Russo Saga Collection

by Nicolina Martin

  Eric

  The rustle of feet on the porch makes me tense and grip the gun a little tighter. Key in the lock. The door opens and shuts. Heavy steps with a slightly uneven gait. I wait. Sitting comfortably in a plush armchair, I’ve placed myself so that once he’s entered his living room, he won’t get past me if he tries to run.

  He takes his sweet time, but I’ve studied his habits for a few nights now. He always watches TV for a little while before he goes to bed.

  Finally, he enters. He walks right past me without seeing me. I’m in a dark corner that somehow turns even darker as the TV flickers to life, the bluish light illuminating the gray-haired middle-aged man.

  “Your daughter is not who you think she is,” I say and lift the gun, pointing it at him. It’s just a precaution. I have no intention of killing Anna’s dad. At least not now that she has survived.

  He screams and darts up. I light the reading lamp next to me and wave with the gun.

  “Sit down, George Raymond. You and I have things to discuss.”

  He still doesn’t sit. “Yo—you!”

  I lift the gun. “Sit the fuck down. Let’s not make this difficult.”

  He still stands.

  I dart up and take aim. “Sit!” I growl.

  Anna’s father falls back onto the couch, his eyes wide and frightened. “Are you here to kill me?”

  I sit back down. His eyes dart between me and the exit.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  He slumps, the fight leaving his body. “What do you want?”

  “What do you know about your daughter, Mr. Raymond?”

  “What do you mean? I know everything about her.”

  “Do you now? Why did she give up her career?”

  “Wh… what is this?”

  “Answer me!”

  “Be… because she was stressed.”

  “And why was she stressed?”

  “Workload…” His voice trails off.

  “Do you know what she went through a year ago?”

  He frowns. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

  “Did you know she was assaulted?”

  His eyes widen. “What? No. She would have told me.” He jumps up. “Did you touch her?”

  “Sit down! And no. I only met her a couple of weeks ago.”

  George sits again, on the edge of the seat, his whole body tense. “She would have told me,” he repeats. “Is that why she hasn’t been herself?”

  “Well, you see, she didn’t. She didn’t tell anyone. She carried it inside and it ate away at her until she was barely functioning.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because she told me.”

  He frowns, a look of despair spreading on his face. “She told you?”

  “I got to know your daughter well that night. And George, may I call you George? My visits weren’t hostile. Neither the one at your house, nor the one where you met me at her place.”

  He sits as if frozen and doesn’t seem to react.

  “I get that it’s hard to take in. Your daughter falling for a hitman. For a mobster. I might as well come clean with you, because I am going to marry her and take her with me. There’s nothing for her here but bad memories and a Godforsaken life among people she doesn’t trust.”

  His head snaps toward me. “She can trust me!”

  “Then ask yourself why she didn’t, why she instead chose to confide in me?”

  He falls forward, hiding his face in his palms. “Oh God.”

  “Who do you think saved her life?”

  He lifts his head slowly and meets my gaze. “You saved her?” he whispers.

  I nod. “Now, can I put this thing away?” I hold up the gun. “Can I trust you to stay where you are?”

  “Yeah,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I… I woke, and there was all this blood… I called 911, I didn’t know where she was.”

  I tuck the gun away in the harness under my armpit, completely uninterested in his wallowing.

  “Right. Here’s the thing. You’re the one who gets to choose whether you’ll be seeing Anna again after she gets out of the hospital, or if you won’t. You see, you know way too much, and normally you’d be on my hit list, but since I care a great deal about your daughter, and she cares about you, I’m willing to make a deal.”

  Anna’s father looks absolutely forlorn, and I almost feel for the old man.

  “What deal?” he asks.

  “You don’t tell anybody who I am, what I do, and no harm will come to you. If you talk, I can’t protect you, and you’re going to have to go on the run. I won’t come for you, but someone will, and you’ll never see your daughter again. It would crush her. I don’t want that. Do you understand?”

