Russo Saga Collection

by Nicolina Martin

  I sit alone at night, on the hardwood floor in front of the huge windows. The bridge glitters in the distance. I sit with a cup of tea, empty inside, and pour hurt on blank pages. I write for hours. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write so I can close the book one day, tuck it away and let my pain go.

  One day. One day that feels very far away.

  My period is late. I don’t think much about it. Extreme stress can screw with your hormones.

  I don’t bleed the next month either.

  With a pounding heart, I buy a little harmless-looking, pen-like white object in my local pharmacy and do what it says. I stare at it the whole night, hour after hour, unable to fathom the result, my mind blank regarding what this means.

  The pen is steady as I write. I examine the feelings in my heart, the flutter in my belly, and I know it’s the right thing to do. The right thing in a world with so many wrongs.

  Yeah, there’ll be questions, but since nobody except Chloe really knows anything dangerous, it won’t be that difficult. A night out, a drunken one-night stand with a cute guy. It’s what I’ll tell them. My parents will frown. My friends will act up, but accept it. No one needs to know the truth. No one can know about Christian.

  And Chloe… I’ll pass that bridge when I get there. I’ll figure something out.

  ‘It’s as if a little piece of heaven fell down into the Hell I’ve been living in. I know it will help me mend, it’ll help me focus on something else. I need it, it gives me something to live for.’

  I frown as I contemplate the words. Then I nod. This is the truth. My truth.

  I fall back on the bed, pressing my little journal to my chest, closing my eyes. My lips twitch into a half smile and a tear slides from the corner of my eye, along the side of my cheek and onto the sheet. I’m not entirely happy, but I’m not that sad either. Not anymore. I lay a hand over my still flat belly.

  I’ll live.

  There is life.

  And this is my life.

  Sadly, the little hope I have for a life turns into bottomless despair exactly nine weeks and three days after Christian Russo tore me to pieces. Mom calls. She doesn’t even need to tell me something has happened.

  “Kerry.”

  Her voice is broken. Crushed. My first instinct is to hang up. I don’t want to know. Please God, don’t do this to me.

  “Your father is in the hospital. You need to come.”

  “Mom. Tell me now.” Icy fingers clutch my chest. I don’t breathe.

  “He died, love. They think he had a heart attack. It happened at work. They couldn’t save him.”

  My mother cries and cries. I turn off. I have no pain left to spare. I tell my belly to just hang in there while I have a new breakdown.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Take a taxi. Don’t drive.”

  I hang up, grab my leather jacket and my helmet, hop on my Vespa and go to say goodbye to my biggest inspiration in life. My idol. My psychologist father who taught me all about compassion, all about life.

  This is my life. This is my non-life. I put a hand on my belly. If I hadn’t had her, or him, I’m not sure I’d be here tomorrow.

  Mom sits slumped on a couch in the ward. My always elegant mother has her makeup smeared all over her face and doesn’t even seem to notice. Her eyes are vacant when our gazes meet. We hug. I still feel nothing. I should mourn. I wonder when I’ll realize my father is never gonna call me again, never gonna discuss the origin of intelligence, whether we’re all just energies swirling in a multi-colored void, the rate of abortion among American teens, how to solve poverty once and for all.

  She takes my hand and we go to him.

  A pale man in a white room. A sheet pulled up to his chin. A lit candle. A vase with flowers.

  His features are sunken. I touch him and recoil. He’s cold, his skin still soft to the touch, but the warmth has already dissipated. Like when the chill sets in as soon as the sun sets.

  I can’t cry, but my mother weeps helplessly and I hold her.

  There’s no one in this room to say goodbye to. He’s already left.

  I look to the ceiling, then out the window, and wonder if he’s found the answer to all his riddles.

  After the funeral, after all the relatives have left, I help Mom sort through his things. She doesn’t want to keep one single item. I sniff his shirts, sneak some away, and revel in the stabs of pain that shoot through my chest, showing I’m still human after all.

