by Zoe Hill
Her throat works as she swallows her sobs. Blinking fast, she nods once and says, “I promise.”
“Good.” I offer her a timid smile that she returns after a beat too long. “I want you to tell them the second we drive away tonight.”
“I will,” she vows.
As our brothers throw themselves off the clifftop, hooting and hollering as they fall, we walk to the edge and peer down at them. They land in the water, the dark depth swallowing them up until their heads reappear, and they wave up at us.
When they yell for us to jump, I usher her forward. “You first.”
“Okay, Sabra.”
Trust in her eyes, she hurls herself off the edge before I can say another word. I watch her fall. Arms at her sides and her feet pointed downward like I showed her, her little body plummets to the water. She’s swallowed by the ocean and I can’t see her for a few seconds. I hold my breath, waiting for her to reemerge. When she breaks the surface, she kicks onto her back and signals for me to follow her down.
She’s safe.
I exhale.
Regret grips me when they all start shouting for me to jump. I step away from the edge and out of their view. Looking out at the lighthouse, I try to push away my worry that I’m setting her up for a world of hurt by telling her to tell the truth.
Surely her parents aren’t like mine. She’s a good kid. They’ll believe her, and maybe, just maybe, if they listen to her, then they’ll tell my parents, and it will stop him hurting me.
God, I hope so.
I don’t know how much more I can take.
“Sabra,” my uncle calls from behind me. I spin around to see how far away he is and almost burst into tears when I see that he’s only a few steps away. “Come down to the chapel with me. Everyone’s busy... we’ll have it all to ourselves.”
Even his voice makes my skin crawl. I can’t bear to think of him touching me. Not now. Not after I’ve discovered that he also does it to her. I might be big, I can almost handle it, but she’s only a little girl.
“No!” I shout.
“Oh, come on,” he retorts. Cocking a hip to one side, he arches an eyebrow and peers at me with a look that makes me feel like vomiting. “There’s no time to play hard to get. Let’s go.”
“No! No! No! No!” I scream until my throat is raw.
He steps forward. I turn around and run for the edge of the cliff. Leaping off the edge, I count in my head as I fall. One, two, three... I make a bet with myself that if I get to lucky number thirteen before I hit the water, we’ll both be safe. Me and her. It’ll all end.
Four.
Five.
Six.
The boys’ shouts are suddenly louder.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
“Sabra,” she calls out. “Point your toes.”
Eleven.
Twelve.
I hit the water and sink like a stone.
ONE
“How unhappy does one have to be before living seems worse than dying?” ~Deborah Curtis~
SPENSER
Present day
“That’s the best you’ve got?” My taunt ends with a grunt when he lands another punch. After the second impact, I feel something break. A rib or two, most likely. Although my skin burns from his touch, I suck in a harsh breath and relish the searing pain it brings. Prodding my right side, I laugh. “Much better. Now, let’s see what else you’ve got.”
He strikes me again. On autopilot, I punch him back. When the naked man staggers to the side, I follow him. I take hold of his sweat-soaked hair and hold him upright. Our eyes lock, both gazes filled with fury, yet for different reasons.
I want to die.
Theodore Oberon would give anything to live.
As usual, there’s going to be only one winner.
The wrong one.
Me.
While I’m lost in my own head, Theo finds the energy to headbutt me. Our foreheads clash hard enough to make my teeth rattle. Bright stars circle my head and I temporarily lose my sight. Seizing on my blindness, the man I’m supposed to kill knocks me to the cold floor and kicks me in my already damaged ribs three times. Every time he hits me, I feel my ribs crack further until my entire right side is ablaze with enough pain to nullify the flames, his touch causes to flare under my epidermis.
My self-preservation kicks in.
Of course, it does.
It is impossible for me to do anything right, even suicide by fellow hitman.
Just ask my dad, he’ll tell you how useless I am.
