by V. F. Mason
“Careful how you speak to my wife, Dad.”
“Just making sure she understands the rules,” he points out.
He’s ready to take another sip, but his glass pauses midway, when Santiago asks, “Or what?”
“Or there are always consequences.”
Santiago tenses, his tone staying even, but I don’t miss the anger dancing on the edges of it. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a fact.”
“She won’t be my wife otherwise, right? We always have to pay consequences for bearing the Cortez name.”
Lucian slams his glass on the table, the china rattling loudly under the blow, and panic sweeps Rebecca’s features, before she tells me, “Let’s move on from this as well. The kids will figure it out. Are you still interested in the job?”
What? The job…? Oh, she means the sculpting gig? “Mateo sent high recommendations about you, and I think the kids would love to learn about myths in such a fun way.”
“When will it end, Santiago? When will my every word stop being a red cloth to the bull that’s your rage?”
Jimena winces at her father’s harsh tone, scrapping her fork loudly on the plate, as if it has the power to stop the brewing fight about to erupt all over us.
“Yes, I’m still interested.” I jump at the opportunity, hoping that my conversation with Rebecca diverts their attention from the argument. “Although I’m not sure how to teach them through sculpting.”
“Oh, no. I thought we could do it through your sketches. You have such a raw talent when it comes to this. The stories come alive in your pages.”
I pause cutting my steak, raising my surprised gaze to her, and frown. “My sketches?” Is this why they asked me to draw them first?
Come to think about it, they never mentioned sculpting in their email, just that I’d work with kids. I just assumed it was sculpting.
Rebecca nods enthusiastically, opening her mouth to elaborate on it. But how in the hell does she even know about my sketches, let alone think they have potential?
Suddenly, Lucian barks, once again interrupting our conversation. “Respóndeme, Santiago!”
“I’m no longer a child to take orders, Father. ”
I briefly close my eyes at his words, inwardly groaning, because Lucian’s face becomes red, and he gets up so swiftly his chair scrapes against the floor before falling back. The thud reverberates through the space, but Rebecca ignores it, although her hands clutch the napkin so hard I see her knuckles turning white.
Judging by all this behavior, I come to the only logical conclusion I can. The father and son must fight all the time, so the women in the family try their best to defuse the situation, although I don’t understand why.
If this kind of simmering rage eats them both alive, shouldn’t they try to face it instead of burying their heads in the sand?
But it’s their household, so I’ll play by their rules.
“Mateo showed me those. They’re very beautiful. I think it will be interesting for the kids once you finish this project.”
“He shouldn’t have done it. They’re private,” I manage to rasp, my heartbeat speeding up at the prospect of God knows how many people seeing what lies deep inside my soul.
Rebecca sends me a reassuring smile. “They’re great. And I would love for you to explore this talent. That’s why I requested you do a sketch story about the Four Horsemen.”
“Sigues siendo mi hijo!” Lucian bellows, and I quickly stuff more rice and vegetables into my mouth. One might get sick eating in such circumstances.
Santiago’s hollow laughter washes over me, sending chills down my spine and freezing my bones at the hatred coating it. “I’m your son? That’s rich. Was I always your son, Dad, or you just remembered it recently?” He gets up too, his chair kicking back while he throws a napkin on the table, looming above me, and I exhale heavily, reining in my panic.
Deadly silence follows his words. Everyone and everything around us freeze, although I’m shocked by something else. Maybe people in normal circumstances don’t notice it, but I’ve lived with hidden pain my whole life.
That’s why I recognize that beneath the anger and lashing out, pain rings so loudly in the words he spits it leaves no doubt he’s still hurting by whatever happened in the past.
My God, what did Lucian do to him?
He told me his parents didn’t inflict the scars, meaning someone who they trusted did, and that’s why he harbors resentment?
The two men face each other, the energy changing rapidly in the room to something dangerous with fury swirling around us, ready to spontaneously erupt.
“Lucian,” Rebecca whispers, grabbing his hand and squeezing it hard while closing her eyes as if it pains her to see what’s going on between them. The man’s hands fist, thousands of emotions flashing on his face, and finally indifference settles on it.
Leaning forward, he places a soft kiss on her palm, puts it back on the table, and picks up his chair. He clears his throat and addresses me. “My apologies, hija. In no way did I mean to scare you. Simply pointed out that with our name, you’ll always have our protection. Let’s continue this dinner, and we can talk some more about your sketches.” He drops back onto his seat and sips his whiskey, while I glance at Santiago, who stares at his father for what seems like an eternity.
For a split second, disappointment and agony cross his face so swiftly I barely catch it as he masks it with indifference almost right away.
And then he shifts his focus on his mom, announcing, “Dinner was great as always, Mamá. I’m done. Until the next time.” He points at me. “I trust you can take care of mi novia. Jimena, drive her home once you’re done.” And with this, he walks away, leaving me alone in his parents’ house, his heavy footsteps echoing in the distance until the door slams so hard it rattles the walls around us and only cements the chaos he evokes in his wake.