  Christian

  How much fucking bad luck can one person have? Her father died. I take in her thin, black-clad shape from a distance. The day is rainy, and foggy. No rays of sun hit the mahogany casket as it is lowered into the ground. There are no relatives. Only her and her mom, clinging to each other by the grave. The rest of the crowd are his work mates, students, and friends. He was a loved man. I wonder how that feels. I hope he knew to appreciate it.

  I’ll give her a couple of days, but then it’s time to set my plan in motion. I don’t trust my uncle to stay off her back much longer. We’ll leave the country. I’ll take her to Nathan’s condo in Mexico, then we’ll find our own place, well out of reach of fucking Luciano Salvatore.

  I expect resistance. I have a few Roofies ready in case I need to subdue her. Just enough for her not to fight, but not so much that she can’t stand on her own two feet. I’ve arranged passports for us in fake names, tickets. I’m all set.

  Excitement rises in me as I think about being close to her again. She’ll come around, I’m sure of it. She’ll understand the hows and whys of what happened once I get to explain. I might have to tie her up to get her to listen, but in that case—so be it.

  At five a.m., I park my car on the sidewalk outside her house, with only a few feet to walk in case I have to drag her. My belly is full of butterflies, jittery. Christian Russo is nervous. Now that’s a novelty. I don’t bring my gun. I doubt I’m gonna need it, and I sure as hell don’t want it to end up in the wrong hands.

  The plane leaves at seven forty. It’s a four-hour flight that will take us directly to Mexico City. I have a car waiting for us there, and hopefully Kerry will trust me enough by then to not make a mess and a full scale kidnapping out of this. Not that I’m beneath stealing her away. Images of her tied up in a dank basement flicker through my mind, and I’m a sick fuck because my cock stirs at the thought. A tiny woman, a thick rope, a torn dress.

  Oh fuck it, Christian. You’ve been too long without pussy.

  I know exactly why. It’s not that I’ve been busy healing. I healed within a week. My imminent death was surprisingly easy to fix once I got the proper care. It’s because I’ve lost my fucking appetite for anyone other than the person behind those red brick walls. All I want is her warm, soft body, her eyes to shine with trust once again, her soft lips pressed against mine.

  Gritting my teeth, I glance around at the deserted street and then inhale deeply before I exit, leaving the motor running.

  I knock.

  I have no other reasonable means of entering. I have to knock a few more times, spying up and down the street as I wait. Finally, I hear a rustle from inside, the clicks from the lock.

  The door opens an inch. The safety chain is on. I don’t see the person on the other side in the dark, but I have to assume it’s her. I’ll have the same chance reasoning my way in as a snowball has in Hell. Fuck!

  I don’t think. I act. Slamming my boot to the door, the safety chain is torn from the wood, and the door crashes open. Kerry screams. It’s a scream that freezes me to the spot, that chills me to the core. Pure, primal anguish, barely human.

  “Hey! I—”

  Facing the barrel of a gun, I snap my mouth closed. Fuck!

  “Leave or I’ll shoot,” she screams.

  I hold out my hands, as I measure the distance. I can take her. A bang from behind me makes me spin around and stare straight into the double barrel of a shotgun. And an old man in checkered pajamas, barefoot, and thick white hair. He lo
oks positively wild. Determined.

  “If you ever set foot in here again, I will shoot you. You, or anyone else. You leave Miss Jackson alone, mister.” His voice is thin, old, unused, but I don’t doubt his threat. He doesn’t even tremble.

  Motherfucking hell!

  I look over my shoulder and take one last glance at what’s left of Kerry. Her face is sunken in and pale. She has dark circles under her eyes and looks as if she has just been crying.

  “I’ll be back,” I growl, the pain of seeing her like this making me lash out instead of trying to make amends.

  With a twinge to my heart, I shove the long barrel and the old man to the side, leap to my car and speed off.

  I stop after the first intersection, pulling up by the sidewalk under the large crowns of the row of plane trees, next to some houses on another street that has yet to wake.

  “Fuck!”

