GHOST (Boston Underworld Book 3) (7 page)

I
’m staring
at the pages of a book when Magda comes in with lunch. When I take one look at what’s on the menu, I frown. Fish, again. With another heaping of sour cream. Always with the sour cream and fish.

“I’m not hungry,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. “You must eat every meal. At least a little bit.”

“I don’t like fish.”

“Mr. Nikolaev insists you eat it until you are feeling better.”

I don’t reply, so she sets down the tray and moves towards the door. There’s a part of me that wants to keep my distance. But Magda has been kind to me. She has seen me at my worst, and when she looks at me, there is no judgment in her eyes.

“Magda?”

My soft voice stops her, and she turns in surprise. “Yes?”

I want to tell her something. But I don’t know what.

“Why are the windows bulletproof?” is the thing that comes out of my mouth.

Magda glances at the window. “How could you tell?”

I tap on the glass. “Because Arman had the same.”

What I don’t tell her is that I discovered this when I tried to throw myself out of one of them unsuccessfully.

“Mr. Nikolaev will not take any chances with your safety,” she says. “It is for all of our protection. This house is more secure than any other place you could ever imagine.”

To demonstrate, she pulls back the heavy door to my room that is never fully shut. “Do you see these strips?” she points out. “They are magnetic. Reinforced steel. This room is for your protection, Talia, although you do not need it. Mr. Nikolaev would never allow anyone to get this close to you.”

I nod and she smiles. There’s hope in her eyes, which is a dangerous thing. I can’t allow her to think she will fix me. I have disappointed anyone who ever looked at me that way before.

I reach for my tray and focus on the food. Magda leaves, and only once she is out of earshot do I tell her thank you.

A
nother two weeks
pass with the monotony of the same pattern. Wake, eat, sleep, repeat. My body has returned to a healthier state, but my mind is the same as it always has been. Diseased. Toxic.

I’m growing restless. Alexei has not come to see me since he made me his wife. Sometimes, I venture outside of my room. Not very far. Only the level I’m on so far. The house is large, and inside it looks like a castle. Stone floors and walls and rich colors and furnishings. There are three bedrooms on the second floor as well as Alexei’s office. And when I pass him, or even linger just outside the doorway, he doesn’t seem to notice me. I’m like an apparition in this house. Moving around unseen.

But I notice him. I’m starting to notice more about him the longer I am here. The blue of his gaze when he settles his eyes on me. The line of his jaw. The scent that seems to linger around the house even when he isn’t in the room. The ever present reminder of him.

I am curious.

He is mafia. But he never leaves his house. There are computer screens that take up an entire wall in his office. I don’t know what he does. Something with computers. He is smart. I can tell by the way he examines the numbers and makes notes. Often, he and Franco can be found playing chess in his office too.

Magda takes care of all of us. She cooks and cleans and keeps the household running. Franco does as Alexei bids I gather as he leaves the house more frequently. They all have their jobs. Their reasons for being. All except me.

I pretend to read. And contemplate my own plans. Sometimes, the urge isn’t there anymore. To hurt myself. To free myself. And that worries me.

I need to bring it back. I can’t get too comfortable. This is not reality.

So when I step out of the shower, I do something I haven’t done before. I move to the mirror above the sink. The one still covered with a towel.

With a trembling hand, I reach up and pull it down. And staring back at me, is the stark cold reminder of my true reality. I don’t recognize that woman. She is gaunt, with protruding bones and pale skin. Covered in scars and fading bruises.

I touch my cheeks, and so does she. And I hate her. I hate her so much I wish she would just disappear. I ball my hand into a fist and slam it into her reflection. The glass shatters, and blood drips from my knuckles when I stumble back a step. But it isn’t enough. It’s not enough for the rage that’s bubbling up inside.

So I lean down and scoop up one of the fragments and drag it over my arm seven times. Before I can count eight, Alexei is in the doorway, his expression horrified and angry.

His eyes flicker down to the shard of glass now aimed at my wrist.

“Don’t,” I warn him as he takes a step.

He ignores me. I dig the tip into my skin, but I am weak. Because he pries it from me easily and tosses it to the floor. When I look up at him, my lip trembles. The veil of numbness is gone now, and my knees are about to buckle. He senses it and grabs me just before I fall.

I’m pulled against his chest, smearing my blood all over his shirt. He holds me tighter, and his hand comes up to smooth over my hair. His touch is gentle and kind even though his eyes were angrier than I’d ever seen them. And it’s all that it takes to send me over the edge.

I cry. I cry hard, clinging to his chest for support. In the tiny part of my rational mind, a voice is whispering to me.
Don’t get too close. Don’t let him see you like this.

But the emotions are too strong. He holds me and whispers in my ear. It’s in Russian, so I have no idea what he’s saying. His voice is soothing. And it scares me. Magda comes into the room and gasps at the sight before her, and I am grateful for the interruption.

