"Lina," I croak, finding it hard to speak.
"No, don't talk. I got you," she says, her warm hands caressing my hair.
"Catalina, I'm not sure..."
"Sister Maria, Sisi is my friend, and I can take care of her. She's coming back with me," Lina's voice has a confident quality to it I'd never heard before.
I try to raise myself up, but she's quickly back at my side, taking me in her arms and hugging me to her chest.
"Lord, Sisi, what happened?"
"I'm fine," I manage to get out, although I'm not sure how long I was in that coffin.
"How did you..." I trail off, my strength limited.
"The sisters on gardening duty heard you scream. I can't believe you were locked in there... Sisi," she shakes her head at me, worry in her gaze.
"I'm fine. It was just a game." I lie, because I've learned my lesson when it comes to telling on the other girls.
No. No one can help me but myself.
And that's exactly what I'm going to do.
"A game? But..."
"Can we go back?" I ask, hoping she'll drop the subject. I don't want her to know what has happened to me, just as much as I don't want her to know what I will do from now on.
I've tasted enough human cruelty to last me a lifetime.
It's time I gave some back.
Chapter Five
THE PAST
AGE FIFTEEN
Staring down at the tattoo artist, I watch as he traces the contour of his design on my arm, the needle of the gun penetrating my skin in what should have been a mildly painful jab. Given my already deteriorated pain receptors, the only thing I can feel is a ticklish sensation as he moves the gun across my skin.
"It's so pretty!" Vanya gushes from my side, craning her neck to get a better look at the emerging design.
I grunt in agreement.
In just a short week, I'd gone from bare skin to almost full body armor. I'd long wanted to erase the ugliness of my skin and bathe it in something meaningful yet pleasing to the eyes.
Misha's preferred nickname for me—freak—isn't just related to my less than normal behavior, but also to the marks that run across my body. So many cuts, he'd called me a frankensteinian abomination when he'd seen me without my shirt off.
Cuts and ridges of healed flesh run all around my torso, arms and legs. Although my back had not been spared, my chest is the worst, with a thick scar running from my sternum to my belly button. Like a tree, it branches out in smaller lines, some more prominent, some more shallow.
My face is the only unblemished thing—a wonder.
To avoid people's questioning eyes, as well as the condemnation or pity in their expressions, I'd decided to cover everything up in ink.
Although I'd wanted to do this for a while, the tattoo artist had advised against doing it before I reached puberty, since the designs might get distorted with my growth spurt. And so the moment I'd seen a change in my body, I'd made the appointment.
It's been a week since we'd started the process, and it had taken a lot of convincing that I could take the successive pain. Luckily, he's one of the Bratva's go-to artists and he must have heard about my not so stellar reputation because the minute I'd looked a little contrite he'd ended up accepting the job.
Vanya's been at my side throughout, marveling at the designs and trying to convince me to let her get her own. Of course, that would never happen, since our father would have my balls if anything happened to his little girl.
So far, the tattooist had finished my legs, chest and back, as well as my right arm. The left arm is the only one still needing some more ink.
I'd spent sleepless nights with Vanya choosing the designs, and we'd discussed at length the cohesion of the entire picture. She, more than anyone else, knows what it means to me.
The bodysuit is split into three events—before, during and after.
On my chest, right under my navel, a wooden chest with intricate designs sits half-opened—Pandora's box. Black inked smoke erupts from the confines of the chest, slowly turning into skulls, each painted with an expression of malice, despair and desolation—evil unleashed upon this earth.
The corrupt spirits take up most of the space on my chest, their rotten faces reaching my shoulder blades and dissolving into a calming mist. From my shoulders to my wrists, Buddhist runes run all along my arms—all meant to contain the evil, keep it from spreading like a disease.
In a similar fashion, my back is a mosaic of warriors in different fighting stances, all tasked with the protection of the box. Alternatively, they are also meant to offer a buffer between the forces of evil and the outside world, should the box be unwittingly opened. Vanya had come up with that small detail.
"Sometimes, little cracks become holes of astounding magnitudes," she'd said, hinting at the possibility that no matter how hard one may try not to open the box, it will snap open regardless. So she'd suggested a safety mechanism. Something to keep the bad from spilling out.
"The warriors will protect you, but they will also protect the world—from you," she'd thoughtfully commented, taking a pen and outlining her idea on paper.
Her words had struck a chord in me. She knows me so well she's aware that there's a high chance I may snap at some point in the future.
Then the last piece—the legs—portrays what will happen when the last remnant of good will be vanquished. The descent into Tartarus. The place where evil makes its playground, and the last stop.
The final destination.
But should everything else fail, the wretched spirits unleashed from Pandora's box would not only venture into hell by themselves. No, they'd drag any innocent soul they could find.
And that... should be avoided at all costs.
"I can't believe it doesn't hurt." Vanya notes as the needle goes deeper into my arm.
"It hurts sooo much!" I pretend to complain, winking at her.
The tattoo artist raises his gaze, looking between me and Vanya, his eyebrows knitting together before he shrugs, his attention back at his work.
