Dutch

by Madhuri Pavamani

  If he didn’t know it already.

  And then what?

  Would he draw a line in the sand between us? Because I already knew I would allow no such thing no barrier no partition no nothing. Which meant absolutely nothing—he could easily get around my denial of our predicament, my refusal, my rejection by simply never contacting me again and even though I hated admitting it, the possibility of him following such a course loomed large. I pushed him in ways he hated being pushed I demanded things of him he despised I brought to the surface aspects of himself he had long ago buried and intended never to revisit or remember or recall.

  I was everything he didn’t want.

  And I had no idea where to find him were he to suddenly vanish, I simply assumed I would never need to, that he would always come back to me, that I was just. that. special.

  There was folly in such hubris.

  I pushed into my building, checked my mail, and stopped. The silence of the nook lined with tiny brass boxes each with their own number and keyhole invited me to stop all my busy movement inhale and release the wave of sadness rolling through my being, the exhaustion settling in my bones, the grief lingering in the tiny spaces. For being so young sometimes I felt so old my soul carrying the weight of so many others all the while fearing for what was coming, the horror the end when all along I should have been fearing him. The dark beauty. The dangerous heat. The monstrous love.

  I couldn’t even explain what drew me to him.

  How did it happen? His sadness drew me in held me captive. Why did I let it happen? I was powerless in the face of his danger. Why did I allow him past all of my walls? I couldn’t imagine shutting him out. Why did I want him all over me? His darkness held light.

  A shift in energy and an “ahem” brought me out of my head and into the present. “Miss Landry, there’s a package waiting for you at the front desk.” I turned and smiled and said, “Thanks, Michael, I’ll be there in a sec.” Our eyes met and a flicker of concern passed behind his but he was a professional and knew our relationship of owner and doorman only went so far and he was not Oscar, so he remained quiet, smiled, and continued on his way. I breathed a sigh of relief because had he spoken words of kindness at that very moment, I would have broken and I could not afford to break, not without that other man around to try to piece me back together.

  I retrieved the package from Michael, a shopping bag from Meg, and figured my da had been online again. My da was always dressed impeccably, looking as if he’d stepped straight out of a GQ shoot and headed to the operating room, all thanks to my ma. Rufus Landry detested shopping and left to his own devices would live in his old Levi’s and a button-down shirt. But for some reason with me that all went out the window. At random moments he would shower me with tiny, thoughtful, perfect gifts. A plain silver ring he found on a trip to Colombia, or the tiny nose ring designed by a San Francisco street artist. A book of dirty jokes, a hand-drawn map of the world.

  I loved his gifts but today I just needed a drink and some quiet.

  I tossed the bag onto the island with my keys and cell phone, poured myself a Scotch, and curled up in the window seat to watch the sun set over the city. The weariness that forever knocked on my door but I kept at bay controlled ignored swept through and I welcomed it, closed my eyes, and sunk into its depths. I tossed back my Scotch, the burn jolting me upright and out of myself for a moment just long enough to set down my glass and stretch out on the window seat. Seconds later my arm was draped over my eyes as my soul searched for some respite.

  This road was the road I never traveled because I liked my life full of light I liked it fresh wondrous. This was nothing but blue. And in the midst of it all I heard my ma’s admonition to hold onto my shine protect it love it so I pushed myself upright straightened my spine and got back to the business of being Juma Landry the best way I knew how—my da’s gift.

  I loved Meg. And he knew this having spent enough time inside the tiny boutique with me as I perused every rack and he sat quietly in the corner, his legs crossed, a book in his lap. I peeked inside the bag and smiled.

  How could I not?

  Red. My color. Everything about it appealed to my senses and my sensibilities. It was sexy and alluring and powerful and when I wore it I felt I was all of those and more.

  I reached inside and felt around for the note—da always wrote me a note. I opened the envelope and the handwriting was so masculine, I immediately paused and set it down on the counter. The note wasn’t written by some salesgirl da had spoken to on the phone while he placed his order, because this wasn’t a gift from my da.