“Talia,” she says. “Come, come. I will tend to your wounds.”

“I will take care of it, Magda,” Alexei informs her.

She glances at him, and something passes between them.

“Are you sure?” she asks carefully.

He nods, and she seems hesitant, but she goes. And I wish it was her staying instead of him. It’s dangerous to be alone with this man who right now feels like a source of comfort. Like he could be the remedy for the chaos inside of my head. My calm in the storm.

He told me himself that this marriage is for the sake of tradition without any of the complications. This is a complication. The wife he married is damaged and broken. Unrepairable.

How could he not know that?

He leads me over to the same chair that Magda sat me in when I arrived. I focus on the tiny rivers of red on my arm. Alexei returns and cleans the wounds thoroughly and harshly. He wants to punish me, I think. When I peek up at him from beneath my hair, I notice the anger has returned to his eyes.

His thoughts are faraway. And I wonder what it is about this that reminds him of something else. He stitches the wounds next, with a steady and practiced hand. It sparks my curiosity further, but I don’t ask him about it.

When he is finished, he leads me to the closet and chooses a set of pajamas for me.

“Put those on,” he instructs me.

I do as I’m told and he doesn’t watch. I wonder if there is any part of him that finds any part of me attractive. He is handsome. With strong cheekbones and a prominent jaw. Pale blue eyes that fascinate me at times and annoy me at others. But at times he seems as dead as I am. Like right now. In a closet with the half-naked woman before him. He does not flaunt his good looks, but he does seem to hide something else behind them.

When I am dressed, he puts me back to bed like a child. The disappointed expression on his face irks me. He has no right to be disappointed in me.

He calls out for Magda, and she appears in the doorway as though she were waiting just outside. He speaks to her in more Russian. Words I don’t understand, but get the gist of anyway.

She’s not to let me out of her sight.

I
tip
the bottle of cognac towards my glass, but nothing comes out. Through unfocused eyes, there’s a vague understanding in my mind that I drank it all.

Both of their files are laid out on my desk. Like a puzzle I cannot figure out. I’ve studied each of them closely, and the only conclusion I have reached is that I need more cognac. Part of my brain tells me this is the process. That it will be worse before it gets better. The other part, the logical one, tells me that I have failed already.

A shadow falls over my door, blocking out the light from the hall. When I look up, Magda is standing in front of my desk.

“Alyoshka.”

There is pain in her eyes. For me. From anyone else, I would not tolerate it. But Magda knows me better than anyone else. She reaches for the empty bottle on my desk and shakes her head in disappointment. And then her eyes move to the files, side by side.

She takes a seat across the desk and appraises me. “They are not computer data,” she says. “You cannot analyze these files and find an answer.”

“I already have the answer,” is my drunken reply.

She looks at me with disgust and maternal outrage. “The answer is not you.”

The photos from my past tell me otherwise. My gaze moves to the drawing inside the first folder. In my childlike brain, I believed that some pencils and paper could make up for the damage I had caused. The scratchy lines compose a house, in a field of purple flowers. Her favorite color. I told her I would buy her that house someday. And she rejected my gift. My last gift to her.

Magda reaches over and closes the file, obscuring my past behind thick brown paper.

“They are not the same,” she tells me.

When I look at the woman across from me, with the kind eyes, I wonder how I have not failed her too. She took me in. She cared for me in my darkest hour. And still, here she is. The only person in my life I have not tainted.

“You need to keep her alive,” I order.

This only angers her further.

“You know better than anyone that you simply cannot force someone to have the will to live. Especially not after what she has been through.”

Her words frustrate me too. If anyone can save her, I know Magda can.

“I worry about you,” Magda tells me. “This girl is bringing your past back. You believe you can save her with material things. But this is not the way.”

“Then what is the way?” I ask.

Magda sighs and stands up. “She needs the one thing that nobody else in her life has ever given to her. The one thing that even you are not willing to give.”

There’s a pause where a deep sadness flickers through her eyes. “She needs love, Alyoshka.”

A
lexei is avoiding me
.

My cuts are healing, and every time I touch the stitches, I think of him. About the look that passed between him and Magda that day. About the secrets he is keeping.

These thoughts help me not to focus on myself.

True to Magda’s word, she brings me food any time I’m hungry. But it’s always the same things. Fish or chicken. Berries and nuts and greens.

I waste some time painting since Alexei obviously intended for this to be some type of therapy. I paint every canvas blood red. When Magda sees them, she frowns. There is disappointment in her eyes, and it irritates me.

“I need more red paint,” I tell her.

“Why don’t you go explore the house,” she suggests. “I could give you a tour if you like.”

I fidget with the paintbrush in my hands to avoid her hopeful expression.