  “Will… will I get to see her if I don’t talk?”

  “Of course. I’m not a monster. I’m marrying her, not kidnapping her.”

  To be honest, I don’t even know what she wants, or if she ever wants to see me again, but I see no reason baring my throat to him or showing him my insecurities.

  George Raymond grunts bitterly.

  “You think this is a bad thing?”

  “Yeah! I do!”

  “Do you have any idea how unhappy she was until we met?”

  “What do you have that can make her happy?”

  “Her trust.”

  His question makes a chill slither down my spine. Can I make her happy? Or will she live life in a cage? A mob wife? Like she spat at me that morning. I don’t know, but neither does she, and we’ll find a middle ground somehow in this turmoil.

  He’s silent, studying me.

  “What does my daughter have that makes her so special to you?”

  “My heart. I’ll spend the rest of my days making it up to her, the things I did that night, before I got to know her. She’s a beautiful woman, from the inside out. You’re a good parent.”

  He straightens. “I know I am.”

  “I won’t ask you for her hand. It’s hers to give, not yours. I appreciate the talk, and sorry about the gun. Do we have a deal?”

  He nods. “Yes. Yes, we have.”

  “Good. Also, they’ve dropped the charges, George. I couldn’t let Anna’s dad do time.” I stand and move toward the exit.

  “Eric!”

  I stop and turn. He looks like a fish out of water as he processes what I just said.

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to understand. Just take it and don’t think too much.”

  George is silent. I wait. He’s clearly got more on his mind.

  “Eric.”

  “Yes?”

  “Be good to her.”

  “I will, sir. You have my word.”

  Anna

  “Oh my God! Miss Raymond! What are you doing up? Someone… help! Come on, I’ve got you. You need to get back to bed now.”

  More voices intermingle.

  “What is it, Helen? Oh, shit… We need help here!” A soft chiming from an alarm starts making noises.

  The letter.

  I try to get up, but my legs won’t obey me and my head spins so bad I’m not sure which way is up. Bile rises and sinks in my throat. I salivate and cough, gasping from the strain on the damaged tissue where I was shot, where they cut me open. Pressing my hand to my chest, I attempt to ease the pounding pain. I can’t recall one single moment in my life when I’ve felt so ill, still my thoughts cling to one thing only.

  The letter.

  Hands help me up from the floor and I wince as my body is twisted in odd angles from their efforts to get me back to bed. They are chattering amongst themselves, and the room seems to fill with people. All I feel is grasping fingers, pain and a loud buzz in my ears.

  The letter!

  “Pa…” My tongue isn’t cooperating. “Pap—er.” It comes out as a croak.

  “What’s she saying?”

  “Pape are?”

  “Honey, what do you need?” a voice asks close to
my ear.

  They try to push me down on the bed, but I fight to stay upright and gesture toward the far corner of the room, to somewhere by the window. “Pa… per,” I whisper.

  They look in the direction I’m pointing and the same soft voice repeats, “Paper? Did you say paper?”

  I nod.

  One nurse lets go of my arm and crosses the room, picking up the crumpled letter. “Is this the one you mean?”

  I nod again.

  Not until my hand has closed around it, do I allow myself to fall back onto the bed. They tuck me in, and I close my eyes, fighting the urge to throw up.

  “Are you in pain? You’re sweating.”

  “Pain,” I moan.

  “This will make it easier on you, honey.”

  The morphine sweeps me away on its wings and dilutes the sharpness of the ache in my chest until it’s only a dull reminder of its previous high. Even the aching in my heart eases a little. Barely aware that there are still people in the room, I drift.

  ‘You’re wrong about me.’

  No!

  I squeeze my eyes shut, choking on tears that threaten to spill. I can’t allow myself to go there. I haven’t cried once since I came out of unconsciousness. I haven’t cried for Myles, for my dad, for Eric, or for myself. The sorrow is a tight ball of agony lodged inside my chest. I have no right to mourn.

