by V. F. Mason
Maybe if I stop guarding my heart so much, life will give me a new opportunity to build bridges with my family. People can change, right?
Instead of staying in my bubble of pain, I’ll accept their olive branch for a brighter future.
One in which I won’t have to apologize for breathing.
“Have you found your Achilles, Briseis?” Elliot asks, winking at me as we pull up by the massive gates of the mansion and the security guards salute us before the gates slide open. The grating sound can be heard even inside the car.
A happy laugh slips past my lips, and I shake my head, mentally preparing myself for the meeting I’ve craved for a decade. “Nope. He must be somewhere else with the wrong woman,” I joke back, used to all the teasing about my name.
Those familiar with Greek mythology know about Achilles, the best warrior of the Greeks, who fell in love with Briseis. Legends say she was married to an ally of Troy, King Mynes of Lyrnessus. The mighty warrior killed him before slaying her three brothers and taking her as a war prize, enamored with her beauty. Despite all odds, they fell in love amongst the other madness surrounding them and people trying to keep them apart.
Their love might not have been as legendary as Paris and Helen’s, but it still touched my heart, although I never understood it.
How could you fall in love with an enemy—worse, an enemy who came to destroy your family and never felt remorse about it?
I might be called Briseis, but I will never have an Achilles in my life.
For I could never, ever be with a man capable of such deeds.
Chapter Three
“The devil has many faces on this earth.
I imagine one of them is so handsome people can’t help but be mesmerized by it.”
Briseis
Santiago
Thunder booms in the sky, the dark clouds gathering in a mass before lightning flashes in them, pulling a smile from my face when I step onto the terrace. I open my arms wide in anticipation of nature’s next move.
Within seconds, heavy rain pours on me and everything around me, instantly soaking me, but all I do is stand under it, allowing the water to wash away everything I’ve done today as my open shirt is blown around by a blast of wind, chilling my bones. But I welcome it.
I welcome any sense of discomfort my body can experience, as only then do I truly feel alive, because most emotions are foreign to me.
For as long as I can remember, water has been my favorite element, experiencing a deep connection to it, and I can spend hours in the ocean without getting tired.
It can adapt to any circumstance, no matter what nature throws at it.
If it meets cold, it becomes ice. If it meets heat, it becomes water once more. And if it meets fire… it floats in the air as steam, never letting anyone destroy it.
There is a lot to learn from water and Mother Nature. Unfortunately, humans are too stupid to take lessons from it.
Instead, they destroy nature bit by bit, thinking it will never retaliate against them.
But you can poke someone or something for only so long… until the injured party decides to end the threat once and for all.
Or at least those are the lessons my father taught me.
Lucian Cortez.
Hollow laughter slips past my lips when I swing the bottle of tequila to my mouth, greedily gulping it while it mixes with the rain.
Wiping my mouth, I close my eyes and lift my face to the rain, ready to drown in it until I turn blue from cold. My bare feet slap against the concrete when I move forward, and I throw the bottle on the floor where it shatters loudly.
Snapping my eyes back open, I place my feet on the glass, the sting traveling through me when the glass digs into my skin… yet as far as the pain goes?
Fucking nothing.
Rolling my eyes when the memories of Peter’s crying comes to mind, it doesn’t even hurt much. What a fucking piece of shit. I walk back into my penthouse, leaving bloody footprints on the perfectly polished white marble with the AC blasting at me full speed, breaking goose bumps on my skin, but I only smirk at this.
I drop onto the couch, kicking my legs up onto the small table holding a chessboard ready for players to assume their positions and participate in the game of a lifetime.
It was specifically designed for me, red and white pawns carved out of the finest oak, which are quite fitting, all things considered.
After all, I came to this earth to conquer on a fucking white horse while the opposite side is played by the inexperienced angel who doesn’t even know her soul is in the line of my destruction.
But then again…
Do devil spawns even have a soul to speak of?
The ringing of my phone snaps my attention, and I accept, connecting it to the TV.
Picking up the remote, I turn on the TV hanging on the opposite wall, and a man comes into view.
“Surprised you replied to my message so quickly,” I tell him, flipping the remote between my fingers, I watch him lean back in his chair, sipping his drink and just observing me through those fucking blue eyes of his. They drill into me, and as far as fuckers go… I don’t like this one much.
“Curiosity,” he says.
I bark a laugh. “You can still be curious?”
He puts his glass on the desk with a thump and nods. “When one of the Four Dark Horsemen asks for my help, I have to say I’m intrigued. What was it that you said the last time you visited New York?” He rubs his chin, his blond hair glistening under the harsh light. “Fuck you, Lachlan, and your rules. I’m a Cortez, so I do as I please.” He chuckles, although I don’t miss the deadly tone that is a warning in itself that he doesn’t appreciate my past words, nor will he take any bullshit from me. “How the mighty have fallen.”
Threading my fingers through my wet hair, I wipe my hands before taking out a cigarette from the pack nearby and light it up, the greedy pull instantly calming me down when the first taste of nicotine hits my tongue, spreading temporary pleasure all over me.