The next time Theo kicks me, I snatch hold of his calf and twist until something in his knee gives out. He falls to the floor and I retake my feet. An infernal level of dizziness grips me, but I grit my teeth and swallow back the bile that fills my mouth when I lean down and drag him back to a standing position.
I sway on the spot as Theo glares at me.
“Come on,” I mock him. Making a “come hither” gesture with my hands, I beckon him forward. “Hit me.”
“Fuck you.” The man I’m supposed to be torturing for information before I kill him drags his injured leg as he tries to sidestep me while I stalk him around the small, cold room. Blood runs down his face from my earlier cruelty. It gets in his eyes and he swipes at the torrent of claret with an impatient hand. “I’ve got nothing for you. Just kill me, freak.”
“Now. Now,” Axel interjects. “Names are uncalled for.”
His cool voice bounces off the walls of the cooler when we meet to deal with the Coalition’s messier business. Having forgotten that he was still here, I glance over to the corner where he stands. Leaning against the insulated wall, Axel Zidane meets my inquiring gaze with one of his own. He arches a dark blond eyebrow and holds my eyes for a beat too long. In his expression, I find a damning recognition of my weakness.
He sees the game I’m playing and he’s judging me for it.
Hard.
I blink first.
I always do.
I may be suicidal, but that doesn’t mean I’m devoid of shame.
“Come on, Theo,” I ask the bleeding man cowering in the corner. When he stops moving and balls his non-broken fingers into a fist, I grin. “I can call you Theo, can’t I? I mean, we’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
Theo licks his bloody lips as he cocks his head to one side. “No, Trigger. We were friends... allies even. Until the Coalition fucked me over and my wife got caught in the crossfire. If I could, I’d kill the lot of you. Wipe your filth from the face of the earth. You’re a bunch of soulless assholes who only look out for your bottom line and—”
When I crack him in the nose with a hammer fist, he crumbles to his knees. The sound of his crying fills the refrigerated room where he’s going to die eventually, but I block it out. His insults have hit home because there’s a modicum of truth in his allegations. The Coalition is soulless, however, I’m not. If I was, my life would be a hell of a lot easier and I wouldn’t battle the need to take my favorite pistol and eat a bullet every morning to escape my bleak existence.
“Sooooo,” Axel drags that single syllable out with ominous intent. The grin that had wavered during Theo’s tirade returns to my face as my right-hand man’s meaning sinks into my head. Horror invades the dying man’s face when Axel snags hold of his throat and lifts him back to his feet. “What you’re saying is that you do know something about the hit out on Roman’s head?”
“No. No. No. I know nothing about that.” He scratches at Axel’s wrist. “Is that why I’m here? Because of Roman fucking Averell?”
“Of course,” I reply easily. “I might be a freak, but you wouldn’t be on my radar for nothing.”
I circle around behind him, moving out of the way when Axel drags Theo back to the hook that hangs from the ceiling of our slaughter room. Together we lift him up and hang him on the cruel apparatus by the pouch of skin I cut in his back for this specific reason after he was brought here for me to deal with. Once ha
nging, his tiptoes graze the steel floor.
It’s not enough to allow him to find purchase or to brace his weight.
No, allowing his feet to barely scrape the floor is designed to stop his skin from ripping completely.
Theo’s agonized screams would be music to the ears of the man who ordered his death—if he were here. As usual, Roman Averell made the call, then left the actual deed to his minions. Axel and I are used to being brought in to finish Coalition business. Our fathers might command a seat at the table with Roman, however, they don’t sit at the head. That position is solely held by Roman after he stole it from my family through a series of double dealing and double crosses he employed before either Axel or myself were born.
“Tell me about the hit on Roman?” I ask. When Theo balks, I limp over to the stainless-steel table that takes up one wall and select my tool of choice. The wire of the Gigli Saw glints in my grip and Theo moans. It’s a despair-filled sound that sends a shudder rippling down my spine. “Understand me when I tell you that this is going to end one way... with you dead. The only thing that you have control over is whether your little girl lives free and clear of this mess or not.”