  A bird chirps outside the window. My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I have a massive headache. My eyes hurt, and even without opening them I know someone has pulled the curtains apart, and that the sun is shining blindingly into my hospital room. I also know the same someone is sitting right next to my bed.

  I know him well. I know his scent. I know his breathing; in, hold it a moment too long, out with a slight huff. I know the sound of thin paper rustling, of pages in a newspaper being turned. I manage a half-smile in his direction. Instead of speaking, I make an odd clicking sound.

  I try again. “Wat—er.”

  A hand is gently put behind my neck and the cold rim of a glass touches my lips. I tilt my head and drink greedily. I nod when I’m satisfied, and the glass disappears.

  “Don’t you have anything better to do, Dad?”

  “Honey, I have absolutely nothing better to do than to sit by your side. I won’t leave until you’re strong enough to physically kick me out of here. Mom says hi by the way. Weather in New York is apparently terrible. At least we can talk weather, she and I. And you.”

  My lips twitch. I can’t complain about their devotion to me. “Yeah, she called yesterday. She’ll come over next week again. You’re both very sweet and... here. A lot. When are they gonna prosecute you and put you in jail so I can have some time alone?”

  He snorts. “Very funny, Anna.”

  Turning my head toward him, I open one eye and glance at him. “I always seem to think it is. You did shoot me.”

  Dad turns serious and looks at his lap. “They dropped the charges.”

  My heart makes a leap. I’ve been praying for this. “That’s—That’s fantastic, Dad! That’s amazing news!”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “Dad! Stop blaming yourself! It wasn’t your fault. You’re a silly old man, but I love you.”

  “I love you too,” he mouths, still too ashamed to say it out loud. “They told me you were up. What happened?”

  “Ah, you know… I got bored lying in bed all the time. I wanted to see the world outside and I wanted to live a little.”

  Lying still comes without effort. Funny how it can be so easy to lie to the people closest to me, and yet a stranger saw right through me. I clutch my left hand harder, crushing the little piece of paper even tighter. The only little piece of evidence I have of his existence. I can hand it to the cops. I can burn it. I can frame it and put it on the wall… or if I clutch it like this for much longer, I can make it disintegrate under the pressure of my clammy fingers. I smile at my father as I let go of the letter and smooth it out on the bed next to me, covering it under the sheet.

  We continue with our little morning routine while my headache subsides. Dad has brought me tea and toast. He reads the news, the sport events and the letters from the readers out loud and we comment on the awfulness of the world, and on how silly people are. We keep it light, small-talking. I feign normalcy while knowing I’m nothing but a lie and by far the most insane person on the planet. Because I know what I did. I know what’s inside me. Who I am now. Who he unmasked.

  I feel something I can’t allow.

  Dad and I haven’t talked about what Eric did in my hallway that morning. We haven’t talked about what Eric did in my room in Dad’s house either. I hope he assumes he was there threatening me and nothing else. With everything that happened, and the fact Eric held a knife to my throat the only time my father saw him, he has no reason not to believe me. Right?

  It still hurts, thinking about it. It tears my heart to pieces. I gave him everything. I gave him my body and my soul, and he’s the last person I ever want to see again.

  I didn’t want to believe he really is a murderer. That after all we went through, after all the revelations, the closeness, the intimacies we shared… that he’d still be that man. I can’t reconcile with that fact. I can’t meld together in my head the images I have of him as tender and real… with a man who murders people for a living. I can’t, because the imprint he made still refuses to release its hold on me. I swallow hard as my dad keeps talking, remembering Eric’s hands around my throat, how close he came to killing me. The bruises are still there, the discolorations tinged nothing but a pale yellow now. No! I’m delusional. He’s dangerous. That’s the only truth I need to hold on to.

  ‘I want you to come with me.’

  Get out of my head!

