Broken Hope

by Nicole Fox

  And I recognize it.

  The artwork, the décor, the grandeur.

  I’ve seen all of it before, though it takes me a minute to remember where from.

  Then, it hits me.

  I’ve eaten in this kitchen before. Toured this very mansion before.

  I look back at the table and can see myself sitting on the right side of the table, nervous and distant, passing a gravy boat around. Cole Morrison was sitting at my right. It was Thanksgiving almost three years ago.

  Cole and I were engaged at the time, and before I called the entire thing off, I did my best to follow my father’s orders. I went to Thanksgiving and met Cole’s family after my father told me the Irish would retaliate against him if I didn’t go. It was a guilt trip, but at the time, I thought it was my only option. I thought my father was asking me sincerely for help rather than manipulating me.

  The meal was quiet and awkward. I tried to look more comfortable than I felt, but I was entirely alone.

  Meeting the family of the person you are dating is always uncomfortable, but even more so when you aren’t actually dating the man.

  Cole’s parents were nice, but cold. Even with Cole, there was a level of distance between all of them, like they were all being cautious not to offend one another or set anyone off.

  That night, Cole walked me to my room, and I made a joke. I can’t even remember what it was now—something about the awkwardness of the meal, I’m sure. I expected him to laugh with me. I expected the situation to be something we could bond over.

  Instead, Cole exploded.

  Until that moment, I’d never seen him be anything other than relaxed and calm. He wasn’t a nice man, but he seemed at ease in most situations. He had a “roll with the punches” kind of vibe.

  My joke, however, set him off.

  His pale face flushed until I could see his scalp glowing red from under his blonde hair. He stepped forward, towering over me until I had no choice but to press my back against the door and cower.

  “Who are you that you can come into my family’s home and judge us?” he snapped. “You don’t know my family. You don’t understand anything about family. Even your own father pimps you out as his whore.”

  The rage in his voice took my breath away. I was too shocked to cry or argue. I just stood there, absorbing his fury, and trembling.

  “That is what you are, isn’t it?” he spat. “Just a fucking whore. A woman who thinks she is worth something because her father is an important man who stuck his dick in her slut mother.”

  I shook my head. Not because I was trying to argue with him, but because I couldn’t understand the source of his anger.

  It made Cole even angrier.

  “Don’t shake your head at me,” he barked. “I’m not the one who allowed myself to be sold like a common prostitute. Remember that when you want to judge my life and my family. You are only good for spreading your legs, and a whore is all you’ll ever be.”

  He was gone almost as soon as the tirade started, leaving me alone for the night to process what he’d said. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized I couldn’t stay with him.

  That rage—it came from somewhere deep inside of him. And I could tell immediately it was not an isolated incident. A life with Cole Morrison would be decades of navigating land mines that might make him explode at any time.

  Plus, his words had hit home.

  My father had used me as a bargaining chip to settle a dispute between himself and another family, and I couldn’t allow it. I couldn’t be forced into a marriage I didn’t want.

  That night was the night I decided to run away.

  Cole apologized a few days later. He swore that he’d had too much to drink with dinner and was upset about something else, but I didn’t buy it.

  So, I left.

  I left Cole and my father and New York City. And New York State.

  For two years, I ran away from my problems.

  And now, here I am. Right back in them. Drowning in them.

  If memory serves, the Morrison mansion is in rural upstate New York. The view I have from the dining room of the desolate tree line is the same view I’d have from any window in the house. Screaming won’t do me much good here. No one will hear me.

  Still, I try.

  I pull at the zip ties until my wrists and ankles burn, and I scream for help until my throat is dry and raw. Until the words feel like razor blades tearing from my chest.

  Finally, after what feels like hours, I hear footsteps in the room next to me. Everything in my body wants to put distance between myself and the door. I want to ready myself for a fight or to run. But the ties don’t allow me to do anything other than turn and look over my shoulder.

  I see a built, blonde-haired man rush through the door.

  For a fleeting moment, I think the man is Cole Morrison.

  They have the same blonde hair and pale skin, the same square shoulders and loping, relaxed- looking walk.

  As soon as he looks up, however, I realize he is much too old.

  I don’t remember his name, but I know it is Cole Morrison’s father.

  He stomps towards me and kicks the chair, rocking it over onto two legs. I have to quickly throw my weight to keep from tipping over.

  “Stop your screaming,” he yells. “Or I’ll give you something to scream about.”

  “Why am I here?” My voice is raspy, and I have to work hard to make it loud enough to hear. “Where is my daughter?”

  “Shut up,” he says, pointing a fat finger at me, eyes wide.

  “Please,” I beg. “Just tell me why I’m here.”

  He plants his feet together and crosses his arms over his chest. He has on a suit, which seems like a very nice outfit to kidnap someone in.

  “You killed my son,” he says.

  I shake my head. “No. I didn’t.”

  He holds up a hand to quiet me, his top lip curled back in barely restrained rage. “You killed my son, so I don’t owe you anything.”

  A desperate sob wracks out of me, and I sag forward, pulling against the restraints. “Please. Where is my daughter? That’s all I want to know.”

