by Dee Garcia
The following day, we got an early start, as in 6 a.m. early. It was still dark out when we emerged from the room and hopped into the car, driving for several miles to a worn-down warehouse. As usual, I was given specific instructions to stay put, leaving me to my own devices for about half hour or so. I’d been utilizing that time alone wisely to call Mama and check on Zak. Neither one complained of any suspicious activity, allowing me to breathe a little easier. They might have been worried sick about me but at least I knew they were safe. Had Eden been telling the truth about her father all along? That he didn’t extend debts to family? I knew for a fact he had to be going crazy as to his daughter’s whereabouts because whenever her phone rang—which was several times per day—she’d decline the call and grief-stricken tears would plague her composure, confirming he was the caller. And if he was worried, that meant he was undeniably retracing her steps as she’d said, hence why knowing Mama and Zak were safe was a relief. Either he’d already combed his way past me, my absence confirming my alleged death, or he hadn’t yet gotten that far.
And I didn’t know how far that really was, because I knew nothing about Eden’s life. Since meeting her, I thought she was Eden Ravenna, heiress to a luxury car empire, but all along she’d been a Scarsi, heiress to a prestigious bulk recycling company with an added and quite illegal money laundering business on the side. Had I been her first mark, her first attempt at dabbling in the family business, or was I one amongst many who actually lived to see another day? Even before knowing who she really was, I’d never asked about it and she’d never volunteered the information. After all, we’d both agreed to let go of the past and move forward, our need for each other outweighing what she’d almost done our first night together, so after a few weeks of pure bliss, I’d stuffed the question so far back in my mind, I never thought of it again.
Until now.
With my mind racing a million miles per hour, Eden chucked open the car and fell into a heap in the driver's seat. She was sweating, looking both irate and remorseful, as she did after every task. For the first time since the start of this undesirable adventure, alarm bells rang out in my head, amplifying my suspicions as to who she really was and what she was doing for this Gaspard LeRoux.
We drove in accustomed silence back to the hotel with Martin Garrix’s latest hit blaring the speakers. I had every urge to demand the truth from Eden, but I couldn’t seem to find the words in which to do so. If and when we ever made it back home, there would be no we anyway. I’d thank her for keeping me safe and go along my way without a second glance back, so really, the answers I so desperately sought were beyond irrelevant. Some things were just better left unsaid and this was one of those things. As she had said that night after LeRoux finally called, the less I knew, the better.
Still the question nagged me. I needed a distraction ASAP or I was going to do something I regretted. Upon walking through the door of our room, I changed into a T-shirt and basketball shorts, throwing on my sneakers with a quickness. Eden sat on the edge of her bed, watching me quietly as I did up the laces.
“Where are you going now?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.
“Out,” I snapped.
“I know that, but where?”
“To the gym, before I ask questions I’m not sure I can handle the answers to.”
Standing to my feet, I stalked over to the mini fridge and pulled out a chilled water bottle, the sound of the TV abruptly filling the room. The news was on and the story being reported barely registered until my hand was on the door knob. I froze in place, listening intently to the woman relaying the information.
“The couple went missing about a month ago, but Miss Scarsi’s father says he knew they were planning a vacation. He thought it was odd his daughter hadn't given him the travel dates but didn't begin to worry until her phone began ringing through straight to voicemail. Miss Scarsi has blonde hair and blue eyes, five feet and five inches in height, approximately one-hundred and thirty-eight pounds, and Mr. Xander Royce has black hair, dark brown eyes, approximately six feet and two inches in height, and about one-hundred and ninety pounds. If you, or anyone you know, may have seen this couple, please call the number on your screen. Their families are worried sick and they're offering a grand reward should they be found. For WBOC16, I'm Tracy Summers.”
“Oh my God,” Eden said in shock just as I muttered, “Fuck!”
“Xander, I—”
“Just don't.” I shook my head, holding up a hand. “Don't say a word because nothing you say is going to make this royal shit storm any better. Not only does your father know I'm with you, which obviously means he knows you in fact did not kill me, but now we’re gonna have every John, Dick, and Harry keeping an eye out for us so they can claim this grand reward. Do you realize how bad this is?”
Eden nodded, her lips trembling.
“God damn it!” My fist collided with the wall. “My mom is going to have a fucking heart attack when she sees that! Why the hell would you shut off your phone, Eden?”
“Because I got tired of declining his calls,” she whispered, eyes downcast to the beige carpet.
Seriously?
“And it didn't occur to you, through your senseless moment of selfishness, that he might go and do something like this?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Of course you didn't, because why would your father worry about you, right? How does he even know I'm with you?”
“I have no clue. I made sure any loose ends were tied up, so I'm baffled myself. He must've found out through someone else.”
“Well it's not my mom because I spoke to her an hour ago and she didn't mention a damn thing,” I said, pacing the length of the room and back. And then it hit me, like a freight train. “Fuck. Zak.”
“Who's Zak?” Eden asked.
“The kid I left in charge of the shop. I should've just closed it down. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” My fist hit the wall again, and Eden gasped.
