Russo Saga Collection

by Nicolina Martin

  “Miranda, thank you. You can leave. Go get yourself some coffee. I will call for you later again.”

  Miranda gives me a look filled with pity, and then disappears as if she had the Devil on her tail.

  The doctor comes into my sight. I know him well. A man in his sixties, a little round around the waist, a thick mane of hair he dyes a dark brown. He must have looked good in his youth, but his features are aged by troubles and not by a happy life. I bet he has seen shit no one should ever see. He works for Salvatore. He has patched up many wounds. He gives us girls the gyno exam, and tests us regularly for diseases. Condoms are the rule. Some men don’t give a shit, though, and they’re never welcomed back. Salvatore fucked me bareback. He knew I was clean. I don’t know if he is. I push it away. One worry at a time.

  “Carmen. I have been told the state you’re in. I have some questions that are very important you answer truthfully.” He fiddles with something out of my sight, glances down, and then back up at me.

  I nod.

  “Was any object other than a penis inserted into you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Have you been given any drugs?”

  I frown and try to think back, then I shake my head.

  “Were you beaten?”

  I nod.

  “Did your head take any hits? Are you experiencing an unnatural need to sleep? Headache? Dizziness?”

  Well, both yes and no, but no, I wasn’t hit in the head so I shake it again.

  He smiles briefly. “Did you receive any blows to your stomach?”

  “Not from the outside,” I whisper, my voice a mere rasp.

  He frowns before it dawns on him, an uncomfortable look ghosting past his features. “Okay, Carmen. I’m going to give you something for the pain. It will make it all go away.” He inserts a needle in my upper arm and injects a clear fluid. Almost immediately, my mind begins to spin. As from a distance, I hear him speak. “I’m not gonna lie, there might be some hallucinations.”

  Lucas

  It’s almost a physical ache. I have never seen such a battered human being in my life, and a tiny woman no less. I fume as I make my way back home, my heart pounding with each step. It’s still early morning, but I’m too riled up to sleep. Her naked little body, the swellings, the ugly bruises, she could barely open her left eye, the dark specks of dried blood, her chafed wrists… It all runs on repeat in my mind.

  Downing a second cup of coffee, I then change clothes, pull on my trainers and hit the streets. It takes me forty minutes to reach the dojo. I run faster, harder, than I’ve ever done before, and still she follows me everywhere I go.

  Carmen.

  Last night, she was so beautiful, and so scared. Today… I try not to think. It won’t do me any good to rage against Salvatore and his men. I’ll end up decapitated in a ditch. If I want to climb the ladder, I’m gonna have to shut the fuck up and do what they tell me. I’ll never, fucking never, raise my hand against a woman, though. They’d have to kill me.

  Drenched in sweat, I enter the silent dojo. It’s in the basement of a building marked for demolition and we’re soon going to have to find another place. I like it here, especially at odd hours. Taking off my shoes, I pay my respects and then go to find whoever must be here.

  Rodriguez sits in the tiny kitchenette, nurturing a foul-smelling cup of coffee.

  “Hey man,” he says. “What’s up? I’m so fucking hungover— Dude, you look like shit. What happened?”

  I don’t know what to say. I can never tell anyone the truth about what I witness. Ever. “Some shit went down,” I mumble. “We got any Advil, or something?”

  He tilts his head. “Should be in the med locker. Wanna spar?”

  I look him over. He does look like shit. “You up for that?”

  “Yeah, man. I need to sweat it out.”

  I find what I’m looking for and toss two pills in my mouth, sticking my head under the faucet to lap up some water.

  “Grab a couple of mitts then and buckle up,” I say after I’ve swallowed the medicine.

  Rodriguez studies me as he ties back his long, black hair and follows me to the small open space where all the action happens. I feel his gaze on me. I know he has questions. There’s a darkness in me this morning and it shows.

  During the next half hour, I go at him with kicks and fists. I throw him to the carpet over and over. We’re both drenched in sweat, panting heavily, when he slaps his palm against the floor.

  “I’m done for, mate,” he gasps.

  I give him my hand and pull him up. We pay our respects and he pats my back.

