow holding a fresh meal tray and a glass half full of water. But the light was on. I could relax, at least a little.
"I told you," he growled, a manic look writhing on his face. "Not to do anything to cause suspicion: for me; of us. You think calling me baby like that doesn't count? What if it was someone else coming down those stairs? What if I wasn't there?"
He's scared. He's my monster, but he's got someone he's scared of when the lights go out, too. I shuddered. I didn't want to think like that. I didn't want to see the humanity in Anatoly, because it made him even more terrifying. It made me realize that anyone could turn out like him.
"You'd protect me though, wouldn't you baby?" Dreams of Anatoly attacking Arkady burst into life in my mind. I imagined filling his ears with the right kind of encouragement: of telling him I'd be what he wanted and do what he wanted; of turning him into my minion, and turning him against his puppet master; of –
Crack!
My head rocked backwards and bounced against the wall. Something crashed and splintered against the ground. A hot stream of blood burst from a cut on my skull, fast and hot at first, and flowed down the back of my head. It slowed to a trickle as I groaned. "What, what did I do wrong?"
I played the role of the broken girl, the innocent lover. I let my voice quaver, when inside I was burning with rage. My anger burned so hot it scoured away the pain with its flames. I pictured skewering Anatoly, roasting him over a fire, and using the heat to warm my aching, cold bones.
"Baby, baby," he crooned. I eyed him warily. "I didn't mean –. I'm sorry baby –. You made me do it."
I didn't make you do shit.
Something glinted on the ground: glass; shattered glass.
I looked up quickly. "Tell me," I said, my voice breaking intentionally. "Tell me what I did wrong and I'll never do it again."
I reminded you that you're not at the top of your pathetic heap. You're a dung beetle, king of your mound but smaller than the tiniest boot. You remembered what you really are, and you didn't like it one little bit – did you?
"You. Don't. Talk. Back." He spat, his face twisted and narrowed with rage. Out of nowhere, it changed. His expression stretched and cracked and remolded itself, like a ferocious summer squall, dying in an instant.
It reminded me, not that any reminder was necessary, of how dangerous he was – and how crazy. There was something wrong in that brain, somethin
g that switched him from anger to hatred to misery in seconds, and then back again.
"I do all these nice things for you," he whined. "And this is how you repay me. I bring you food, I bring you water, and you throw it back in my face." He stepped towards me. "Are you hungry, baby?"
Whether I was hungry or not, there was a pathetic hunger in his eyes. I saw his need to be loved; his desire to be held. But it turned my stomach.
Yet not enough to throw the offer of food back in Anatoly's face.
You need to be strong to fight.
You need to eat.
I nodded. He held my chin and fed me a sandwich and stroked my face. I held his gaze the entire time, watching, simpering. That image would haunt me the rest of my life. I longed for it to be over, for his touch to be done.
But more than anything, I longed for him to forget the shattered glass; to just leave me a way out; even if it cost me my life.
I chewed the dry sandwich and swallowed it without water. My mouth felt like the desert, but I didn't notice it. The whole time my mind was running at a thousand miles per hour. Every time Anatoly's eyes flickered downward, I joked, or laughed, or stroked his leg with my bare foot. I tried anything to distract him.
Sandwich finished, he stepped back, so close to the pile of shattered glass that was just within my reach. I said the first words that came to my mind. It wasn't acting – they were true.
"Please," I whispered. "Please just leave the lights on; just this once. I'm so damn tired of the dark."
Anatoly shook his head. If I hadn't known the kind of man he was, and hadn't felt the kind of things that he could do, I might almost have believed he was sad. His face was wrinkled, the emotion written on it like letters onto stone.
"I can't do that, baby," he said, his voice soft. It was a sick parody of a lover's conversation. Every time he spoke, I imagined driving a knife into his stomach. I felt his hot blood licking at my hands, falling off my fingers and dripping to the floor.