Chapter Twenty-Six
“Boss?”
“Yes, Seven?”
“Are you sure about this?”
Whoever said there were no such things as stupid questions was wrong. I’ve heard some stupid questions in my life. Usually they come in clusters: Why do you have that gun? What are you doing? Are you going to kill me? Uh, duh. I’m sure as hell not going to shoot myself. The fear of death, you know, it tends to override common sense, which makes the end, for some, pretty damn pathetic. Oh God, why are you doing this? How could you? BANG.
Certainly not the kind of ‘last words’ I want to have.
And Seven, well, I have respect for the guy, but he’s notorious for asking stupid questions.
“Do I look sure about this?”
“Yes,” he says right away.
“Well, there you go, then.”
Truthfully, I’m not sure at all, but I’d never let anyone know that, not even Seven.
And before you say shit, I’m well aware that I just told you, but you don’t count so stop trying to inject yourself into the damn story. This is an important moment.
The house before me is pretty damn big. Three stories tall, wide and square in shape, isolated from the other houses in the neighborhood, off toward the waterfront just along the outskirts of Brighton Beach. It’s dark out, a pitch-black night where the clouds overshadow everything, but the front of the house is illuminated.
The top two floors are completely blacked out, but downstairs I see some dim lights on through the blinds in some of the windows. He’s home. I know he is. He invited me over. And he’s not alone, like I knew he wouldn’t be, so that doesn’t bother me.
What does bother me, though, is that it all looks so normal. Just once I want to show up somewhere and the place be a dungeon, with guillotines and torture chambers. Hell, give me a fucking dragon. I’ll slay it. But no, it’s always this, always a mask of normalcy they wear with ease.
I get it, you know. I’m a hypocrite. Look at where I live. But we can’t all be soccer moms driving mini-vans, downing prescription pills with entire bottles of Merlot. Some of us are just crack whores swigging fifths of vodka on street corners.
If it walks like a duck, if it quacks like a duck, it’s a fucking duck, you know what I’m saying? And just once I want to shoot a goddamn duck.
Figuratively speaking.
Yeah, we’ve swung back around to the animal metaphors. What can I say? My life is exhausting.
“Come on,” I tell Seven. “Can’t be late for our date with the Stepford wife.”
Seven trails me as I walk the path straight to the front door of the mansion. A doormat lies there, something written in Russian on it. Might say ‘fuck off’ but it probably says ‘welcome’, since he’s in the business of pretending to be accommodating.
I try the knob out of habit. It’s locked up tight. The peephole, I can tell it’s a camera, which tells me the whole place is probably wired. A chime echoes through the house when I press the doorbell, loud enough that I can hear it, and it takes damn near a minute for whoever’s answering to undo all of the locks on the door and disarm an alarm system.
That’s a hell of a lot of security.
The door opens.
Brother Bear is standing there. Markel.
He’s squinting, his right eyelid swollen, the eye horribly bloodshot. Laughter bursts out of me, making him grow rigid.
“Condolences on the eye,” I say, pointing at his face. “You’re just a step away from being me, buddy. You ought to be more careful.”
“You think this is funny?” he growls, coming at me when a voice shouts out from inside the house.
“Markel! Where are your manners?”
“My manners?” Markel asks, stepping back, out of the way, as Aristov approaches the door.
“Yes,” Aristov says. “Mister Scar is our guest.”
“He laughed at me!”
“I laughed at your eye,” I correct him. “I don’t really find you funny, Baloo.”
He looks as if he wants to attack me, but Aristov grabs his shoulder, pulling him away from the door. “Now is not the time, Markel.”
Markel grumbles to himself, storming off.
“You will have to excuse my brother,” Aristov says. “He is usually our voice of reason, but he is a little upset tonight. A certain little pussycat clawed him when he tried to bring her home.”
Seven clears his throat behind me, saying, “Morgan.”
“Morgan,” Aristov repeats with a dry laugh. “Such a plain name for someone so… colorful.”
The way he words that makes my muscles twitch. It was deliberate, without a doubt.
“Anyway, join me,” Aristov says, moving aside, motioning into the house.
I step past him, right inside.