  “Man, you’re vicious.”

  I feel a lot better. The images have paled. Fighting roots me in the now and it’s exactly what I need to survive.

  “Still hung over?”

  He shakes his head. “Gone. All good. I was gonna help a pal move today. Not sure I can even lift a plant now.”

  I laugh. “Sure you can.”

  It’s Sunday. Nothing happens. I stare at the wall, and the chipped paint on the doorpost.

  On Monday I have a burst of inspiration and decide to do something about it. I buy a can of white paint and get to it.

  Tuesday night I get the call I’ve been waiting for. For two years, I’ve dreamt of this moment.

  It’s Sean.

  “We got a thing for ya. “

  My heart rate picks up. “When?”

  “Eleven?”

  “Tonight?”

  “You not up for it?”

  I grit my teeth but compose myself, looking at my hands specked with dried paint.

  “Of course I am. Where to?”

  “We’ll pick you up, dude.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Not on the phone, you imbecile.”

  Heat floods my cheeks. I’m stupid.

  “Eleven, then. I’m ready.”

  Sean laughs. It doesn’t sound pleasant at all. It sounds as if someone is dragging a thick metal chain over rough concrete. He’s gotta give up his fucking smoking.

  “You better be, Lucas. You better be.”

  Chapter 7

  Lucas

  At eleven sharp I wait on the sidewalk outside my apartment complex. The night is lukewarm and reeks of garbage. Someone didn’t put the lid back on and seagulls have pulled rotting waste out of the bin for hours, spreading it all over the pavement. The shrieks have driven me nearly crazy, and on top of that, my neighbors have been at it again. I’ve tried to drown out the noises in Kraftwerk, the angry music so loud my windows rattled.

  As a sleek, dark car pulls up, the windows tinted black, my stomach clenches. I straighten. It’s time. And it really is about fucking time.

  Christian hops out and jerks his head toward the open back door.

  “Hop in, kid.”

  I keep my face in check, hide the scowl that almost slipped. Kid. I’ll show them I’m no damn kid.

  Eric is behind the wheel, Ray sits next to him. Christian hops in, dwarfing me between him and Sean. I’m not short, but these guys are giants.

  “So, what are we doing?”

  Ray twists and looks at me, holding out a gun. “Ever used one of these before, boy?”

  I reach for it. “Of course I have.”

  He cocks an eyebrow, looks at Christian and then drops the heavy metal object in my hand, a little smirk playing on his lips. I check the clip, make sure the safety is on, and pocket it.

  “Good.”

  “We’re gonna collect a debt,” growls Christian, “and send a little message.”

  “An—anything in particular I should know? What kind of place? How many targets?” My chest is filled with butterflies on steroids. This is finally for real.

  “Two,” says Sean. “A house.”

  “Bar? Club? Office?” I want to get a picture of what we’re getting into.

  “House.”

  I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. I glance out. We’ve moved away from the trashier parts of the
city and into more affluent neighborhoods, white picket fences, children’s toys spread on well-mowed lawns. If we drive further north, there’ll be nothing but the occasional farm, some forests, open fields. Where are we doing this?

  House.

  Someone’s home. A shiver of unease runs through me.

  Eric pulls up on a dark side street. Not a soul is seen apart from us. Most lights are out in the surrounding houses. People are in bed. Asleep. I trail close behind the group of men who make their way through the foliage between the fences, separating gardens from the park and the playground that’s located on the other side of us. The contrast couldn’t be more stark. Five hit men in the dark. In the day, children laughing and playing. I step over a little plastic truck, its color indiscernible.

  Glancing around us, Eric then opens a gate and motions for the rest of us to follow. He opens a screen door, which gives out a little squeak. I hold my breath, but nothing stirs. Making quick work with the lock to the door, he then holds it open for us.

  “No alarm,” he mouths with a little smirk. “I’ll keep guard. Do what you gotta do.” He lets the door slide shut behind the rest of us, staying outside himself.