  Cole’s father is in my face in an instant, heat rolling off him in angry waves. Spit spatters on my face as he talks. “You can see your daughter again when I get to see my son.”

  Hopelessness opens up like a black hole in my chest, sucking in everything else. It absorbs my fear and anger and desperation. It eats and eats until there is nothing less. Until I’m a shell of a person sitting on the chair, Cole’s father screaming in my face.

  “You are going to be sold off like the trash you are,” he says, standing back and crossing his arms again. “There are men congregating now who will bid on you like cattle.”

  I try to find the energy to be upset or scared, but I can’t muster it. Not when I may never see my daughter again.

  “You ran from my son like you could do better than him. You refused to marry him because you thought you were too good for him. Well,” he says, his face splitting into a wicked smile. “You won’t think so highly of yourself when you’re standing on stage being sold.”

  Clearly, I’m being handed over to a sex trafficking organization. That is easy enough to surmise. But is this really all just revenge for Cole’s death? A death I didn’t even cause?

  “I didn’t kill Cole,” I repeat again.

  “Your husband did,” Cole’s father says quickly. “That’s close enough. And now you will both suffer.”

  He walks around my chair in a circle, shaking his head. “You should have just married Cole. That would have saved you all of this heartache. Your father would probably still be alive.” He shrugs. “Or maybe not. He was always an arrogant son of a bitch. Just like you.”

  “I’m nothing like my father,” I say through gritted teeth.

  Cole’s father smiles even wider. “That’s right. Your father kidnapped you, didn’t he? In the end, even your own flesh and blood didn�
��t think you were worth more than the price you could fetch.”

  Shame pierces my chest like a hot poker, and I turn towards the windows, trying to remind myself of my real worth.

  I’m more than what the men in my life thought of me.

  Luka has shown me that.

  I’m treasured and valued. More than just a body to be used and disposed of.

  No matter what this man says or anyone else, I’m worthy of more than this.

  “Your own father thought you were common filth.” He moves into my line of vision and lifts his chin, looking down his nose at me. “You could have married my son and become part of this family. You could have given us the grandchildren we’ve always wanted. You could have been happy.”

  Cole’s angry explosion that night years ago proves this theory wrong. I would have never been happy with Cole Morrison because underneath the easygoing façade, he was a monster just like my father. Cole didn’t value me, and he never would have treated me the way Luka does.

  “But instead, you ran away,” he says. “You ran away from my son only to be sold off to your husband—the man who killed my son.”

  Luka told me why he killed Cole Morrison. Because he betrayed our family and spoke ill of me, and Luka couldn’t let him live.

  In the end, Cole’s own sense of self-importance got him killed, though I don’t think his father would appreciate that interpretation of events.

  “And now you are desperate to get back to your owner.” Cole’s father snorts in disgust. “You think your husband loves you? He doesn’t. Just like everyone else, he knows you are only good for one thing.”

  He kicks out at my knee, spreading my legs apart, and I’m quick to pull them back together.

  I know he is wrong. I know he is trying to get inside my head and break me, but I also can’t ignore the painful wounds tearing open in my heart. Injuries that Luka has slowly and painstakingly sutured for me, now tearing open at the slightest bit of irritation.

  No matter how far I try to run from my past, I will always be the girl who was broken by her father. Who was betrayed and abused and manipulated.

  But just because that is part of my past, doesn’t mean it has to be my future.

  I lift my head and look Cole’s father square in the eyes. “Luka loves me.”

  He laughs. “We’ll see how useful that love is in the next few days.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say, actually believing my own words. “No matter what happens, my husband loves me, and I love him. You don’t know anything about me.”

  His smile falters, and he takes a step towards me, eyebrow raised. “That may be true, but I know one thing about you, Eve Volkov. One thing that is all I need to know.”

  He leans forward until I can feel his hot breath on my skin. I want to look away, but I don’t want to show any weakness, so I maintain eye contact. He gets close enough that my eyes have to cross to keep looking at him, and for a second, I think he is going to kiss me. But he stops just short of my lips.

  “I know that you are never going to see your husband or daughter again.”

  With that, he turns on his heel and rushes out of the door.

  I sit tall in my chair, watching him leave, but the minute his footsteps fade to silence, I sag down, chin on my chest, and cry.

  4

  Luka

  I pour more coffee into my mug, not bothering with cream or sugar. I just need the jolt of caffeine in my veins.

  I haven’t slept at all, and I can only run so long on adrenaline. Despite my best efforts, I feel my energy waning.

  When I turn back to the men sitting around my table, however, I feel a slight surge of energy. My lieutenants are here, and we are going to get Eve and Milaya back. I know it.

  “The Irish took them,” I say flatly. The words roll off my tongue easily. They are facts, and I’m delivering them.

  Underneath it, though, there is anger. Rage like I’ve never felt, and I know it could come exploding out at any second. “The Irish took my family.”

  “I thought they disbanded,” Grigory says.

  “They laid low long enough to make me feel comfortable.” I hate admitting my own weakness, but if I want my family back, I have to be honest.

