GHOST (Boston Underworld Book 3) (8 page)

V
iktor has paid
me a visit as I knew he would when he received the news. The pakhan rarely makes personal house calls without a good reason. But I gather as he sits in my office that this is the exception.

“I’m beginning to think that I’m losing my own hearing,” he tells me when I finish pouring his drink. “Surely, I’ve been given some misinformation Alexei.”

I fold my hands across the wooden desk and study him. Talia is asleep down the hall. I don’t want her to hear this. Outwardly Viktor appears calm, but inwardly, I can see his anger. I was supposed to marry Katya. It is what everyone believed would happen, even though I never agreed to it.

“I have fulfilled my duties as your councilor and I continue to secure the future of the Vory through my work. But when it comes to who I marry, the choice was mine to make. Katya did not suit me.”

“Why?” he demands. “Because she is well bred? Beautiful? Or is it the fact that she was brought up to do exactly as she was told? Which is remain loyal to this family.”

Loyal, Katya is not. But Viktor is right. She was raised with one purpose. To marry a Vor. Perhaps this is what makes her greedy to sample as many of them as she can, but it is not my place to determine. I will not be responsible for her death, so I keep my lips sealed on the matter.

Which only serves to irritate Viktor further.

“You cannot possibly care for this girl,” he tells me. “She is a whore, Alexei.”

“Enough.” I warn him. “That is my wife you are speaking about. It is done.”

Viktor smirks. He has always found it amusing that I speak freely with him. Most men would not attempt it. But most men don’t know all of Viktor’s secrets. And they are expendable. I am not.

“I am just stating facts,” he says. “No self-respecting man would want other men’s…”

He makes a gesture with his hand, searching for the right word. “Leftovers.”

Beneath the desk, my hand is shaking with the force of my anger. Outwardly, I remain calm. This is the way Viktor speaks of all women. Normally, it does not bother me in the slightest. But I don’t want him speaking that way about Talia.

“She had no choice in the matter,” I tell him.

“And she does now?” he raises a brow at me. “I would like to speak to the girl myself. Understand what it is that made her agree to such an arrangement.”

“You will not be speaking to her.”

He finishes his drink and rises to his feet. “I will,” he says. “But it can wait. Perhaps another time. Meanwhile, you will need to break the news to Anatoly.”

“There are plenty of suitable matches within the Vory,” I inform him. “Perhaps even Nikolai.”

Viktor gives me a curious look, but I maintain a neutral expression.

“Yes, perhaps even Nikolai,” Viktor says. “After all, he has Sergei’s approval. And his ears are intact too, no?”

“It has nothing to do with that.”

“I certainly hope not,” he tells me. “Forever is a long time to lie in the bed you’ve made.”

W
hen Viktor has gone
, I chase his departure with two glasses of cognac. And then I go to check on Talia.

Only, I find her in the hall. Her hand hovered over a burning candle, searing her skin. Emotionless eyes meet mine, and she does not attempt to hide her self-mutilation. Her face is once more cast in a shadow of despondency.

She heard.

I move towards her and remove her hand from the flame before leaning down to blow the candle out. I take her by the arm and walk her back to her room.

Not a word is spoken between us as I apply salve to the burn and she watches me. The questions are in her eyes, but I don’t know how to answer them.

Why did I marry her?

She wants to know. I owe her answers. I want her to know that I do not believe what Viktor said of her. I should tell her. What I give her instead is a soft kiss on the forehead before tucking her into bed.

Yesterday, she smiled. And today, she wants to die all over again.

Because of me.

I
’ve taken
to roaming the house at night. When everyone is asleep, and it’s only me and the moon to keep me company. Sometimes, Alexei is still in his office. Passed out on his desk.

He drinks often at night, reliving his own memories, I think. I want to know the ghosts of his past. The things that haunt him. If only to take the focus off of my own demons for once.

Tonight, when I peek through his doorway, hidden in shadows, I find something else entirely.