I know what you’re thinking. Idiot, right? Walking into another lion’s den, like it’s nothing. But something you ought to know is this isn’t the first time I’ve done it. A lion is more comfortable in his home, surrounded by his pride, and when he gets comfortable, his guard goes down. He’s confident, which becomes cocky, because he thinks he can’t be touched, and cocky turns into careless, which works to my advantage.
Besides, what’s the worst that can happen?
He shoots me, BANG, dead?
I’ll just come back and haunt the son of a bitch.
Seven follows me inside, and I see him visibly tense when Aristov shuts the door, taking the time to secure all the locks and rearm the alarm system.
“Join me in the den,” Aristov says, glancing at me. “We can speak privately there.”
I follow him with Seven on my heels the entire way.
As soon as we step inside, Aristov’s gaze flickers to Seven. “I will not harm your boss. Promise. So you can relax, help yourself to a drink in the kitchen, make yourself at home.”
“I’ll pass,” Seven says, a hard edge to his voice.
Aristov smiles. “Suit yourself, Mister Pratt.”
Pratt.
Bruno Pratt is Seven’s given name, something they clearly know. Aristov did his homework. He knows more than he should.
Reaching to the floor, Aristov grabs a black duffel bag and drops it on top of a square wooden table, surrounded by leather furniture. It lands with a thud. He unzips it, shoving it open, flashing the contents.
Money.
A lot of money.
Stacks and stacks of money.
“A million dollars,” he says, matter of fact, answering an unasked question as he takes a seat in one of the chairs. “All hundred dollar bills.”
My gaze shifts from the money to Aristov. “You doubled the reward.”
He nods. “All you have to do is give me her location so I can bring her home.”
“Home, huh? She told me home was a white house with a red door and wood floors. This doesn’t really fit the bill, Aristotle.”
His expression freezes on his face, his smile like plastic. “That was never her home.”
“You sure about that?”
He leans back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “My sweet girl, she does not know what is best for her.”
“But you do?”
“Of course. Everything I do is for her own good.”
This is for your own good. How many times did I hear those words? Too many, and never once were they genuine. For your own good was synonymous with violence in my life for way too many years.
“What do you want her for?” Seven asks, chiming in. “That’s a lot of money. She must’ve done something to deserve it.”
Aristov looks at him. “You are married, Mr. Pratt, correct? You have a family, yes?”
Seven doesn’t answer, just staring at him, but that’s as good as a ‘yes’ to Aristov.
“I imagine you do everything for them,” Aristov continues. “I am the same way. We are not much different. I do what I must for the ones I love.”
“You love her?” Seven asks. “That’s what you’re saying?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Aristov says. “I love the suka to death.”
Suka.
That word sticks to my mind.
“Seven, why don’t you go get that drink,” I suggest. “Give me a moment alone with him.”
Seven hesitates, like he doesn’t want to go, but he walks out after a moment, leaving me.
Strolling over, I sit down in an empty chair near Aristov, already tired of this little game he’s trying to play. I help myself to a bottle of liquor from the table, examining the label. Russian. “Vodka, I’m guessing?”
Aristov regards me curiously. “Of course.”
It’s half-empty, piss warm, but it doesn’t matter. I crack it open, taking a swig straight from the bottle, and hiss at the intense burn that hits my chest when I swallow.
Aristov laughs. “Good?”
“Strong.”
He swipes the bottle from me and takes a big drink, guzzling it like he’s sucking down water.
“Vodka is like a woman,” he says, pulling bottle from his lips.
“The rougher, the better?”
He offers it to me again. “So you understand.”
Shrugging, I take it back, taking another sip, letting the burn buzz through my system. My tolerance is pretty damn high, since Cuban rum flows through my blood on the regular, but Russian vodka is a whole different ballgame. It’s like gasoline. Paint thinner. I can feel it, my body humming. I’m pretty sure that’s what he wants. He thinks we’re bonding. He thinks if I get drunk, I’ll slip up, but he doesn’t know me.
I’m not giving him shit.
My gaze scans the room as I drink. Aristov is talking, just rambling away about more ways women are like vodka—like how the emptier the bottle gets, the better he feels. I pretend to listen until, well, I don’t give a shit to pretend anymore. Sooner or later he’ll get the message, and I’d prefer it to be sooner rather than later. The only reason I bothered coming is to solve Scarlet’s problem.