“I might go later.”

She nods and then does something unexpected. She pats me on the shoulder and gives me a little squeeze.

“You remind me so much of him at times,” she says. “When he first came to live with me.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Alyoshka,” she answers. “Alexei. You two are more alike than either of you realize.”

There is warmth in her eyes when she says it. And pain too.

I look away, and she leaves the room.

A
fter lunch
, I do as Magda suggested and explore the rest of the house.

There are three levels, and I suspect a basement as well. After exploring the first, I discover something new. A gym. The only piece of equipment inside is a solitary punching bag hanging from the ceiling. It isn’t the bag, but the man punching it that captures my attention.

Alexei.

He is wearing a pair of black pants and nothing else. And for the first time, I see his extensive tattoos. Some intricate, some simple. There are a mixture of black and other colors climbing up his back, chest, and biceps. There is an urge inside of me to study them. To explore him. Like a puzzle, I want to decipher each and every one of his mysteries.

I want to know the feeling of his body beneath my hands. The chest and back that are broad and strong and glistening with sweat. It is an urge I have not had since Dmitri. This kind of want is unfamiliar. This kind of want is dangerous to me and alluring in the worst kind of way.

He doesn’t seem to hear me, even when I step inside and the mat creaks beneath my foot. It is only a moment later that his gaze catches mine in the mirror. He freezes, and then slowly turns toward me.

“Talia?”

There is concern in his voice. He wants to know what I’m doing in here. I wish I had an answer.

“I’m sick of fish,” I tell him.

“Is good for brain chemistry,” he replies.

I tilt my head to the side and examine him. “Is that the polite way of telling me that I’m crazy?”

A ghost of a smile appears on his lips, and he shrugs. “Maybe a little bit.”

I smile too. And it scares the ever living shit out of both of us. My hair falls in a cascade around my face when I tilt it down and tap my toes against the mat.

“Don’t hide from me,” Alexei says.

And when I look up, he is in front of me. His fingers find my chin, and he pushes my hair away from my face.

“Never hide from me.”

His face is close to mine, and we are both studying each other. I want to know things about him. Things that I’m not privy to.

“I need you to take my stitches out,” I say.

He picks up my arm and smooths his fingers over the healed cuts. “Magda…”

“I want you to do it.”

His pale blue eyes search mine for answers, but I don’t have any to give. So he simply nods and takes me by the hand, leading me upstairs to my bedroom.

“Sit on the bed,” he instructs.

And I do. My legs dangle over the edge since the bed is tall and I am short. I watch Alexei disappear into the bathroom and return a moment later. He kneels before me with the scissors, and I hand over my arm freely. While he works, I study his tattoos.

“What do they mean?” I ask him.

He looks up at me, and it seems like he didn’t hear me. There is concern in his eyes, but I’m not sure why.

“Your tattoos,” I clarify.

Again, he remains silent. The way he did at Arman’s. He seems tense. And I can’t help but feel like I’m missing something here. Either he doesn’t want to talk about them, or he didn’t understand me.

“You want to know about my tattoos?” he asks.

I nod when he looks up at me.

“The stars on my shoulders I received when I became a Vor,” he tells me. “I have them on my knees, as well. And it is the same reason you also wear my star. To let others know you belong to a Vor. But, more importantly, to me.”

My pulse beats a little faster when he says those words. So full of ownership. But not like Arman. With Alexei, it is different, and I don’t know why. I feel like those words mean he will protect me. Like he promised he would. But that’s a dangerous thought to allow.

“What about the ones on your hands?” I ask.

“These signify my crimes. The time I spent in prison. The rose on my shoulder means that I turned eighteen in prison.”

“What for?” I ask.

“You are a curious kitten,” he remarks, but there is the hint of a smile on his face. “Now that you are speaking.”

I shrug and wait for him to answer. He watches me carefully as he speaks, gauging my reaction.

“You must serve time in prison to become a Vor. It is the old way of doing things. The tradition was still valued at the time I wished to be inducted. So I hacked into a bank at sixteen and diverted the funds of a corrupt politician.”

“So you got caught on purpose?” I ask.

“Yes. But it was nothing. Just a few years. Every Vor must do his time.”

I don’t understand it, but it makes sense to him. He finishes quickly. Too quickly. And I don’t want him to leave yet. So I lean forward into his space and kiss him. The tools in his hands are discarded on the floor, and then he’s on top of me, pressing me back into the bed.

It happens fast. And he kisses me hard. I kiss him back. My hands are in his hair, and his tongue is in my mouth. He is hard against my stomach. And my body aches for him in a way that terrifies me.

But he pulls away abruptly, his eyes wild and confused.

I press my fingers to my lips, never allowing my gaze to leave his as he hovers over me.

“Not yet,” he tells me.

And then he gets up and leaves the room.