When I turned back to face her, she was pale, her eyes wide, unshed tears welling within them. Witnessing her so clearly in distress actually brought me a sense of peace. Served her right. All of this was her fault and she deserved every bit of turmoil attacking her slowly from the inside out. Might teach her a valuable lesson.
“I need to call him,” I said, heading for the door and within seconds her small hands were wrapping around my arm.
“Xander, wait! You can't tell him where we are!”
“Don't. Fucking. Touch me.” I shrugged her off. “I've had it, Eden. I've fucking had it! You may not care for those around you, but I do, and right now, I'm stressing out over their wellbeing more than my own. I'm a dead man any way you look at it. The minute LeRoux deems your work finished and we go home, your father is going to slaughter me. That is, of course, unless someone spots us first and he comes to us. Then he might just make you kill me, seeing as that was a job you failed to do the first time around. I'm sure he's furious you lied to him and your punishment will be to see my death through. So much for protecting me…”
And it was with those parting words that I stormed out of the room and slammed the door in her face as I barreled down the hallway, dialing Zak’s number with the hope that no one had stopped by the shop asking for me. Because if that were the case, if that’s how Scarsi figured out I was still alive, then Mama’s life could very well be in danger and there was not a damn thing I could do about it.
“Ahhh,” I growl, swinging a leg out.
My foot hits the mitt on Daddy’s hand and he bounces back a bit, giving me time to surge forward and jab out in a double that hits each mitt at lightning speed.
On my left, I hear the Ravenna boys cheering me on, but it's the voices I want to hear that are quiet as mice.
“Yes, that's it,” Daddy roars proudly. He flashes me a wide grin and I smile as we circle around the ring. “Let's see how you do with one more. Alessio, get in here.”
“No,” my brother says, and everything i
mmediately falls silent.
My eyes dart to where Alessio stands and I notice everyone else is looking at him too.
“Excuse me?” Daddy doesn't sound pleased.
Alessio crosses his arms and lifts his chin defiantly. “I'm not fighting her.”
“I'm not asking you to fight her. I'm asking you to step in here, throw on a set of mitts, and help me train your sister.”
“No,” Alessio says again, and I can all but see the smoke billow from our father’s ears.
“Alessio, I will not ask you again,” he grits out, and this time his tone is absolutely no-nonsense.
My brother would be stupid to defy him again, but lately it seemed as though he challenged every word Daddy uttered his way. Even I know better than that, and I’m only thirteen. While he’s been busy rebelling, I’ve been maturing quickly in every part of my life. Not only am I top of my class, but the ring is mine too. In a few short months, I’ve gone from rookie to pro, taking down my brothers, the Ravenna boys, and even Daddy twice.
Luca squeezes my brother’s shoulder and they share a look I wish I understood. I hate that he's taken my place, that he’s the person my brother trusts most now. Alessio and I used to be so close, even with the six years that separates us. Now we’re not, and I don't even know why. It literally changed overnight, and I can never seem to think of what I did so wrong to push him away.
A moment later, Alessio’s shoulders slump in defeat and with another testy look shot my way, he slips into the ring beneath the ropes. Daddy tosses him a pair of padded mitts and they both back away to a corner, leaving me front and center.
“Ready?” Daddy asks, and I nod, although really, I'm not. I've never fought two at once, but I guess there's a first time for everything though, right?
They start toward me at the same time, taking careful steps, their knees bent and arms covering their faces. My eyes flicker between them and I realize I don't have time to think of a plan, I just have to react. Daddy swings out first and I dodge out of reach, bringing my knee up to his gut with more force than I’d intended. I can’t help it. I’m pumped, my body buzzing like a livewire, and I love it.
My father hunches over and I go in for the kill, tossing my fists to the sides of his head like a powerful hailstorm. Through the rush, alarm bells blare in my head and I feel Alessio’s presence looming behind me. Following my instincts, I propel an arm back and swiftly clock him upside the head. He staggers sideways and with Daddy scrambling to recollect himself as well, I focus on my brother, jabbing and kicking in full-on attack mode. Stunned gasps sound off from the sidelines and I hear Mr. Ravenna trying to coach Alessio through the necessary motions to recover.
But it's no use.
The now familiar veil of red tinges my vision and nothing or no one can stop me from bringing them to their knees. I swing out again with a snarl and just as my fist is about to make contact with his face, my entire body freezes in place and I'm catapulted through a blurred tunnel of speedy memories. It’s as though I’m weightless, defying gravity and all things logical, as some unknown force hurdles me past three years of my life in the blink of an eye.
And then it stops.
Sixteen years old, that’s where it stops. More specifically, two months after my sixteenth birthday when Daddy’s main focus of my training was handling knives. I’m still in the basement, just as I was on that day, but the ring is gone and I'm standing alone. I glance down at my hand to find a razor-sharp blade cradled firmly in my palm.
“Throw it, Eden. Now!” Daddy’s voice instructs, refocusing my attention.
Like reflex, I fling my arm and feel the blade shoot out of hand, landing dead center on the bullseye hung at the end of the room. My father praises me as he always does and urges me to continue with a clap of his hands.