"He's weird," Vanya complains, getting up from her chair and stretching a little around the room.
"Vanya!" I let my voice boom a little, worried she might be up to some type of mischief. She can do whatever she wants, but only after my tattoo is done.
"Chill, I won't do anything," she sighs, her shoulders slumping as she comes back.
"Good. If you behave, I might put in a word with father to let you get your own." I mention and her face immediately lights up.
"Promise?" She's quick to interject, and I shake my head in amusement.
"Promise," I chuckle.
Vanya's body has similar markings to mine, and I know she's self-conscious about them, too. Worse than me, there's a scar bisecting her right eye. Over time, it's healed so that now there's only a faint line above and below her lashes.
Still, she's at an age where her appearance is very important to her. While I'd promised I would talk to our father on her behalf, it will not be easy, since she's not allowed to interact with me in any way. Even now, I'm scared that the tattoo artist will tell father about her presence here. But when Vanya gets something in her head, there's nothing I can do about it. I couldn't tell her no when she'd asked to come with me.
When can I say no to her?
She's the only one I have. The only person I can freely talk to.
Over time, things have only gotten worse. I've managed to get my impulses under control, and I've tried my best to assume a more friendly disposition. All in the hopes that people wouldn't run away from me.
It hadn't helped.
Now, more than ever, people seem to be more terrified of me when I try to smile or crack a joke. For all my efforts to assimilate with other people, I'd become even more ostracized.
There's Marcello, but he's different. Although we do get along, I can tell he hates what he does. He does his part of the job, but his eyes are dead inside when that happens.
He's
not like me... He doesn't get the thrill of cutting inside of the human body, the fascination with what hides inside—a million unanswered questions yet the answers are staring us right in the face.
He doesn't understand.
Yet for all his disgust towards our extracurricular activities, he's the only one aside from Vanya that doesn't revile me. He can stare me in the eye and challenge me without fearing I'd slit his throat in a moment of fickleness. He can talk and argue with me, about nothing and everything.
He doesn't realize just how much those little things matter to me. Not when people run away from me the moment I try to open my mouth to talk.
"This should be it," the tattoo artist sighs, leaning back to examine his work. "You need to be careful now," he proceeds to instruct me how to take care for them.
Soon, Vanya and I are out the door and heading back home. The tattoo shop isn't too far from our house, but we take a detour as we sneak down some of the more populated streets of Brighton Beach.
"Wait!" Vanya exclaims as she hurries towards one of the shop windows, looking quite awestruck as she gazes at the dresses on the mannequins.
"You know father will never let you wear something like that," I say, amused, as I nod towards the length of the dress. It barely reaches above the knee, and father has a steadfast rule for all his daughters. Nothing that shows too much skin.
Vanya sighs in frustration, her eyes darting between her drab mid-thigh dress and the one in the shop's window.
"Do you think he'll ever let me wear something like that?" She asks on a rather hopeless tone.
"I doubt it," I answer honestly.
Being the Pakhan of the Brighton Beach Bratva means that father's image must be impeccable. That extends to his own family—especially his daughters. The standards are different, of course, for his sons.
The women of the family must be demure, with a shy disposition and malleable enough to their male counterparts.
The men, on the other hand, show their strength through the amount of violence they can wreck on their enemies, the ruthlessness with which they lead.
As far as that goes, I'm father's model child, even though I know that deep down he's terrified of me. Vanya, on the other hand, is the opposite of everything they stand for, and so far she's managed to hide her dark side well. No one besides me knows what she's truly capable of.
Luckily, my father has my other two sisters, who are the epitome of decorum—sweet and demure.
"Damn it," she curses softly, her eyes still focused on that piece of fabric.
Without even thinking, I grab her hand, going inside the shop and filling her arms with stacks of clothes.
"Go on, try them." I urge her when her eyes widen in question.
"Really?" Her voice is small as she asks and I just nod. "But we don't have money..."
"We do. I do, so don't worry." I assure her, leading her towards the changing rooms.
Her lips tremble slightly and she launches herself at me, her arms going around my neck in a hug.
I close my eyes, relishing the small gesture.
No one touches me.
No one dares, anyway. It's little moments like these that remind me I'm human, with human needs.
When was the last time someone hugged me?
I... don't remember.
Has anyone ever hugged me?
"Go!" I say again, shaking myself from my musings, happy I'd decided to do this for her.
She dashes into the changing room, and the sound of hangers crashing to the floor tells me that she's beyond excited.
A smile plays at my lips as I absorb some of her infectious delight.
Vanya proceeds to show me every single dress, and I give my approval, letting her know she can buy whatever she wants.
I have some money stashed away, and since I don't need it for myself, I can at least spend it on her.
When she's done trying them on, we pay for the dresses and we head out. Before going home, though, I also take her to a drugstore so she can choose something for her face.
Since she's so bothered by her scar, maybe there are ways to cover it up without resorting to tattoos. Stopping in front of the makeup aisle, I help her decide on a shade of powder closer to her skin tone.
When we've also paid for the make-up, the smile she gives me could light up the entire world. So satisfied I am with the turn of events, that I start thinking of what jobs I could do to make more money.