My gaze drifts toward a fireplace along the wall, feeling the warmth radiating from the flames, smelling a hint of the woodsy smoke. I admire the fire for as he yammers away before my attention again shifts, this time to the mantle above it.
A teddy bear sits there.
I’m not even kidding.
It’s obviously old, stuffing springing out of holes, missing a goddamn eye, and filthy from scruffy head to charred foot. It’s out of place, surrounded by all of this forced elegance.
Serial killers, you know, they sometimes keep souvenirs. Trophies, they call them, reminders of the shit they’ve done so they can relive the moments again and again. Jewelry. Panties. Photographs. Body parts. Whatever got them off, whatever got the blood pumping down below.
And this bear, glowing like a beacon on the mantle, is screaming trophy at me. My insides coil, my stomach churning more and more the more I look at it. We’re talking about a man with a reputation for trafficking women. He’s in the business of selling bodies. I’m putting nothing past him.
If that bear indicates what my mind is conjuring, I’ll burn this house to the ground with all of us inside of it, just so I die with the pleasure of being able to usher that asshole personally straight to hell in the fire.
“Buster.”
The sound of his voice, louder now, draws my attention. I glance back at Aristov, raising an eyebrow in question. Buster?
“The bear,” he says casually, helping himself to the bottle clutched in my hand, pulling it from my grasp. “It is named Buster.”
“You named the fucking thing?”
He laughs. “I did not name it. It came with the name. A stupid one, I say, but what do you expect from a little girl with so much stupid in her blood?”
He laughs, yet again, the sound running through me, striking something raw and setting me off. I don’t think, just react, pulling my gun out and cocking the son of a bitch, aiming it at his forehead.
Seconds. Mere seconds. That was all it took. My finger hovers on the trigger, lightly pressing it. I’ll blow his fucking brains out.
What kind of sick fuck messes with a little girl?
He stares at me.
He doesn’t cower.
Doesn’t beg.
Doesn’t ask those stupid questions I always get.
No, he takes a swig of vodka, a slight smile on his lips, and just waits, like he doesn’t think I’ll do it. I’m not a man who hesitates, but I’m also not a man used to dealing with such fearlessness.
After a few seconds, while he’s still breathing, he pulls the bottle from his lips, pointing it at me as he asks, “Did she tell you about her?”
“Who?”
“My Morgan,” he says. “Your Scarlet. That is what you call her, no?”
“What about her?”
“Did she tell you about Sasha?”
Sasha.
I don’t answer that, having no idea what he’s talking about, but that’s all the answer he needs.
He laughs yet again.
“Oh, no, of course she has not told you,” he says. “Why would she? Silly man, with a gun... go ahead, shoot me. She will be heartbroken when you do. You will be killing her, too. Either way, I win.”
Before I can do anything, he shoves up from the chair, his forehead momentarily pressing against the muzzle as he rises to his feet. I keep the gun trained on him as he strolls over to the fireplace. He hesitates, standing there, staring at the mantle, before he grabs the bear. His hand wraps around the thing, clutching it by the neck as he approaches.
He drops it on the table in front of me.
“Take it,” he says. “It is only collecting dust here now. I am sure it will make Morgan happy to see it again.”
He steps by me to walk away. I keep the gun trained on him, but I still don’t pull the trigger.
Color me curious. “Who’s Sasha?”
Aristov stalls in the doorway, glancing back at me. I don’t expect him to answer, figuring he’ll give me some line about asking Scarlet, when he lets out a deep sigh and says, “My daughter, of course.”
Daughter.
Of course.
Puzzle pieces I never bothered to connect shove themselves together, like I should’ve already riddled out the bigger picture here. The man has a daughter, and it’s not taking a genius to figure out where he might’ve gotten that daughter.
Or rather, who gave him that daughter.
I saw the scar on her stomach.
I see it every time she takes off her clothes.
It’s there, more prominent than the other scars peppering her body, but she’s never brought it up, so I always let it go. Whatever story is behind it must be one she doesn’t want to tell. Because I’ve given her ample opportunity to spill it. Tell me a story. But she’d rather spew some bullshit fairy tales.