He is sitting at his desk, but he is not asleep. His pants are unzipped, and he is gripping his cock in his fist. Pleasuring himself. His eyes are closed, his head leaned back against the chair. The muscles of his forearm tense with each harsh pull, and a jolt shoots through my body at the sight.

Sex has always been a coping mechanism for me. The only way I could connect to a man. I want to connect with Alexei. I want him to want to fuck me.

But then his friend Viktor’s words filter through my mind.

Dirty. Filthy. Whore.

That’s what I am. Why would Alexei want me?

I wonder who it is he thinks of when he pleasures himself. My husband.

Katya?

I don’t know who she is. But the very name produces a fire inside of me that I can’t put out.

Alexei grunts, and his hips flex upwards. I slide my fingers into my shorts and breach the barrier of my panties. Already, I am wet for him. I touch myself while I watch him.

His breathing is changing. Growing harsher. Faster. He’s almost there. And I’m nowhere near it.

I can’t get myself off anymore. It’s been too long since I’ve even tried. But I want to touch. To feel. To watch this secret part of him that he keeps hidden away. Someone in their most vulnerable and intimate moments.

He is jerking himself roughly. Angrily. At war with his lust. Something is holding him back from his pleasure. With a frustrated groan, he fumbles for the remote on his desk and opens his eyes, focusing his attention on the screen for a brief moment.

And that’s all it takes. He comes with a harsh growl, spurting into his fist. I’m transfixed by the sight of him like this.

Exhausted, he leans his head back against the chair and closes his eyes again. And I finally move my attention to the screen, to see what it is that pushed him over the edge.

What I find scares and thrills me.

The girl on the screen is me. Standing in his gym two days ago, smiling. For only the briefest of seconds. A freeze frame from a security camera I never knew existed.

My mind cannot handle the overwhelming emotions that spring up inside of me. So I retreat. The same way that I always do.

A
lexei has given me a computer
.

Not directly, but through Magda. It is small and thin, with a silver casing. I have not opened it. But I like to feel the smooth surface beneath my palm.

Magda explained that if there were clothes or anything I’d like to purchase, that I could do so through this device. Before any hope sprang up inside of me, she informed me that all the packages would be received by her and Franco and not to try anything questionable.

There isn’t a single purchase that I’d like to make. But there is something else inside of that computer. An answer to a question whispering at the back of my mind.

I’m tracing over the tiny apple emblem when Alexei’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

“You have not used it.”

I don’t answer him, but I do look up. Today, he is dressed for going out. The same black jacket and gray flat cap on his head as when we first met.

Alexei never leaves.

In my eyes, nothing else exists outside of this world he’s built for us. These walls and this space which harbors me and keeps me safe. But he is the gatekeeper. And when he is gone that safe feeling flees with him. And the thought of him doing so now sends a small sliver of fear through me. I don’t understand why. He doesn’t miss it. And like always, I wonder how he reads me so well.

“I will only be away for a short while,” he says. “Franco will remain here to look out for you, as well as Magda.”

I nod, though his words do nothing to dissipate my fear. Every breath I take feels forced, stilted… as if my lungs have given up. I’ve lost the will to breathe. He promised he would keep me safe. But then I think of Arman. How unlikely it is he will ever let me go. What if he came here? I haven’t been counting. Or planning.

I need to do that.

Because Arman will come. Alexei’s words mean nothing to me. Just as Dmitri’s and all of the others before him. Words are nothing. Even the vows of marriage cannot protect me. Shield me. Or even repair me. And I must die.

“Talia?” Alexei’s voice is closer now, and when I blink his fingers are on my face. Warm and strong. I don’t say anything, but I don’t need to. He seems to understand what I’m thinking, and I don’t like that. He is hesitant to leave now.

“I’m tired,” I tell him. “I want to lay down.”