“Please, Spenser,” Theo pleads.
I slap him across the face with an insolent disregard designed to erode his remaining pride. “Spenser doesn’t exist to you anymore. That honor died when you sold us out to the Italians. The person you should be begging for mercy is Trigger.”
Holding up the saw, I continue, “Make your choice... give me the details about the hit or condemn little Lucy to a painful death.”
Over his shoulder, the shiny walls of the refrigerated room reflect my visage back to me. Despite the indistinct features that meet my perusal, I can’t find it in myself to truly look. Instead, I duck my head to avoid my reflection and concentrate on finishing this job before I talk myself into turning the handgun I see tucked haphazardly in Axel’s waistband on myself.
“Choose.”
My ultimatum echoes in the quiet room. Axel’s rhythmic breathing and Theo’s panicked respiration are the only other sounds to be heard until a small voice, devoid of hope and skidding on the edge of terror, finally speaks up.
“I’m the only one involved,” Theo confesses. “I went to the Marchetti’s with information about our deal at the Port in exchange for them taking out Roman for me. They agreed. It’s going down tomorrow night when the latest shipment arrives. Everyone knows Roman meets with the Croatians when they make a drop since they’re his family. I told Luigi that was their shot to take him out.”
Lifting my chin in Axel’s direction, I wait for him to nod his agreement before I wrap the sharp wire around Theo’s left index finger. Once it’s clear that we both believe the hanging man, I pull the edges of the saw together and amputate the digit at the second knuckle. Axel screws his nose up when I catch the finger with my bare hand, and then he exits the cooler to pass on the information to our boss.
“That’s all?” I inquire after the cooler door has shut and we’re alone. Theo shakes as shock sets in. Turning my back to him, I deposit the bleeding stump into a sealable freezer bag and drop the Gigli saw into a bucket of bleach for the clean-up crew to deal with later. When I scoop up my favorite pistol and return to Theo, I see that he’s accepted his fate. “Why would you do this?”
My question hangs between us. Tension grows as I pick up on Theo’s disbelief that I’ve even asked. As I press the muzzle against his forehead, his body begins to jerk with a maniacal sounding laughter. The noise makes my skin crawl. I drop the pistol and take hold of his chin to make him look me in the eyes.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re really that fucked up, aren’t you?” Before I can respond, Theo adds, “I wish I was gonna be here to see Roman’s face the day you fall in love with someone other than your twin. He’s not gonna know what’s hit him.”
Resituating the muzzle against his forehead, I drag in a steadying breath through my nose. “Last words?”
“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Tell Roman that I’ll see him in Hell. We still have a score to settle... my wife’s blood still stains his hands.”
“Okay. I’ll tell him.”
“No, you won’t.” Theo spits a mouthful of blood in my face. I grind my teeth as I wipe it away, barely resisting the urge to stop myself from slapping at the burning sensation his saliva sets off beneath my skin. “We all know you’re soft as shit underneath this Trigger bullshit you try to pass off as toughness. You’ll keep your mouth shut until you’ve found somewhere to hide my little Lucy, then you’ll try once more to find the balls to hang yourself or goad some other poor fucker into killing you or—”
His truth bomb is too much to handle, so I squeeze the trigger to silence him.
As the back of Theo’s head explodes and covers the steel wall behind him, I close my eyes and grind my teeth faster to ward off the anger-tinged guilt that attempts to choke me. He’s right. His daughter, Lucy, has already been whisked out of the state to live with one of her mother’s second cousins. It’s the least I can do when, at Roman’s behest, I have the blood of both her mother and father on my conscience.
Once I have my emotions under some semblance of control, I grab the freezer bag containing Theo’s index finger, then stomp my way to the insulated door and push it open.
“It’s done,” I bark at Axel. He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand. “Organize a cleanup and announce that I’m unreachable. Anyone tries to contact me during the next twenty-four hours, and they’ll find themselves swinging next to him.”