I know scars, though. I know the kind of scar a bullet leaves behind. I know the kind left from a knife. Gashes, and welts, and burns—the scars are recognizable. I can read a body like a book and tell you everything it has been through. A litany of fucking horror stories written right onto the flesh. I know the story of a metal shovel to the face, blunt force trauma that should’ve killed a teenage boy but instead turned him into a nightmare.
But the most recognizable scars are deliberate, the ones caused by a carefully controlled cut with a scalpel. I know when you’ve had your appendix removed, when you’ve had open-heart surgery, when you’ve had a tracheotomy…
And I know when you’ve had C-section.
It’s damn near impossible to hide that truth.
Easier to ignore, though.
Believe me, I ignored it.
Can’t ignore it anymore.
I’m a fucking fool.
“Where is she?” I ask. “Your daughter?”
He smiles. “Shoot me, Mister Scar, and you will never know.”
* * *
I don’t take kindly to being threatened.
Blackmail? Coercion? Not fucking happening.
I get it, you know... there are consequences to every action. Cause and effect. If this, then that. But there are consequences to inaction, too, and that’s something people don’t often realize.
Scarlet is living the consequences right now because nobody has stopped this from happening.
My stepfather’s voice bounces around in my head as I sit in the passenger seat of my car, slouching down in the dark, the obnoxious ding-ding-dinging of the put on your fucking seatbelt warning echoing through the small space.
A clear conscience just means you’ve got a bad memory. He used to say it all the time. And I’ve gotta tell you, right about now, I wish I could catch a case of amnesia and have my memory wiped, because my conscience is muddled tonight.
“Speak,” I say sharply, my voice making Seven jump as he speeds toward Queens. He keeps casting sidelong glances my way, not saying a damn word, subtlety not his strong suit. “Ask your questions or get out of my car.”
“What happened?”
“What happened?” I repeat. “You wanna maybe specify a bit? Because a lot has happened in my life, Seven, and I’m not interested in spilling my guts to you like a little bitch.”
He hesitates, turning on the blinker to make a left turn. Once he’s onto the next road, merging back into traffic, he lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Lets go with why do you have a teddy bear?”
“Gift from my favorite philosopher,” I say, glaring at the thing as it rests on the dashboard.
Seven doesn’t understand, but it’s not my place to explain it to him. Hell, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it all. I get it, it’s all there, but how to deal with it is another matter.
The more he stays out of it, the better off he is.
“Look, they’ve got history,” I say. “He wants her back. She doesn’t want to go. He’s getting desperate. That’s all you really need to know. I was going to shoot him, but I decided not to, so here we are. You’re all caught up. Now get me to my house, and then go home to your wife, and don’t worry about what else might’ve happened, because it’s not your problem. Just worry about yourself.”
He nods once and says nothing else, the rest of the drive complete silence.
Well, except for the seatbelt warning.
The house is lit up when I get there. Seven gives me my keys, and I take my phone, before snatching up the old teddy bear, carrying it by its burned foot.
I head inside, saying goodnight to Seven.
The first thing I hear when I open the front door is another goddamn song being sung.
Someone put Baby in a corner and Patrick Swayze got pissed. Blah. Blah. Blah. You know what it is.
Leo and his girlfriend are cuddling on the new couch. I slip right past them, heading for the library, finding it empty and dark. The first thing I notice, though, is my puzzle has been fixed, the broken pieces stuck back together.
No Scarlet, though.
Walking back out, I head for the stairs, hearing my brother shout out as I pass the living room. “Hey, bro!”
I stall in the doorway, nodding in greeting. “You seen Scarlet?”
“No,” he says. “Might be upstairs, though.”
“I figured.”
“I see you got us a new couch.” He runs his hand along the leather arm. “Where’d you get it?”
“Stole it from a strip club.”
He laughs, like I’m joking, so I just walk off before he comes to the realization that he’s cuddling his girlfriend on a couch where dozens of men have probably jacked off.
I trudge upstairs. It’s dark. I think maybe she’s trying to sleep, but the bed is empty, as is the bathroom. I turn to leave when my gaze catches something in my reflection above the dresser.
Reaching over, I flick on the light, stopping where I am. Lipstick is smeared on the mirror, two words scribbled in red.
I’m sorry.
She’s gone.
I know it.
Those words tell me that.
That’s as good as a ‘goodbye’ as I’m probably getting, as far as farewells go with this woman.
I don’t like it.