  I’m at a loss. She’s armed, and has clearly been expecting me this whole time, just waiting. Why am I surprised? I knew she’s a survivor. Rubbing my face, I groan. All my plans go to shit. I can’t protect her if I can’t get to her. I’ll have to rethink this. Approach her in a public place? Talk to her mom? Her friend? Write a letter?

  I’m not used to complications. I’m not used to having to rethink everything, to not be in control. Why does she have to be so fucking stubborn?

  Her worn-out features play on repeat before my eyes. I did that, and then her father died.

  I took a tiny, young woman, a warm, beautiful, compassionate human being, and disintegrated her, ripped everything from her. I have crushed her. How the fuck do I even begin to mend that?

  Glancing at the clock, I rev the engine and move again. I need a drink. And a cig. Fuck this shit! I grab for the toothpicks in my pocket, roll down the window and toss them. What the fuck’s the point with anything anyway?

  Chapter 14

  Kerry

  I fall on my hands and knees, trembling, nauseous, the gun still clutched in my hand. I force my finger out of the guard so I don’t accidentally fire it.

  My amazing neighbor bends over me and pats awkwardly on my shoulder.

  “He has left.”

  I nod, staring at the hardwood floor, at his bare feet.

  “How did you—” I sit back on my heels and rub my cheeks that are still wet from a night of weeping, “know to come?”

  “I always wake early. I heard you, little one. And you borrowed my gun. I knew something was very wrong. My old instincts are still intact apparently. I didn’t even think.”

  I stand on wobbly legs and glance out the still open door, at the empty street. My head spins. Christian is alive. He’s alive. A part of me is paradoxically overjoyed, and another part of me more terrified than ever. He’s alive, and he came for me. That can only mean one thing.

  He’s planning to kill me.

  “Do— do you want some coffee?”

  I very much don’t want to be alone right now. Dad. Christian. I can’t think straight.

  “I am always happy for coffee. Black. No sugar. Sugar isn’t good for my diabetes.”

  I close the door behind him and lock it, staring at the safety chain that was ripped off the wood. It was never meant to stand against the forces of a furious hitman. Shuddering, I motion for my neighbor to follow me to the kitchen.

  We drink in silence, both a little too shook up for casual conversation. When I fall over the table, hiding my face in my arms, he speaks, making me twitch and look back up again.

  “What will you do, miss? You can’t stay here. I normally wouldn’t encourage anyone to take the coward’s route and flee, but your life is clearly in immediate danger. You’re not safe.”

  I’m so surprised. My neighbor hasn’t been this lucid for as long as I’ve known him. Maybe the edge the adrenaline gave him has kicked some synapses back to life?

  “I know.” My voice is dull, void of all life. I glance around my cozy kitchen, warm colors, dark wood, a tall window to a cute little garden. The bridge in the distance. “I just don’t know where to go.”

  “I wish I could help you.”

  I reach over the table and take his wrinkly old hand, blue veins ridging the back, brown specks from a life of sun exposure.

  “You have helped me so, so much. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.”

  He nods. “Yes.”

  I fall over the table again with a groan. How can I think when my thoughts run a thousand miles per hour? My feelings about seeing Christian are beyond fucked up. Standing a few inches from him, his tall, broad shape, dark piercing eyes, that tousled hair I loved to run my fingers through… Fright wasn’t the only feeling coursing through me. My mind tells me to run. My heavily thumping heart, the ache in my chest, makes me remember how much I’ve missed what I thought we had, the pull, the need, how he listened to me, and how I thought it meant something.

  Rationally, I know I was wrong, but my feelings still haven’t caught up.

  “I… I think I need to be alone.”

  “Of course. Try to sleep. Don’t worry. I shall be vigilant.”

  I smile, but it probably comes off as a grimace. “Thank you.”

  When he has left, I make myself a second cup of coffee. My hands are still shaking. I look at the gun next to me on the counter. I can’t live like this.

  A jolt shoots through me as I think of the only thing that’s left for me to do. I decide to take the bull by the horns. It could be the worst decision of my life, or the best, but I decide to go directly to the source of my troubles.