Axel closes his mouth and nods. The alarm that invades his gaze at the sight of my discombobulation punches me in the chest and makes me feel smaller than a bug under his shoe. It ramps up my need to get out of here before I explode. Mind spinning, I fight back to the desire to ask him the questions tumbling around my addled brain.
Was Theo telling the truth?
Does everyone see me for the fraud I am.
TWO
“They say time heals all wounds, but that presumes the source of the grief is finite” ~Cassandra Clare~
POPPY
“Hi, everyone,” I say with a self-conscious wave. Color flushes up my face and I drop my chin to my chest as I mumble, “I’m Poppy.”
“Hello, Poppy,” the group replies as one. A couple of people re-enact my fluttery wave, a few nod curtly in my direction, and our therapist, Angela, smiles. My old commanding officer from my time in the Organized Crime Unit, Commander Renee Clearwater claps her hands and laughs, “Well, hello Poppy. It’s nice to hear your voice.”
Everyone laughs, although the sounds range from full bellied guffaws to shy titters of recognition. I come to meetings religiously, but I rarely speak. Usually in group therapy, it’s frowned upon to mock or make light of another member, even jokingly, because everyone has the right to feel safe to speak or not during our sessions. My ex-CO is a special exception for me since it is well-known that we are friends outside therapy and that she’s the reason why I joined.
To say our relationship is complicated would be an understatement.
Renee is my greatest ally because she acts as a constant challenger to my habit of burying my head in the sand to avoid my past. Sharing a similar history means she understands that I need to remember the hurt in order to grow past it. If only she managed to take her own advice as frequently as she dished it out.
As the therapy session begins in earnest, I slump down in my seat and do my best to pretend that I’m invisible. Speaking about anything remotely emotional is my biggest hurdle in life. I prefer the safety of silence. Remaining quiet is both comforting and confining. On one hand, it’s a shield since no one can use my feelings against me, yet it’s also a lonely prison where I remain trapped in the horror of the past because I won’t let anyone else know exactly how I suffered.
Expressing myself has always been a crapshoot for me. There’s a fifty-fifty chance every time I o
pen up that my revelations will be used against me. Coming from a family with seven kids taught me that as a child. My siblings were my closest confidants and my biggest bullies. They had the ability, like all children, to both protect me and taunt me with my fears.
The abuse I suffered as a seven-year-old simply consolidated that knowledge.
My parents took my suffering and used it to excuse their own terrible behavior.
I saw their justifications for what they were, a balm to their guilt, and took a vow of silence instead.
What worked as a young girl keeps me hostage to my pride as a grown woman.
“Poppy,” the therapist addresses me in her soothing voice. “Would you like to provide a small update on your progress since our last meeting?”
Group therapy is supposed to be my safe space. I understand, deep, deep down that it is, and I’ve listened to enough admissions from the other members to know that this is a judgment free place. As a high-ranking officer, Renee has more to lose by her confessions than I do, yet she is open and honest about the sexual abuse she endured at the hands of her father.
Unfortunately, knowing and doing are two separate things.
“I, ah... I had a good week. Work is good. My family is good, although I haven’t been home to see them for three months because of work. My best friend dragged me to a nightclub on our day off and I, uh...” My halting explanation trails off as the words to describe what I did at the end of the night turn into a lump in my throat. When I open my mouth to continue, the only sound that emerges is a choking sound. Renee reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I, um... I did it again. It was good... he seemed into it, so I guess that’s... ah, good?”
My sexual inclinations are the main reason why I agreed to therapy in the first place. The need to be forced and manhandled by my partner during sex to the point of bruises isn’t normal, according to my ex-fiancé. It was an ongoing argument that eventually torpedoed our eight-year relationship. While my best friend doesn’t necessarily agree with him, she does worry about my habit of picking up random men in bars and goading them into violence in alleyways and the back seat of cars.
