Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)

by J. M. Darhower

  The little girl groaned, sitting back on the stool. “It’s no fun!”

  “Life isn’t fun,” the Cowardly Lion said, pointing his bottle at her. “You don’t want to be dumb, do you, little girl?”

  “I’m not dumb,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “My mommy—”

  “Mommy or dummy?” he asked, laughing that mean way he sometimes did. “Like mother, like daughter, eh?”

  “Enough,” the Tin Man said as he approached, snatching the little girl off the stool and setting her on her feet. “Run along, kitten.”

  She stomped off, heading upstairs, and plopped down at the desk in the bedroom, crayons and paper scattered all around in front of her. Her chest felt all tight, like her heart was sad tonight.

  Six months. Half a year.

  The little girl didn’t know how many weeks that was, much less how many days. But she did know it was the end of December, which meant Christmas was coming.

  Grabbing a fresh piece of paper, she started drawing, as the first bit of winter snow fell outside her window. She drew until the sun set over the city, until darkness crept in.

  When she finished her first picture, she moved on to another, not stopping until that one was done, too.

  “Perfect,” she said, holding them up, grinning, before snatching up Buster from the corner of the desk and making her way back downstairs. It was getting late, really late, and all the winged monkeys were gone.

  She wondered if the Tin Man was sleeping, with how quiet it was, but flickering light filtered out from the den. The doors were cracked open, so she slipped between them.

  The Tin Man sat in his chair near the fire, holding a bottle of vodka, his suit all rumpled.

  “Daddy?” she whispered, carefully approaching.

  “I thought I told you to run along.”

  He didn’t even look up as he said that, legs spread out, his body slouched. His voice was low, like sandpaper again.

  “I did,” she said, “but...”

  His eyes rose, bloodshot but gray. Not all black today. “But?”

  “I drew you a picture,” she said, holding up one of her drawings.

  He regarded her in silence for a moment before motioning for her to approach. She walked up to him, holding the drawing out, standing still as he took it. It was a picture of the beach, the one he’d taken her to months ago. She’d even drawn the rides that had been nearby, like the Ferris wheel. She’d hoped he’d take her back there, maybe when it was open, but he hadn’t let her leave the house since then.

  After looking at the picture, he set it on the table. “What else do you have?”

  The little girl looked at the second drawing, her heart racing. “A picture of Mommy.”

  “A picture,” he repeated, “of your mother.”

  She nodded before reminding herself: use your words. “I drew it for her for Christmas. I didn’t know how to draw her, really, I didn’t know if her hair got long or what she wore or maybe she got taller, but I drew her like I remember, and maybe I can see her on Christmas, or you can give it to her?”

  He frowned and held his hand out. “Give it here.”

  She handed it to him.

  He clutched the sides of the paper, his knee moving, rocking back and forth, as he stared at the picture in silence.

  “I didn’t know if you had wrapping paper,” she continued. “Can we get a tree now? I can decorate it and put the picture under it. Mommy liked the star on top.”

  He sighed. “We are not getting a tree, kitten.”

  “We’re not?”

  “What is the point? So you can climb it?”

  “It’s Christmas,” she said. “Santa Claus brings presents.”

  “We do not celebrate Christmas.” He set the picture down in his lap. “We are not religious.”

  “But Santa—”

  “Is not real.”

  She gasped. It felt like he hit her. “You’re lying!”

  “No, your mother lied,” he said. “She lied to me. She lied to you. That is all she ever did. Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie!”

  He shouted the word ‘lie’ so loud that she flinched, taking a step back, tears stinging her eyes.

  “No!” She shook her head, clutching Buster tightly. “Why are you saying that stuff?”

  “Because it is true,” he said, snatching up her drawing, crumpling it as he waved it at her, nearly smacking her in the face with it. “This woman? Your precious ‘Mommy’, with those eyes and those hips and those lips? She lied to you, kitten—hideous lies! She made you think I was the bad one, but that was her. She betrayed me. She kept you from me, my own flesh and blood. You were mine! I would rather you are dead... I would rather end your life than ever let that suka have you for herself. She gets nothing!”

  The little girl took another step back, away from him, her bottom lip trembling. “Stop saying that stuff! It’s not right, so stop it!”

  “You do not tell me what to do. I tell you! What I say goes!”

  “I hate you!” she yelled. “You have no heart in you!”

  She ran out, heading upstairs, moving as fast as her legs would carry her, tears streaming down her cheeks. She hated him. She hated him so much. She went to her room and slammed the door, jumping into the bed.

  “He’s lying,” she whispered, hugging Buster, squeezing her eyes shut. “Mommy loves us. Mommy doesn’t lie. He’s just mean, and big, and ugly!”

  Footsteps echoed down the hallway, coming near, stomping against the wood, determined. Angry. Her bedroom door flung open, slamming into the wall, and the little girl curled tighter into a ball. The moment she felt the mattress dip, she saw his face, bitter and bloodshot and right there.

  “You want to hate me?” he asked. “I will give you reason to.”

  She held her breath, terrified, waiting for the hurt she thought he’d make her feel, like the way he hurt mother, but it didn’t happen.

  No, this hurt was different.

  He grabbed her arm, yanking Buster from her grasp.

  She gasped, trying to snatch him back, but the Tin Man was too strong. He clutched Buster, hand wrapped around the bear’s neck, and stormed away without another word.

  “No!” The little girl jumped out of bed, chasing him. “Please, Daddy! No! Please! I’m sorry!”

  She tried to shove around him, to get Buster back, grabbing ahold of his shirt, clutching it tightly as she tried to stop him, but he just dragged her along.

  The little girl begged the whole way down the stairs. He headed for the den, still utterly silent, on a mission, she realized, as he neared the fireplace with Buster.

  “No!” she screamed, collapsing to the floor. “Please, Daddy! I don’t hate you! Please, can I keep him? I’m sorry!”

  He walked straight to the fireplace, ignoring her words, acting as if she were invisible. He held Buster out, over the fire, the flames lapping at the bear, a spark setting his foot on fire.

  She screeched. “I don’t hate you! No! Please! I love you, Daddy!”

  He pulled Buster back when she said those words, beating the bear against the wall, extinguishing the small flame on his singed paw. He turned to her as she hyperventilated, her vision blurry but she could see Buster was okay.

  He wasn’t in the fire.

  The Tin Man approached, crouching down, holding the bear up in her face, but the second she reached for it, he pulled it away. “You love me, kitten?”

  She nodded frantically.

  “Use your words.”

  “I love you, Daddy.”

  His eyes scanned her face before he leaned over, pressing a kiss to her forehead, whispering, “You lie just like her.”

  Standing up, still carrying Buster, he walked back over to the fireplace, but instead of tossing him into the flames, he set him on the mantle.

  “You touch him, I burn him, and I will burn you, too, kitten. You will get him back when I say you get him back. Until then, he will sit right here as a reminder.”

&n
bsp; The Tin Man walked out, and the little girl just sat there, staring at the mantle, rocking, sobbing, as she whispered, “I’m so sorry, Buster.”

  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.