  Juma,

  I saw this and paused, right in the middle of the sidewalk, like a fool. I’ve never stopped and looked at anything in a store window—until you. Red. It’s your color. Meet me for dinner tomorrow night at 10. Wear this.

  Yours (what the fuck have you done to me, woman?),

  Dutch

  My breath hitched and I touched my throat at the point where he had pressed his lips to my skin as I read the note again and again, studying his handwriting memorizing his words forgetting our predicament. I smiled at his “fuck”—his dirty mouth made my pussy throb and he knew it. I touched the note again then pulled the dress out of the bag.

  It was perfect and I loved it and I knew it would fit me like a glove. Without thinking I stripped off my clothes every single item until I was standing in the kitchen perfectly naked and ran my hands over the dress. It was so light and barely there and sexy as sin and as I pulled it over my head and slipped it over my curves it felt like he kissed me everywhere, ran his hands over every inch of my body, possessed me, claimed me as his. And I wanted nothing more than to be owned.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  DUTCH

  “It’s about fucking time!” Khan barked his irritation as I entered the dining hall, studying the enormous table for thirty set for two. “The great Dutch Mathew finally answers my summons.”

  I nodded in deference, entering Khan’s orbit but remaining well out of his reach. “Hello, father, my apologies. Where’s Amma? She won’t be joining us?”

  “Fuck your apologies, Dutch, and fuck your mother. You know she always drops the bullshit in my lap.” He stepped in my direction, purposely menacing. I held my ground, waiting for his punishment. There were no weapons lying about so this one would be administered with fists. I tensed and waited, only to be pulled into his arms and held close. “Pull another stunt like that where your mother or I am left making excuses for your behavior and I promise, I will kill you myself. She will not be able to save you.”

  I leaned back and grinned maniacally. “Always a pleasure to see you, Khan.”

  BAM!

  I felt like a cartoon character, lying flat on his back with stars floating around his head. Once upon a time, Khan Mathew was infamous for his punch, known for taking down more than one Poocha with a strategically placed hit. These days he was better known for taking down his son.

  “On your feet, Dutch!” Khan growled, taking a seat at the head of the table. “I would like to eat sometime this evening.”

  I pushed up to my elbows, shook off his blow, and rose to join him at the table. My right eye was fuzzy and surely turning black and blue, but I would survive. At least the knives weren’t anywhere in sight; my father was a premier butcher and I remained one of his favorite pieces of meat. I reached for my chair, grateful for the firm seat beneath me as I settled into another one of our horribly awkward, always violent dinners.

  “Nice work in Bologna,” Khan commented as he sniffed the wine offered and appetizers sizzled on the plates laid before us. I wanted to spit my bourbon across the table but played off the compliment as if it was commonplace.

  “Thank you.” I pushed my food around the plate and waited for whatever hell he had in store for me.

  “And New York, how are things?”

  “You ask as if I’m running the show,” I commented, wishing I had a smoke, sipping my drink instead.
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br />   “If you would handle your fucking assignments in a timely fashion, you would be running the show, and living up to your goddamned last name,” Khan spat through gritted teeth. My father’s patience was short, and in a matter of minutes I had already reached its limit. The problem was I didn’t give two shits about him and his patience.

  Or his fists.

  Or his knives.

  If he wanted to kill me, well then fucking bring on the death—I welcomed it.

  “You cannot possibly still be bitching about Arjun.” I leaned back in my chair, giving up on my food, and groused.

  Khan slammed a fist on the table, shaking the cutlery and china. “I am most definitely bitching about Arjun, and Rispervale, and Jolie, and Cruikshank, and the list could go on and on. These are not leisurely trips through the valley of Death. They are to be handled promptly and are not to be allowed any successes, no reclamations! And yet!” he bellowed.

  “And yet?” I stood and shouted right back. “And yet! Fuck you, Khan. You know, as well as any other asshole in this godforsaken organization, that my assignments are the toughest, that I am called in to fix others’ mistakes, and that without me there is a whole ship full of Poochas who would still be running around making mischief. No one does what I do better. No one. It is not my problem my lack of bloodthirst disappoints you, my methods aren’t up to your standards of sick, and that I will not cow to your tyranny. You cannot make me into you—it’s impossible and will never happen. And I certainly will not become the perversion that is Veda simply to obtain your blessings and good will.”