Chapter Fifteen
“Once upon a time, I met two boys under the most despicable circumstances.
Their strength amazed me.
Their courage inspired me.
We became united in a nightmare that didn’t end no matter how much we prayed it would.
Meeting them had a purpose.
Because only our unity allowed us to survive until we could beat them.”
Santiago
Location unknown, United States
Santiago, 12 years old
The car stops abruptly, sending Artem and me forward, but gracias del Dios we don’t hit our heads against the van walls.
“This asshole doesn’t know how to drive,” I mutter but then shrug. “Good thing these driving around days are over.”
Artem throws me a disbelieving look, clearly thinking how in the fuck what we are about to face now is better than the previous three years?
Well, I’m optimistic at heart.
As long as I don’t go back to Andreas, I’m good.
“Well, at least you are happy.”
I wink at him, slapping him on the back but making sure not to touch any of the bruises inflicted by Philip’s clients. “That’s the spirit.”
The van’s door opens, blinding us for a moment, and we try to block the sunlight with our arms, but they don’t let us. “Get the fuck out.” A man barks the order; he’s middle-aged with a beard and heavy keychain dangling on the belt wrapped around his belly. “I don’t have all day for you.” He’s pointing a gun at us while several guards stand behind him.
We do as he says. We’ve learned the hard way that resisting the gun might result in them firing at us just for the fucking fun of it. We stand on the ground in our feet bare, right in front of a huge mansion.
It’s a spacious, horizontal brick building that is so huge I wonder why one might need so much room for such business. There are at least twenty windows, which lets me know whoever runs this place deals with rich clients who would pay any price in order to indulge in their perverted cravings.
All Philip had was some
dumb warehouse where he sold our asses twice a week, and the rest of the week, we cleaned up after them or tolerated their drunk slurring.
Once a week, they beat us so hard we bled and barfed all over the floor, only for them to press our faces in it and order us to wash it up quickly. They liked to remind us that boys like us were nothing but dirt under their nails, and we had no fucking rights.
As Philip preached, this should have taught us to respect and fear him.
We fucking hated the guy and wished him death in the cruelest way possible, and finally the wish was granted when one of his big bosses found out he’d stolen from him.
I bet Andreas tipped them off so he could create another fucking challenge for me and test my resistance.
Fuck him and his last level.
They killed Philip right in front of our eyes, making him drink gasoline while stabbing him like a hundred times. His men followed shortly, their throats cut near arteries where their blood poured, soaking them red and forever taking their life away.
Never had a view been this satisfying to us.
I only regretted not being the one holding the knife, to feel their skin dip under the tip, slowly drawing blood as they struggled in my arms to survive and failed.
If I ever get the chance to punish fuckers like those holding us captive, I’ll watch them choke for hours with a smile on my face and send my regards to the devil while doing it.
I just need to get out.
And fucking get out I will, because I can survive in any circumstances.
God knows the last three years have proven it.
Sighing dramatically, I say, “What a boring Victorian-style mansion.” I guess the style, because Mom used to talk about architecture all the time.
My heart contracts inside my chest at the thought of her, a beautiful mirage popping in my mind occasionally and bringing me so much pain I always push it away.
Rebecca Cortez had a son, once upon a time, whom she loved.
But that son died a long time ago, and I no longer have a right to dream about her.
She’d be disgusted with her little boy now and probably spit in my face if she ever knew what I’d done.
As always, when pain threatens to overwhelm me, destroying my control and allowing madness to creep into my skin, I forcibly widen my mouth in a bright grin so no one will know about it.
I’d rather be a psycho to those around me than vulnerable.
No matter how many times I got raped, beaten up, or stabbed… I never once shed a tear or gave them anything else but my smiles, which pissed them off so much, but who gave a fuck?
Like I said, fuck them.
“To think I expected a palace.” Although I have no doubt, despite the change of location, we’ll have the same shitty room.
Artem thought someone would show up with a ransom to save me, but sadly no one bothered searching for me.
One of the most powerful man in Chicago couldn’t find his son for so many years?
Yeah, fucking right.
Apparently, their little boy was not as important as they made me believe.
“Stop talking and move.” The old man kicks us hard, and we do as he says, since the tip of his gun is digging into Artem’s shoulder blade.
We go inside to face countless statues and weird portraits, all while the walls painted in red reek of luxury.
“Straight ahead to the door.”
We obey, our bare feet padding soundlessly on the cold marble, and we rub our skin a little where it itches from all the dirt we’re covered in.
Philip didn’t believe in showers, just hosing us with cold water once a month when he had to examine our skin.
The man presses a code into a lock, ordering, “Inside.” We walk down the stairs into a small, rotten basement.
Am I surprised?
Nope.