He nods and pulls back the covers for me, helping me into bed. And then he pauses. His eyes on mine. My eyes are on his lips. Wondering if he thinks they are dirty now because I kissed him. Wondering what he sees when he looks at me the way he is looking at me right now. My fingers are moving over the star on my hand. Exactly the way he taught me to. He doesn’t miss it.

“I’ll be back soon,” he repeats softly.

And then he retreats.

I lay in the stillness of the house, waiting for the sound of the front door to close. In the time it takes the organ in my chest to beat sixty times, he is gone. And I’m staring up at the ceiling. Thinking of Arman. And the questions in my mind. The desire to know more of Alexei, and the emotions I feel rising to the surface the longer I avoid the thing that needs to be done.

Before I can really question what I’m doing, I move down the hall to his office. I know he has alcohol in there. I tell myself that’s what I’m seeking out.

I can hear Magda downstairs in the kitchen, and there is no sign of Franco. The door is open. All of the screens are off. And I step inside.

His scent still lingers in the space. The large oak desk is well worn, with lines that tell a story of who this man is. A constant companion over the years, it seems.

I sit down in the chair and glance at the drawers. They are all locked. One of the few things that poses no obstacle to me. I had a good teacher. A friend. A distant face that I think of sometimes, but pretend doesn’t exist.

Because it’s easier that way. It’s easier to die knowing that nobody cares.

I retrieve a bobby pin from my hair and go to work on the first drawer. It doesn’t take long for the skill to come back to me as if it were yesterday. When I was just a kid on the street. Always looking for my next meal. My next aversion to the constant well of pain inside of me.

The drawer yields nothing but a black notebook and some pens. Addresses, names, and a makeshift ledger with neat scrawls of penmanship across the blank pages. I put it back and move to the big drawer. The one on the bottom. A file drawer.

It opens. That organ in my chest beats again. Harder.

There are only two files inside. Two brown paper files.

My fingers hesitate to touch, but my brain demands answers. So I pick them up. Neither has a name. Or anything noted on the blank space where it should be. My mouth is dry when I glance at the door and open the first.

What I find is worse than I expected. More than I can handle.

The pages of my life. Summarizing my existence into a series of mercilessly blunt chapters. Birth certificate, health records. But worst of all are the photos of my family. Of my mother and my siblings. The newspaper records printed in black and white. And then the careless notes of the case worker who handed me off to anyone who would take me.

I keep flipping through the pages. Catching only words and fragments of sentences as they collide with images in the story of my life.

Murdered. Tragedy. Children. Monster.

Disappeared.

Then there are photos. My airway is choking the life out of me. I can’t breathe.

That little girl. It isn’t me. I don’t know her. That isn’t me.

Those faces. Four angels. My mother’s halo of hair in the bathtub, her eyes open and the only smile I ever saw on her face. My lips are singing the words as I examine the photos I never knew existed. Angels in the morning.

Crime scene.

My eyes are flickering open and shut, and my body is rocking back and forth in the chair. Footsteps move in time to the beat inside my head.

Muffled words. A curse.

And then a hand, reaching out to take what isn’t his to take.

I claw at the files, and he pulls. The paper rips, and pieces of my life rain to the floor. I’m on my knees, crawling around in a frantic effort to conceal them. He doesn’t deserve to see. He doesn’t deserve to know these things. And I don’t want to remember.

I reach for a photo just as a strong arm wraps around my waist. But it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

This is not my mother in the bathtub. This is someone else. Another woman in a different bathtub.

And there’s blood. So much blood. Murky red water and a face I don’t recognize. The photo is snatched from my hand before I have a chance to make sense of it.

“Breathe.” I hear through the haze of my confusion.

My chest is heaving hard. Deep in the grips of a panic attack. Something I have not experienced since I was a child.

There is no breath in my lungs. I’m clawing at my throat, and he grabs my hands.

“Shh, shh, shh….” The words are whispered into my ear as his hand rubs my back.