Vanya deserves everything and more.
Hand in hand, we finally go home.
My eyes linger on the piece of the puzzle, trying to visualize the entire picture. It takes me a couple of seconds to imagine all the possibilities and soon the entire puzzle forms itself in my mind. With a sigh, I start putting the pieces in place.
Sometimes I don't even know why I bother with puzzles, since it always takes me the same amount of time to finish them—regardless of the difficulty level.
Since my father had decreed that I'm only allowed to kill with his permission, my spare time has nearly doubled. At first I'd tried reading some textbooks to get my diploma, but even that had been too easy. Having an eidetic memory means I only need to read something once to remember it forever. A bit ironic, considering my own memories are almost non-existent before the age of eight.
I move to the next puzzle, and I study the picture for a second, hoping this one would prove slightly more difficult than the previous one.
I'm focused on solving the puzzle when a bundle of clothes drops in front of me, the already laid out pieces scrambling around.
I frown, slowly raising my gaze to meet father's angry one.
"Why do you have these?" is all I ask, noting it's the same clothes I'd bought Vanya a couple of days ago.
"Why..." father sputters, shaking his head and taking a step back. "Imagine my surprise when your brother told me he saw you carrying a bag full of clothes. Girl's clothes no less," he says, assessing me shrewdly.
Misha... Of course he'd go running to father.
"So what?" I shrug, unperturbed.
"Son," he starts, clearly uncomfortable, "maybe we should have a talk."
I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes at him.
A talk?
When he sees me silently watching him, he releases a fake cough, his eyes darting around suspiciously before speaking again.
"I know you're at an age where..." more fake coughing. I almost want to roll my eyes at him and tell him to spit it out already. "where you're noticing girls," he finally says, and the corner of my mouth quirks up.
So that is the crux of the issue.
My brother's conquests are legendary, if one is to believe the street rumors. There's not a girl he hasn't fucked. Of course, according to the rumors. One look at Misha and you could tell he probably paid people to spread them. And considering the coward he is I bet he even has performance anxiety.
"Indeed," I drawl, leaning back on the palms of my hands and waiting for whatever father clearly has to tell me.
"Maybe I should ask your brother to have a talk with you." He adds thoughtfully after a while, and my face immediately scrunches up in disgust.
"Don't worry about it, father. I am perfectly fine as I am. And I have no interest in..." I pause, choosing my words carefully, "that, at least not yet," I say honestly.
Does he really think any girl would want to associate with me? Grown men go out of their way to avoid me. Girls react the way girls do—they take one look at me and they run off screaming.
Apparently Misha is not the only one with a reputation in the neighborhood.
"Oh," he frowns slightly, eyeing the clothes on the floor.
"Son... are you..." he stammers, and I want to groan out loud. Surely he's not about to ask me about my sexual orientation? "gay?"
I blink once, slowly.
"No." I answer, staring him in the eye. "I'm not gay. Nor am I a transvestite." I add, knowing that's the next thing he'd ask.
"I see," he replies, strength
ening his spine. He is, no doubt, happy he won't be shamed by a gay or gender non-conforming son.
In our culture, admitting to such a thing would be like signing my death warrant, and I know father would be sad to let his favorite weapon go.
Not that I hadn't thought about it too. He's right that I am at an age where I should notice girls, or boys or... someone. But I can't muster the interest for anyone or anything. My thoughts are centered only on my next kill—when, who, and how.
Besides, even if I were, who would dare approach me?
I give him a nod, carefully lifting the clothes off my puzzle and depositing them next to me.
"Vanya's going to kill me," I mutter under my breath, knowing she'll be pissed if anything were to happen to her new clothes.
Father stops dead in his tracks. Half turned; his profile is bathed in shadows as he looks at me strangely.
"What did you just say?" he asks, his words slow and measured.
"Nothing." I lie. I'm not about to throw Vanya under the bus. Not when her presence is the only thing keeping me sane.
"Yes, you did," he continues, coming towards me. His eyes darken, and I'm having a hard time identifying the emotion on his face.
Is he angry? Shocked? Afraid?
His features are drawn up in a combination of all three, and for a moment I find myself unable to react.
"No, I did not," I repeat, keeping up the ruse. For good measure, I even let my lips widen in a small smile.
"Yes, you did. You said your sister's name. I heard you clearly." His hand reaches for my shirt, lifting me up.
Stunned, I look at him confused. This is the first time in years he's willingly touched me. Never mind that it's also the first time he's dared to go against me.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I reply, feigning ignorance.
"You think Ilya didn't tell me about your little adventure at the tattoo shop?" He asks, and I have to keep myself from reacting. It won't do anything but provoke his ire, and it's the last thing I need right now.
I can't afford for him to lock Vanya away or prohibit her from ever visiting me again. That would be unbearable.
"It's not her fault." I immediately start talking. "I convinced her to come with me there. She was worried about upsetting you but I forced her," I look father in the eye as I say this, wanting him to believe my words.
Morally Ambiguous: A Dark Mafia Romance (Morally Questionable Book 4) Page 5