  I don’t want to want it, but the thought of not taking him up on his offer, of never seeing him again, feels like ripping out my heart. Doesn’t that make me as bad as him? As bad as a murderer?

  “You look so tired, pumpkin. I think nurse Angela will come in here and give me her evil stare if I don’t pack up and leave.”

  My dad’s tender voice pulls me back to the hospital room. “Aw, you don’t have to leave,” I whisper. The truth is I’m terrified of being alone with my thoughts. They hurt. He stands and packs his things. “I’m in pain, Dad,” I blurt out.

  It’s another lie. I’m not. At least not physically. I only want to sleep.

  His eyes are so filled with compassion it almost makes my chest hurt for real. “I’ll tell them on my way out.”

  I smile weakly. “Thanks.”

  Chapter 29

  Anna

  “Will you be all right, sweetheart?”

  Dad sets the bag on the floor and closes the door behind him. I stare at the spot where I fell, where I caught my last glimpse of Eric. My father catches me staring and misinterprets my clenched jaw. “Your mother cleaned it up after the police were done. We didn’t want you to have to come home to that mess.”

  I manage a smile. “Everything? That’s sweet.” I wonder if she noticed the crumpled, sweaty sheets in my bedroom that must have reeked of sex. My cheeks turn hot, and I bend my head, hoping he won’t catch me blushing and ask about it. Mom hates to clean. She probably just threw them in the garbage.

  Dad shuffles his feet and looks uneasy. He’s standing almost at the exact spot where he was when he shot me.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll call you later.” I try not to jump with impatience. I long desperately for time on my own.

  “I know you want to have some alone-time but at least let me help you unpack and get you a coffee or something.” He takes a couple of undetermined steps into the hallway.

  “Dad. I’m fine,” I say softly. I lay a hand on his arm to stop him. He knows me well enough. I really need him to leave.

  “Are you sure, pumpkin?” he asks. I sigh, and his lip twitches. “Sorry.”

  I toe off my shoes without bending down, square my shoulders and inhale. I want it to smell like
home, but I haven’t set foot in my apartment for almost a month and it doesn’t. It smells dusty, unused. I turn to my dad again. “Yes, I’m sure. I’ll call you tomorrow. You can invite me over for dinner.”

  His eyes turn glassy, and he blinks several times. “Anna...” His voice is filled with emotion. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. If I’d have lost you…”

  My chest tightens at the desolate look in his eyes. I nod and cup his cheek. “I know.”

  He doesn’t answer, just closes his eyes and leans his head against my hand.

  “Dad.”

  He looks up and I take back my hand. “Yes?”

  “We never…” I exhale shakily. “Talked about it. I know he saved me. Eric. One of the cops told me.”

  Dad looks at his shoes, then back up at me. “I met him, Anna.”

  I frown. “Yeah, I know.” I gesture to where we stand.

  “No. He came to my house.”

  “I know, Dad. That night—”

  “Anna. No. When you were in the hospital the hitman came to my house. He said he was taking you.”

  I stiffen. Ice trickles through my veins. “What?” A heavy lump settles in my belly. “What did he say?”

  “He said he was marrying you. Is this true?”

  “No! It’s not. I haven’t even seen him since then. He’s probably forgotten about me. When was he at your place? Oh my God, Dad, are you all right? Did he…”

  Dad lays a hand on my arm. “I’m all right, pumpkin. He played big and bad and waved a gun in my face, but I’m all right. Don’t worry about me.”

  “When was this?” My heart slams in my chest. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  “Five days ago.”

  It feels as if all the blood drains from my face. “Why haven’t you told me?”

  “Frankly, I wasn’t sure I should.”

  “But you’re telling me now.”

  “I just want you to be safe. And happy. Are you happy, Anna?”

  I stare at him, my chest aching from old and new wounds. Then I shake my head. “Not particularly, no.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I regard him, see the hope shine in his eyes. “No.”

  He deflates.