  I’d forgotten how fast Khan could move. He was upon me in a flash, pummeling my face and sides, turning my kidneys to jelly and reducing my mouth to a bloodied gash in my disfigured face.

  “Do.” Blow to the head.

  “Not.” Blow to the side.

  “Ever.” Twisted arm.

  “Speak.” Broken wrist.

  “Your.” Shattered ear drum.

  “Sister’s.” Lost top molar.

  “Name.” Volley of blows to the stomach.

  “Again.” Crushed knee cap.

  He stood, straightened his suit, wiped at some blood on his lapel, and returned to his meal, acting as if he had not just beaten me within an inch of my life. “The cruelest fact of this existence is your sister being born Junta when she would have made a most perfect Keeper, going on, I do not doubt, to become Ren and lead The Gate with many of the same philosophies I currently uphold. But the gods have plans for her that are out of my hands, so I am left with you—a worthless, moody, incapable piece of shit, but a Keeper of my own blood and heir to the throne of The Gate. It is a most dismal place to find oneself as a leader and a parent and yet, here I am, making do.”

  Khan ended his bullshit, woe-is-me soliloquy and shot me a look filled with pure hatred, then returned to his meal and growled, to no one in particular, “Join me at the table and eat your food or I shall summon the knives and your night shall be endless.

  “Your next assignment has been handed down, and yet I receive daily reports that no movement has been made on the Poocha. What kind of bullshit is that?” he spat without stopping to look at me or pause in his meal or even wait for my response. “I’ll tell you what it is, Dutch, you bloody piece of excrement stuck to the bottom of my shoe, it’s you being moody and goddamned tortured and whatever else your pansy heart is feeling these days about your killer instincts, your knack for murder, your appetite for destruction.”

  He pointed his fork and knife at me, and for a second I thought he might stab me, he was so irate. In the momentary quiet, I joined him at the table and nodded to have my glass refilled. I already knew something horrible was going to spew from his cesspool of a mouth and I wanted to be good and liquored up prior to any further ramblings.

  But before he spoke again the dining room doors slid open and a bound and gagged body was pushed through, landing on its knees and then tumbling to the floor with the kind of exhaustion that suggested whoever it was had already endured enough. Khan glanced up from his food, took a sip of wine, and shot a look into the shadows behind me. James, that yellow-eyed maniac, stepped forward, ran his fingers through the dark hair of the prone figure, and yanked him to his knees.

  My eyes locked with the kneeling figure and I choked on my drink.

  Ish.

  My cousin, my blood, my one bit of sanity in all of this familial fuckery.

  “Ish!” I jumped from my seat and knocked my chair to the floor.

  “As much as I have fantasized about killing you with my bare hands, ripping you to pieces and leaving the parts outside for the vultures, there is no other Mathew to take the reins and run The Gate—you are it and I have made peace with that fact,” Khan growled into his plate as he tore into his masala dosa, potato and peas slipping through his fingers as he dipped into a bowl of coconut chutney, making a mess and ignoring his brother’s youngest son, bloody and bound, less than ten feet from where he sat, but fully aware of me.

  Always aware of me.

  “Sit. the. fuck. down. Dutch,” he spat between bites, food spraying his plate. “Now.”

  I didn’t.

  I couldn’t.

  Ish pleaded with his eyes for me to listen to Khan but all I could focus on was his bound hands and the gash cutting across his lower lip.

  “Suit yourself.” Khan pushed back from the table and rose. “You want to stand for this, be my goddamned guest.”

  There was no further discussion, no chance to prevent what happened next, no moment of reconsideration and reflection on the part of my father, no hesitation whatsoever. Instead, he moved to James’s side, took the machete from the Keeper, that goddamned blade, Everlee, shot James a look, and then sliced right through Ish’s neck, separating head from body like it was nothing, silencing Ish’s mischievous laugh forever.