Generally, people consider smoking bad, yet it’s one of the rarest things that actually has the power to help my mind go still and enjoy the moment.
Maybe because it will always have a scent of freedom attached to it, so I’ll fucking never give it up.
Exhaling the smoke, Lachlan’s face temporarily blocked from view, I speak out. “Tell me when you’ll be done gloating, so we can discuss business.”
“Oh, I haven’t even started, Santiago.” He taps on the rim of his glass, moving his finger back and forth slowly as razor-sharp sounds start to emit from it, making me twitch, and I snap my teeth, barely holding back from barking at him to stop, but I’m in no position to do so.
Lachlan Scott is the underground king of New York, one of the most skilled serial killers I’ve ever known, and I know so many I could build a fucking stadium filled with them. He rules his protégés with an iron fist, and his reputation proceeds him. Everyone knows not to fuck with him or his fucking city, because consequences for it are severe.
Our net worth is about the same though, and I don’t give a fuck on most days about his desires or stupid rules, although I have to abide by them, since I don’t need his ass showing up in Chicago and trying to dictate to me.
However, compared to me, he has years more of experience, which means he has a key to the information I so desperately seek.
So I have to play nice, even though I want to rip him to shreds.
“I have the information you want.”
I freeze, the smoke stuck in my mouth before I blow it out, excitement spreading in my blood while I patiently await his next words.
He picks up the folder from his desk and waves it. “Here is everything on the subject. You won’t find it anywhere else.” His face stays blank, not a fucking muscle moving, so I take another pull while my mind swirls with thousands of scenarios.
For a second, I thought stupid Peter lied, because that coward would have done anything to stay alive, but if
Lachlan found all the answers, it means it’s true.
In all my years, I haven’t been this close to revenge, and I can almost taste the victory in my mouth, the sweet and bitter flavor settling on my tongue while my body pumps with rage and pleasure at the same time.
Every monster in this world has a weakness—one of the reasons I don’t have any.
If there is a weakness, it can always be used against you by your enemies, and who the fuck gives such power to anyone?
Keeping my voice even, I ask, “What do you want in exchange?”
Everything in this world has a price tag attached to it, be it our actions or actual money. Nothing is freely given, and if it is… you have to be careful.
The devil always comes to collect when you don’t expect it, and as such, you might die quicker than you thought.
Lachlan is a ruthless fucker who won’t hesitate to hurt you if it ensures his complete domination. But he is a smart fucker, one of the reasons I respect the man, even though I hate him.
“Consider it a gift, Santiago.”
My laughter bounces off the walls, almost making me choke on the smoke as I point at him with my cigarette. “Good one. And now seriously, name your price.”
He grins, although it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I already emailed it to you. Do whatever you want with it.”
I zero my gaze on him, trying to read his features yet finding nothing in his stone-cold expression. “Why such generosity all of a sudden?”
“Not everything in this world has a price, Santiago. Especially not the past that haunts us in our nightmares.”
In this moment, I almost regret asking him for help. I shed light on my past that should have always been hidden from everyone.
My one and only vulnerability.
I quickly school my features though, grinning wide, as smiles are the only fucking thing able to save us in the most despicable times.
When you smile and laugh often enough, the monster feasting on your flesh and lurking in the night won’t know how much they hurt you and destroy your soul; instead, they will groan in frustration not knowing what to do with you to gain satisfaction.
And then when they’re comfortable in your company, you can strike them hard, delivering a blow they won’t survive.
“Let’s consider it a debt you can collect any time, Lachlan.”
Hell can freeze a thousand times over before I ever accept any gift again in this world.
Lachlan disconnects the call, and with the remote, I click on the email app on my TV, opening the folder with the information as I stand up, wrapping my fingers around the pawn on the black-and-white board and placing it a couple spaces forward.
Glancing at the name flashing on the display, I address the pawn. “Briseis, we are about to play a twisted game with you.”
She has Andreas’s blood traveling through her veins; therefore, her soul is rotten and spoiled, hungry for the suffering and pain of the people she encounters on her way.
Nothing of his could ever be anything else.
Briseis
The massive brown oak double doors close behind me with a loud thud when I step inside the mansion.
I smile at Wilkinson, the family butler who already holds a cup of steaming tea on a tray.
“Thank you.” I pick up my mug, inhaling the rich chamomile smell before sipping it a little, closing my eyes in pleasure when the hot drink instantly warms me up. “Glad to see you healthy.” Most of the staff here are old, but that’s Grandmother’s motto.
Until you are too sick to do the work, you damn well will show up for it. Otherwise, the door is always wide open without a recommendation letter.
“Ms. Dawson, you’re back.” He points to the hallway. “Your grandmother awaits you in the common room.”
With a nod, I walk down the narrow hall, my heels clicking loudly on the spotless golden marble glistening under the small chandeliers above me. I study the environment around me, noticing nothing has changed since I was here last.
Expensive paintings hang on the walls, showcasing different times from history, as Grandmother loves such themes. In addition, several portraits of the family dynasty gaze on with judgment, informing you they are watching you.