The AC is humming loudly and the chilly air creates goose bumps on my bare skin.
There is a single dirty mattress on the floor surrounded by long, heavy chains that probably allow you to roam around the room but won’t let you go very far, like reaching the stairs.
There is a sink in the left corner, dripping water bit by bit, and the sound I can imagine might drive a person crazy in time. There are also two dirty bowls with leftovers in them.
Disgusting smells fill the air, disturbing my nostrils, while something akin to blood is smeared on the floor.
Well, this place feels more like what we’re used to. Even down to feeding us like dogs.
But then my eyes spot a boy in a white flannel shirt—more a dress really. His messy hair is pulled into a bun while he watches us with surprise, like he’s seeing a kid for the first time in a long while.
By the bruises and dirt he has all over him just like us, it’s not hard to guess life hasn’t been very kind to him either.
He gets up swiftly but then groans in pain, and my gaze travels back to his ankle where the heavy chain wraps so tightly around it there is blood.
It explains the red stains.
“You’ve got company, Callum,” the man announces, walking behind us, and then I hear the door being shut.
Sometimes, on rare occasions when I got several peaceful moments at night, I would stare up in the ceiling and think about all the monsters gracing this earth who somehow escaped hell and wonder why no one makes it their mission to catch them and torture them in such ways it would serve as an example to others.
Ah, what a fun job it would have been killing all these fuckers, their agonizing cries serving as a balm on all the wounds marking my skin.
Would I feel clean again then? Whole? Innocent?
Or are all these things forever stolen from me?
“Sit on the floor.” We choose a spot closer to the other boy and sit down, and then pointing the gun at us, he addresses Callum. “And you, wrap those chains around them.”
All of us follow the command, and shortly we are in the same position.
I can physically feel the stare of the kid on us, probably finding our similarities, and maybe he wonders why we are wearing only pants.
Philip didn’t believe in shirts. But I decide not to explain that, because the kid doesn’t look stable, so who knows what he’ll do next.
Life has taught me to study a person first before proclaiming them an enemy or an ally.
“Play nice with each other.” He laughs, the sound spiking rage in me, and I wonder what he would look like with his head blown off.
Too bad killing just one has no point, because we are always outnumbered and will lose.
Losing is not an option though; I will fucking survive this.
“You two will have a job to do soon. Callum, you are free till tomorrow.” With this, he walks back and leaves us alone while silence settles over the place.
“Hi,” Callum rasps and wraps his hand around his neck, and only then do I notice the imprint of a belt on it. “My name is Callum.”
Not sure why he feels the need to introduce himself, considering the guy just did that, but Artem goes along with it. Besides, who knows how long the kid has been here? Maybe he hasn’t ever spoken to another kid.
Which means he might be an ally who will be on our side should the opportunity arise for an escape.
“Artem.”
Callum’s hazel eyes travel behind Artem, and he focuses his stare on me.
“Santiago.” My mouth curves in a grin, and Callum blinks in shock, but he will get used to it.
Artem did, although sometimes he still looks at me warily, not that I blame him.
Silence falls again after that, but it’s an awkward one, since the kid continues to stare, so Artem asks, “How long have you been here?”
“Two years.”
Fuck, all alone? “Do they come after you every day?” Artem prefers to know schedules in advance, as if preparing ahead helps him deal with it.
“Mostly, yes.”
“Okay,” he murmurs and closes his eyes, chanting a Russian poem to himsel
f. It always calms him down… so, whatever.
“Don’t worry, Callum. We’re here now to share the burden,” I pitch in, resting my hand on my knee in a careless manner.
His face falls, but he quickly schools it, an indifferent expression settling on his features, and secretly I admire it.
Maybe he hoped for some words of reassurance, like someone will come and save us. But then why waste time on useless words when instead he can build resolve and one day become an ally?
“There is no escape from here,” Callum says, and I smirk, nodding.
“And that’s why we don’t fight. Destiny.”
With Callum, our chances increase, and maybe destiny will finally give us a chance.
That’s all we need.
One fucking small chance.
Santiago, 15 years old
3 years later
Artem, Callum, and I walk down the hallway while Jonathan hisses angrily at us, “No one wants to do a job here, right? What am I, a nanny to collect you all from different rooms?” We don’t react to his words—it’s not like he doesn’t sing the same song over and over—then continue to stroll to the basement while passing various guards holding guns who salute Jonathan. “Edward has to raise my pay for this.”
Not this bullshit again. Everyone here knows there is no bigger coward in this world than Jonathan.
The fucking asshole who has been supervising our every move for the last three years has no idea about the words dignity and respect. Maybe that’s why he’s stayed Edward’s bitch this long and dances to his every command.
“Then you should definitely raise that in your next meeting.” The blow to my head comes swiftly, but I don’t even flinch, just smirk, which makes Jonathan’s eyes flash in anger, but he doesn’t hit me again.