  We move through a narrow corridor. The house is dark and quiet. A floorboard creaks when Sean steps on it and the rest of us make sure to avoid it. The kitchen looks cozy and a faint smell of garlic and herbs lingers. Sean gestures to a set of stairs. Ray goes with him. I take a step to follow, but Christian motions for me to stay.

  My pulse roars in my ears and my stomach churns. This isn’t some seedy bar with some half-drunk crook of an owner. These are just people. Maybe even a family? I glance around without seeing any telltale signs of kids, though.

  I swallow and glance toward the upper hallway. A wave of nausea runs through me, but I straighten and realize I need to man up. This is what I’ve begged for.

  A high-pitched scream makes me jerk. I finger the shape of the gun through the fabric of my jacket. A man grunts. Feet shuffle on the wooden floor. A loud bang. Sean’s unmistakable growl.

  “Get the fuck out there, bitch.”

  Two shapes appear at the top of the stairs, one hulking and one more delicate. The whimpers from the woman cut through the silent night, then all hell seems to break loose upstairs as Sean half-carries, half-pushes the woman down the stairs.

  A slightly plump woman in her forties, blonde, falls to her knees in front of me, a trickle of blood on her upper lip.

  “Please!” She looks straight at me. I make myself hard, unflinching, as I meet her pleading eyes.

  Sean pushes her toward me. “Tie her up.” He drops a bunch of zip ties, letting them rain over her head.

  I grab her upper arm and collect some of the ties. Pulling her with me to a kitchen chair, I make quick work with wrists and ankles, securing her. She seems to be in a trance, her eyes focused on the dark upstairs landing where nothing seems to happen. Her skin is warm and damp, she smells of soap and sleep. She chokes out a cry.

  “Please! Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

  “Gag her.” Christian’s voice is uncaring. “We don’t need anything from her anyway.”

  I spring into action, glancing around me. Cutting a kitchen towel in two, I then find a scarf in the hallway. As I push the towel into her mouth and tie the scarf around her jaw, fighting the squirming, wailing woman, a grunt makes us all look up. Ray pulls a man down the stairs, the body limp, bouncing on each step.

  The wife’s eyes bulge and she makes incomprehensible, muffled noises. Her terror radiates off her and makes my skin crawl. I take a step to the side, so I won’t have to look at her.

  Ray drops the unconscious man on the floor before our feet.

  “Did you kill him, you fucker?” Christian sounds impatient, annoyed.

  “Of course not. He’s just… sleeping.”

  Christian scoffs. “Get him up. He has things to tell us.”

  I jerk and grab a pot off the counter, filling it with cold water, which I then, after an approving nod from Ray, pour over the head of the man. He coughs and sputters but still seems pretty out of it. Christian crouches and slaps him on the cheeks.

  “Simon,” he singsongs. “Wakey-wakey.”

  Simon’s eyelids flutter. Christian slaps him again and the man’s eyes shoot open, unfocused at first but then fixating on Christian.

  “Wha—what do you want?”

  He grunts as Sean slams a boot to his side.

  “I don’t know anything,” he screams. “Who are you people?”

  Sean looks at Christian and me. “If there’s one thing I hate more than a liar, it’s a cowardly liar.” He crouches next to Simon and pulls him up by his collar. “Where is the money you owe Salvatore?”

  His eyes widen. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

  Even I can see he’s lying.

  Sean slams his fist in Simon’s face. Once, twice. His head rocks to the side with each blow. His lips split and he spits blood. The woman whimpers through her gag. It’s a constant background noise that I try to drown out as I focus on the scene before me.

  “Where’s the money, Simon?” Christian puts a boot to his chest and applies some pressure, making the man cough and groan.

  “You’ve got the wrong man!”

  Ray stands with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the stair railing. “What do you figure will convince him?”

  Simon thrashes under Christian’s boot. He can’t do much, though, with his hands and feet zip tied.

  “What do you say, Lucas, do away with the wife?”

  Words penetrate the fog in my mind. My name.