  I shower, get dressed and wait for the clock to strike seven so I can get to work. My mind is not where my body is. I see dark eyes, a handsome face, strong features. Christian morphs into Salvatore, and back. These men with my fate in their hands. These fucking men who think they can decide who lives and who dies. I don’t want to die. I put my hands on my still flat belly. I have reasons to live. My heart may be full of sorrow, but there is hope for life. I refuse to have that taken away.

  I need an address. I hope we still have it in our files.

  The men in front of the barred iron gates stare at me with hard gazes as I drive up on my Vespa and park it by a tree. I’ve waited for as long as I can. It’s ten a.m. Friday. The day when my fate will be decided once and for all after two months of darkness. I pull off the helmet and shake out my long red hair, knowing the impact it tends to have on the male population. I don’t look to charm any of these brutes, but a tiny amount of female trickery probably won’t hurt.

  Hands rest on what I assume must be concealed weapons. What do they think I am? A walking bomb? Well, to be honest, I feel like one. I’m angry as hell, and terrified, and fucking scorned.

  I walk up to the one who looks like the leader of the pack. “I want to speak with Luciano Salvatore.”

  “And why would you wanna do that?”

  “That’s hardly any of your business,” I quip, my voice a bit unsteady.

  The man steps up to me. Really close. I find myself nose-to-chest with a black well-fitted suit. “You just made it my business, lady.”

  Tilting my head, I give the guard the hardest glare I can muster. “Mr. Salvatore will want to speak with me. And he’ll be firing your ass if he finds out who you turned down at the gate. If you’re lucky, that is, and firing is all he does.”

  I don’t know where I get this crazy courage, but there’s something about having been tricked, cheated, lured into a death trap and beaten, that makes me want to slap Salvatore’s handsome face. And that’s what I’m here to do. At least metaphorically. I don’t think it’s a good idea to actually lift a hand against him. Sadly.

  The man looks at his buddies, and then they burst out laughing. My cheeks heat up, but I refuse to budge.

  “Tell him it’s about David. I’m Kerry Jackson. He knows me.”

  He goes silent, narrowing his eyes, then he walks a few steps to the side and speaks seemingly into thin air. After a few seconds, he nods to one of the other men.
/>
  “Take her inside.” Then he turns to me. “Arms out, spread your legs.”

  “What?”

  He steps forward and pushes out my arms, patting me down, all the way to my feet and up. He’s efficient and clinical about it, but I freeze up in discomfort. It feels way too intrusive, and thank God I didn’t bring the gun. I don’t think that would have gone down well.

  The guard nods and steps back, throwing me a curious gaze as the gates slide open. It’s with an ominous feeling I walk next to the blond giant toward a two-story white house with white pillars along the front facade. The dark wooden double doors look impenetrable and suddenly I feel really small, standing in front of them. My mouth goes dry at the thought that I’m entering the nest of the man who has ordered my murder. I might never come out of here. But who can I turn to? I don’t know which of the cops are on the mob’s payroll, and I refuse to leave my life in San Francisco, my mom, my friends, the little life I have.

  I jerk as one of the doors open and yet another tall, beefy guard, wearing a black suit, stares me down with pitch black eyes. He’s got a scar on his left cheek, and a thick, crooked nose that looks like it’s been broken more than once. I open my mouth to speak, but snap it shut again as he nods. We walk in silence until we stop by a door that stands ajar where he motions for me to enter. He doesn’t follow, and I step into a large room with a heavy desk at its center. Behind the desk sits the man I’m here to see. My stomach clenches and my mouth goes dry. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all?

  Luciano Salvatore. Little David’s dad. The man I suspect is the capo of the largest mob family in town. A shiver runs through me as I walk across the deep red oriental carpet, glancing at the dark wood bookshelves, filled with ancient-looking books, that cover all the walls except the one behind the desk that instead consists of floor to ceiling windows, showing glimpses of a beautiful garden. Next to Salvatore stands a tall, blond man, dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit despite the early hour. What’s with all these men? It’s like an army. Is he afraid of me, or what?