But how?
I just threw the one blade I had. Common sense tells me to retrieve it, but as I take a step forward, I feel it. Or really, feel them. My eyes shoot to my thighs and there they are, blade upon blade secured in the holsters strapped to my legs. I pull one free through the carved hole and spin it around my finger, a wide grin spreading across my face as the memory of this moment consumes me. It’s then all the targets hung on the walls come into view. The lesson was learned long ago, however, the challenge is still there.
“Start the clock,” I demand aloud, preparing myself for the drill ahead.
Daddy laughs enthusiastically, and from the corner of my eye, I catch him pulling the stopwatch free from his pocket. With the distance separating us, I shouldn’t be able to hear his click of the button being pressed, but I do. It’s loud and the sound echoes, springing me into action without direction from my father. One after the other, I chuck each blade in my possession, spinning in a perfect circle to hit the bullseyes scattered around the room. I’m seconds away from pulling the last and final blade free when the lights flicker; slowly at first, then faster and faster until the bulbs shatter.
Darkness.
Nothing but darkness.
The only sound to be heard is that of my breathing. The blade in my hand suddenly feels heavy and when I lift it to inspect it with nothing but my sense of touch, the room illuminates once more and my body automatically falls into stance. The proper stance when aiming a handgun. Because that's what in my hands; the first gun Daddy ever let me hold at eighteen years old. My finger twitches on the trigger but my target is unclear. A presence looms behind me and from the vibe alone I recognize it to be my father.
“Focus, Petal. Remember to aim just a smidge higher and then…”
“Pull the trigger,” I say, though it wasn't voluntary.
My subconscious recognizes this moment isn't real but the rest of my mind and my body are simply going through the motions like a programmed robot.
Daddy squeezes my shoulders and hums in approval before retreating several steps away from me.
“Alessio, now!” He orders, and a second later three targets, outlined to resemble a human being, drop down from the ceiling.
I have zero control over myself as my finger taps the trigger and the first bullet flies free, hitting the target positioned front and center in the left chest. What follows is a rainstorm of gunpowder and metal striking through paper in the most lethal of spots. If they were real people, they'd certainly be dead. The Glock clicks, alerting me I'm out of ammo, and as I spin around to face my father, I find myself alone in a dimly lit warehouse.
How can half of the room be the basement and the other half be elsewhere?
The sight of the rusted walls bursts the gates of my past wide open and I’m instantly flooded with the memory…
The memory of my first kill.
Peter Meyers, better known as the crooked cop addicted to blow, who begged my father to loan him thousands of dollars for child support. Said child support was going to his crazy ex-wife who was unjustly granted primary custody of their children. Clearly the story was a sham, and he was the first mark Daddy handed to me just after turning twenty-one.
And then I see him, descending the stairs to where I stand as he had on that day six years ago. I watch him closely, noticing how his hand slips beneath the jacket he’s wearing, when he notices me in the middle of the room. Panic flares in his eyes and he pulls out a handgun of his own, aiming it at me just as he reaches the last step. My vision is so clear I can see his finger getting ready to pull the trigger, so I do the same, three times in a row. Two chest wounds and one to the head drop him down to his knees where he falls over and lands in a heap on the dirty floor. Blood begins to pool around him and I feel it, feel the sense of victory that comes with the sight of it.
“Eden…” I hear someone whisper my name, and I turn to the sound, but all I find is a door I hadn’t seen at the end of the room, illuminated by a bright light through the cracks.
Stepping over Peter’s lifeless body, I wander toward the light in a sudden daze. My weapon slips from my grip and rather than retrieving it from the floor, I reach out and grasp t
he door knob. It’s cold yet warm...and a little bit wet too. In the darkness, I can’t make out what it is, but whatever it may be coats my palm as I push through to the other side.
The white light immediately blinds me and I lift an arm up to shield my eyes, allowing me to squint through the brightness. I don’t know where I am or where I’m going, but regardless I find myself advancing forward with cautious steps. The further I go, the more the light diminishes and then suddenly, I’m standing in a white room with a lone white chair positioned dead center. No doors, no windows, nothing.
My heart flares anxiously, and I spin around to head back the way I came...but I can’t. The door isn’t there. I’m trapped in the room with no way out. Only do I see it when I slam my hand on the wall, a thick veil of crimson covering my skin, glistening in the light as I bring it closer and watch it run down my fingers to my wrist. It's fascinating, and I'm mesmerized, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice I’ve become very acquainted with, urges me to sit on the chair. So I do; I swivel toward it and drop down onto the hard wood.
And then it starts…
A series of images all in chronological order. I watch myself evolve from kill to kill, watch each mark succumb to death at my mercy. That initial sense of victory consumes me again and I sit up taller, squaring my shoulders, enjoying every memory somehow playing out before me. But then images begin flashing and soon the room begins to spin too. The faster the images flicker, the faster the room spins, blurring everything together into a nauseating, chaotic mess. I claw at the edge of my seat and clench my eyes tightly, my heart flaring viciously to life once more. All I can do is hold on for the ride and hope it ends soon, whatever it is.