  Grigory nods and looks down at his hands. Usually, he is more outspoken. He isn’t afraid to challenge me, within reason, and ensure I am doing the best thing for the Bratva. Right now, though, he is quiet.

  I know it is because I’m so on edge.

  All of the men around me are avoiding eye contact, shuffling their feet, and twiddling their fingers. My frayed nerves are setting them on edge, so I take another long drink of my coffee, letting it scorch its way down my throat, and then stand tall.

  “I’m exhausted,” I admit. “I’m tired, and I need ideas on how to get my family back. Now.”

  The men offer up ideas at once. Eve and Milaya are mine, but in a way, all of these men think of them as family, too. That is what being in the Bratva means. We look out for one another. We defend one another. And the Irish broke into that family and robbed two of our own, and I know my men will do what they can to help.

  “If they’ve been gathering in secret, then it shouldn’t be hard with our underground contacts to figure out where. We can attack,” one man says.

  “Rian Morrison is the person behind this. Let’s kill her. Chop the beast off at the head.”

  “Storm the FBI headquarters and take them back.”

  One by one the ideas are tossed up and then batted down.

  We don’t know where Eve and Milaya are. Until we do, we can’t go into any building guns blazing or we risk killing them in the crossfire.

  Or, even worse, they could be killed by the Irish in retaliation for any attack we wage. Whatever we do, we have to do it covertly. This isn’t an instance when we can use brute force and get the results we want.

  “We don’t have the time to infiltrate their ranks,” another lieutenant says. “We are good at fighting and killing. I say we stick to our strengths.”

  A few men nod in agreement, but even more shake their heads. “If you want Eve’s death on your shoulders, then fine, bust into the local Irish hangouts and start announcing that we are hunting her down. But I, for one, think there has to be a more delicate way to go about this.”

  Slowly, the general enthusiasm for getting my family back starts to wane and tempers start to flare. The men are arguing about which course of action is best, raising their voices to be heard over one another until I can barely hear myself think.

  “Enough!” I scream, slamming my coffee cup down on the table hard enough that it shatters. Ceramic shards spray into the air and coffee dribbles over the side of the table. The men look at me, wide-eyed.

  “Truthfully, I didn’t think any of you would offer up an idea better than mine, but I wanted to be sure.”

  They look at one another, clearly questioning my sanity, but I don’t care. I know what I need to do.

  “I may need your help later on, but right now, every step of this mission is up to me.” I sit down in one of the kitchen chairs and rest my elbows on the edge, resisting the urge to lay my head down and go to sleep. “The Irish have clearly been planning this attack for a long time, so we need to be cautious. The last thing I want is for us to feel compelled to act and make a mess of things. That would only be playing into their hands.”

  “So, what do we do?” Grigory asks.

  “You wait for my orders,” I say. “You don’t move or breathe or act without my permission, do you understand?”

  Everyone nods, including Grigory. Then, he looks up at me. “So, what are you going to do?”

  I sigh and press myself upright. My legs feel like cement blocks, but I know I can’t rest yet. Not until I have a plan.

  “I’m going to visit Rick Koban.”

  Grigory snorts and leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and a few of the other men join in, following his lead. But one sharp look from me is enoug
h to smooth the annoyed expression from my right-hand man’s face. He sits up taller, and the other lieutenants quiet.

  I knock on the door just after lunch and step back, waiting for Rick to answer.

  After the meeting with the lieutenants this morning, I laid down in bed and tried to sleep, but Eve’s scent was everywhere. Every time I closed my eyes, my thoughts turned to her, alternating between dreams of her lying beside me and others of her being ripped away. I could hear Milaya crying, but when I’d slide to the end of the bed to go and comfort her, the noise would stop and the house would descend into complete silence.

  Eventually, I gave up, swallowed down another mug of coffee, and headed for Rick’s house.

  His front porch is immaculate. No cobwebs or dust or lawn debris. Just smooth concrete and spotless bricks. He must have someone come out and clean it every morning.

  The door opens slightly, and Rick peeks his head through a crack in the door. His hair is the same length and shade as mine, though his face is more weathered, grizzled. When he sees it is me, he opens the door a bit more, but it isn’t a warm welcome by any means.

  “Luka,” he says with a nod. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Do you mind if I talk to you?” I gesture around as though there are cameras floating above my head. “In private.”

  Rick twists his mouth to one side and looks hesitant, but in the next second, he opens the door and steps aside.

  Before I even cross the threshold, I kick my shoes off and then carry them inside with me. Rick gestures to a rug next to the door where I can leave them and then pads down the hallway in socks.

  “I wasn’t expecting company, so excuse the mess.”

  I look in each room we pass, searching for any kind of mess, but I can’t find it. The house is spotless. Which makes sense considering Rick’s profession.

  He is the leader of a “cleanup crew.” The most popular cleaners in the entire city. They work with everyone and have been on the scene of every major Mafia hit for the last ten years. If anyone wants to ensure their murder scene is cleaned and free of DNA, Rick is the guy to call.