  For a moment everything stood still—it felt as if even time herself held her breath, incapable of making sense of the horrific scene. Ish’s body balanced on his lifeless knees as James held his severed head and Khan surveyed his crime, the room bathed in deathly silence. But that lasted only a moment and probably only so I would never forget my cousin’s murder, so I would forever be haunted by that silence. Then Ish’s body crumpled to the ground and we were all very present again.

  Khan turned to me, a murderous gleam in his eye, his dick hard with the thrill of the kill. “You dare move a muscle, Dutch, and your head is next.”

  I didn’t move.

  I couldn’t move,

  too stunned by the realization of what just happened. I always knew my father was capable of immeasurable mayhem and atrocity, of inflicting the cruelest punishments on the least deserving. What I did not know was how little care or concern he held for his own blood, for those bearing the Mathew name.

  His elder brother’s youngest son.

  The light of that family of Junta.

  One of the brightest minds in the Mathew clan.

  And now dead, cut down too early, all because Ish loved me, because I loved him, because we laughed and drank and fucked around together, because we mattered to each other.

  I didn’t move.

  I couldn’t move.

  I was too busy thinking ways out of this hellish scene, this palace of horror, this family of mentally unstable fucks, and how I would make all of them pay, the slow and methodical picking apart of the infrastructure of The Gate and the Mathew family in particular, how I would avenge Ish’s death. I watched Khan return the weapon to James and go back to his meal as if nothing was amiss, as if his nephew did not lie mere feet from him, spilling his blood all over the teak floor. I watched the pool of black-red grow in size as Ish lay lifeless and I thought how this fucking palace, with its rooms of nightmares and walls that witnessed all sorts of atrocities, did not deserve any of Ish, not one atom of his being, and yet this wretched place would wind up holding his last living cells in the deepest cracks of its wood.

  I wanted to burn it all to the g
round. I wanted all of them dead so they could never reach another person who mattered to me, so everyone in my orbit would remain safe and sound and keep their goddamned heads attached to their necks. I wanted Mathew blood to stain the streets of Kerala, I wanted the backwaters to run red with the entrails of my colleagues and enemies and brothers and sisters of The Gate, I wanted the rice paddies to devour the bodies felled by my hand.

  I wanted mass destruction on a level never before witnessed.

  Instead, I pulled myself together and did exactly what Khan did not expect. I joined that motherfucking psychotic asshole at the dining table, poured myself another drink, and made to get on with our evening.

  Because for real, fuck him.

  Two could play his bullshit game of lives.

  “This is you making peace?” I asked, nodding in Ish’s direction, knowing I should shut up but not really caring anymore. “Murdering your brother’s son? God, what I wouldn’t give to be present for that conversation: Sanu-ettan, so sorry but I had to decapitate Ish this evening at dinner. Needed to teach Dutch a lesson.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Dutch!”

  The blow came from behind, cutting off what was quickly building into a full-fledged diatribe. Fucking James and goddamned Everlee. I knew that asshole had returned to the shadows, always somewhere hidden and waiting. My father smiled and nodded and James receded from whence he came.

  “So nice to see you’re still sucking Khan’s dick, James.”

  Khan reached out and grabbed me around the neck, pulled me close, and hissed, “He is, son. He could give you some pointers. His mouth is perfection. Might help you move up in the ranks and take my seat of power sooner than any of us expect.”

  I had heard the rumors of James and my father for so long that hearing this nonsense, whether it was relayed to shock or sicken, had little effect. They were made for each other. A match made in hell. Khan released me with a disgusted shove.

  “As I was saying before you so unceremoniously disrupted me, I have made peace with the pathetic fact that you are my only heir to all of this power and one day the care of this organization shall lie in your hands. So I expect you to grow up and act like you know how to rule. Beginning with this fucking Poocha. You were given the assignment months ago. Months, were you not? Or did that faggot friend of yours take it upon himself to give you a little more vacation before slipping you the envelope?”