A wide staircase leads upstairs where there are five different wings, for each family member and guests too, giving privacy and the illusion of independence and isolation for those staying here… even though it’s false.
Whatever you do, everyone knows about it.
The hallway has several crossroads, one leading to the back of the house to the spacious kitchen, the other to the library, and another one to my father’s office, the gloomy room I was forbidden to enter after the time I spilled coffee all over one of his important contracts.
Gold, white, and beige dominate the color scheme in the mansion, giving a sense of peace but also a sense of power. Subtle hints of the legacy this family has.
Finally, I reach the last crossroad, opening up to the common room with several couches and chairs, all made from the finest wood, along with expensive crystal vases and the chandelier hanging above us. There are several more openings leading from it to the dining room—complete with a table able to hold up to fifty guests—and a party room with an open space where people can roam around freely or dance, depending on the style of party. From there, doors lead to a terrace and a magnificent garden.
According to some, it’s considered one of the most luxurious mansions in the country, yet standing here right now, I can’t help but feel lonely and slightly lost.
Maybe because the walls of this house never really welcomed me or became home; instead, it seems even the air I breathe here judges me for tainting the dynasty with my presence.
I press the book harder to my chest, reminding myself about the gift my grandma gave, which means everything has changed.
I’m no longer that little girl who came here and who everyone kicked around.
Stepping inside, I instantly spot Grandmother occupying her favorite chair in the right corner. She’s wearing a perfectly ironed purple dress, heels, and a pearl necklace graces her neck. Her hair and makeup are perfectly done. She sips coffee, holding a saucer in one hand and the cup in the other.
Taking a deep breath, ready to finally face it all, I say cheerfully, “Grandmother.”
She blinks at me, and then she scans me from head to toe, her expression staying neutral.
I move forward, wanting to go closer to her and wrap her in my arms, the hope in my chest blooming even brighter, but her raised, splayed palm stops me, and my brows furrow in confusion. “Turn around.” Too stunned by the request, I do as she says, not understanding what’s going on.
Once I’m facing her again, disappointment flashes on her face, and she shakes her head. “Well, I should have known better. You weren’t beautiful as a child, and the years have only added to the dreaded picture. Not to mention those eyes of yours that can scare anyone gazing into them.” I don’t even wince at her assessment of my looks; half of what she says is true anyway.
Beauty is not a word people associate with me, especially men, who never look at me twice.
Still too confused to get a hint, I say, “I wanted to thank you for the book.” Her brows rise. “You remembered how I love it.”
She snorts. “Eliot picked it.” Just with those three words, she crushes the hope in my heart, once again sinking me in ice-cold water, chilling my bones so much I resist the urge to rub my arms, knowing well this display of weakness won’t go unnoticed.
“I see,” I rasp through my dry throat, quickly taking a few sips of tea, so she won’t notice my trembling hands. “Why did you allow me to come back?” I decide there is no point in beating around the bush. If it wasn’t some kind of family reunion, then it has to do with his political career.
It’s what I thought all along. So why does this pain in my chest grow, threatening to send me to my knees to cry my heart out in disappointment?
“As you know, Howa
rd finally decided to follow in his father’s footsteps. It’s a long way to go, but with the right strategy, he might become mayor. He needs to form the right connections first among other powerful families though. He’s a fool who didn’t think about it beforehand.” Dad is a snob who only looks at the heritage of people, and since some of the upper-class families now come from the bottom, it doesn’t surprise me much no one likes him.
Grandmother finishes her coffee and puts the cup on the small table next to her. She grabs a cigarette from it and lights it up, puffing the smoke around, and I fist the book harder, hating the smell of it, because it always reminds me of the time Dad beat me so hard I could barely breathe then locked me in the basement for a day, where they stored all her cigarettes.
“Daddy, please let me out.” I bang on the door, crying out when something brushes against my bare feet, but I can’t see it in the complete darkness. My pajamas barely cover me from the freezing cold in this place. “Daddy, please don’t leave me.”
Instead of the door opening though, his harsh voice penetrates through it. “I told you many times not to call me that.”
“I won’t do it again, please, Mr. Dawson.” I burst into tears when the thing brushes again, and I hear a hissing sound akin to the ones mice make in cages. I press myself harder to the door, clasping my hands together and praying to God to help me convince Dad to get me out of here. “I’m so sorry.” I repeat the words I chanted the whole time the belt buckle was hitting my back, all the way as he dragged me to the basement to the laughs of his other children, and even here, when he threw me down the stairs and I bumped my knees on the rough concrete.
I don’t know what I’m apologizing for either. He just got so angry and drank too much before he removed his belt from his pants and screamed at me to come to him.
Maybe I shouldn’t have done it.
“Shut the fuck up, Briseis, before I come in and beat the shit out of you until you shut up.” I jump away from the door as if it burned me and sit on one of the stairs, wrapping my hands tightly around my knees. Silent tears stream down my cheeks, but I stay quiet even as my body hurts all over.