The attack ebbs away with the soothing tide of his voice. I open my eyes and meet pale blue. And something else returns as I jerk away from him.

Anger.

My lip trembles when I speak. “This is why you took me.”

It’s the only sentence I can manage to get out. But it means so much more. And the guilt and shame in his eyes leave no doubts to the answer.

He could never love me. Because I’m damaged beyond repair. And he wanted a wife in name only. I don’t want him, I tell myself. I don’t want any of this.

“You had no right to know me!” I scream. “You don’t know anything about me!”

“I know everything about you,” he answers.

“I hate you!” I charge at him and the surprise makes us both tumble to the floor in a heap. “I want to cut your name out of my skin!”

I want to hurt him, the way he has hurt me. But instead, a split second of luck gives me the opportunity I need. He’s wearing his shoulder holster. And a gun. I take it before he regains his composure and scramble backwards on my legs, into the corner of the room.

He’s watching me.

And smiling. It’s not a normal smile. And it doesn’t fade even when I shove the gun up beneath my chin, meeting his gaze.

He moves closer. Slowly. Daring me with his eyes. Challenging me. Like he doesn’t believe I’ll do it.

I want to do it. It’s what I’ve been wanting for so long. So I don’t know why I’m frozen. Why I can’t let go of his gaze and just pull the trigger.

“Your move, Solnyshko,” he taunts me.

I don’t reply. And I can’t stop shaking. He moves closer still. And now my hand is trembling. Watching him watch me with disbelieving eyes.

“You want me to do it?” he asks.

Alexei sees the indecision on my face. And he revels in it. He moves too close. Capturing my wrists before I can do anything, trapping me in place with his too large body. Then he’s lying on top of me, pinning me against the floor. Rejoicing in my failure. Mocking me with his eyes.

“Do you want to drown, baby?” he asks.

“No,” I answer. “I want to fly.”

“You know I’ll never let you go,” he tells me. “Maybe I need this angel here with me, yes?”

“I hate you!” I scream in his face again.

I don’t expect anything from him. But he flinches. A visible reaction to my words that proves he isn’t the only one with power. I take this knowledge and run with it. I keep screaming the words over and over. His hand comes down on my face and he squeezes hard, forcing my lips together so I can’t speak. The gun in his hand caresses my cheek and down the sensitive flesh of my throat, soft and deadly.

“Do it,” I murmur beneath his hand.

He digs the gun into my flesh, holding my jaw in place with the force of it. For a minute, it looks like he is actually debating it. But instead, he grabs me by the hair with his free hand and holds me in place while he kisses me.

It isn’t nice. It isn’t sweet.

It’s pure rage and chemistry. He wants to hate fuck me right now. I would let him.

In fact, I want him to.

But in the end, he decides against it.

And then the only sound in the room is his heavy breathing and my angry sobs. He saw my weakness. He saw my past. And now he thinks he knows me. Thinks he can use me. Just like Dmitri did. Like everyone has always done.

“Go to your room.”

He moves away from me. There is still anger on his face as he gathers up the photos, but he has no right to be.

“I hate you!” I tell him again.

His shoulders tense, and my body trembles under the anger in his gaze. Directed at me.

“As you should,” he answers. “Because I will destroy what is left of you.”

I blink. And there are tears on my cheeks. Wetness. I hate that he’s made me cry in front of him. That he’s made me feel things he has no right to. Dug around in my past and my life. I need validation. That my thoughts are right. That my deepest fears are right.

That people will always disappoint you. And that hope is the most dangerous thing of all.

“You picked me,” I tell him. “You picked me because of those things. You took a whore for a wife because you knew you could never love me.”

His face is blank. Devoid of the hurt I thought I saw only a few moments ago.

“Yes,” he answers.

The tiny bit of peace I thought I’d found in this sanctuary withers under his words and turns to dust. My feet are moving and my mind is repeating the only words that can bring me comfort now.

One day. One line.

One angel.