  I jerk and the room comes back, too crisp, the reality sharp and without mercy. I react on instinct when Ray tosses me a sheathed knife, catching it in my cupped hands. A hunter’s knife. I pull out the blade and take in its cruel serrated edge. Looking back up at Ray, I follow his gaze as he looks at the woman I tied to the chair. She stares emptily in front of her. The world spins out of control. Cut her throat? Push my blade through skin and muscle and cut her blood vessels? The vision is too visceral. I can’t. I refuse to hurt a woman. A shudder runs through me as I think of Carmen’s battered body.

  Christian grips my arm. “Cut her throat. You wanted in. You’re in.”

  I stare at the woman and take a hesitant step toward her. Our eyes meet. Hers are full of a pain I can’t even begin to imagine. Dulled. All hope gone. Her gaze darts to my hand that’s holding the knife and then back up at me. She doesn’t struggle, her face is frozen as if it is made out of stone.

  Everyone is quiet. The husband stares emptily in front of him. The woman, whose name I don’t even know, closes her eyes. I step behind her and put the edge against the delicate skin on her throat. A raw chill spreads through my chest. I’m passing a line I can never find my way back across. Her pulse beats rapidly, making the knife flutter. It’s surreal. I look at Ray, Sean, and Christian, meeting their gazes, one after the other. No one pities me, no one makes a move to save me from this nightmare.

  You wanted in. You’re in.

  Fuck no!

  I throw the knife in disgust. It clatters to the floor, bouncing toward the tied-up husband. “You’re fucking sick! All of you. What the fuck!” I dart toward the back door, slam it open, surprising Eric, who is waiting outside. Sweat breaks out on my forehead as I dash to the bushes and empty my stomach on the lawn. Supporting my hands on my thighs, I gasp for air as the others come out, chuckling.

  “You gotta step up your game, kid.” Sean slaps me on the back.

  I straighten and wipe my mouth on the back of my sleeve. “Did you kill them?”

  “Nah. Just wanted to scare the shit outta them. You did good.”

  “What if I had done her?” I push at Sean and stalk to the car, my head spinning. Assholes! Fucking assholes!

  “We knew you wouldn’t. Welcome to the family!” half-shouts Christian.

  Their laughter follows me for the rest of the nigh
t.

  Chapter 8

  Carmen

  “What did you give her?”

  “Ketamine. It’s a powerful painkiller, and a mild sedative. Carmen might be aware, but she won’t experience any discomfort. I need to examine her.”

  “We need to wash her off, doc.”

  I’m in my body, and I’m not. Their hands are like fingers of a ghost, fluttering, like wafts of air. They unwrap the little packet that is me. The crooked empanada, who is all mushy inside. It’s gone bad. I’ve gone bad.

  “Motherf— That beast! I’m gonna kill him!”

  I’m awed. The matron never curses.

  “I’m so sorry, Elena,” mumbles the doctor as they help straighten my arms and legs and lay me flat.

  Elena? Then I remember what I had forgotten. The matron has a name too, like the rest of us. The doctor shines a lamp in my eyes, pats down my arms and legs, stomach, listens to my heart and lungs.

  “There are no signs of inner damage.”

  The matron scoffs, then she opens the door. “Miranda,” she roars, a sound so powerful it’s bound to tear the walls down. And that’s when things begin to turn odd. I’m in the ceiling. I am the actual ceiling, because I’m just awareness. The girl on the bed moans as her belly swells.

  “We’re going to have to operate.” The doctor fiddles with his bag and takes out a scalpel. The blade catches the rays of the sunlight that shines through the window.

  “Yes, of course,” says the matron and looks up at me.

  No, no, no cutting. What are they doing? Why isn’t anyone telling him he can’t just cut into me? My belly is huge now, I look nine months pregnant, ready to burst. He puts the blade down in the upward slope under my breastbone and cuts a straight line all the way to my pubic bone. The two halves of my stomach begin to separate and out comes a black hairy leg, and another, and another. My belly falls apart and hundreds and hundreds of big, black, hairy spiders flood the bed. I scream. A scream with no sound, because I have no vocal cords. No lungs. I look at the matron. Why isn’t anyone helping me?

  My body is covered with the mass of monsters. They all turn to me and a collective whisper reaches my non-ears.