Russo Saga Collection

by Nicolina Martin

  I rev my engine and speed off down the steep road, my heart lighter than it’s been for years.

  I know what I must do.

  Weak as a newborn baby, or as I figure them to be, I’ve had to start from the beginning. I spent months in physiotherapy in the Big Apple, and I keep at it. Military exercises. Simple. Legs. Back. Chest. Arms. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. And when I take breaks, I take rides. The university. The daycare. Her place.

  I can’t seem to get enough air, enough strength. I don’t recognize my own body and it scares me. I go see a doctor. He hums and listens, and huffs and creases his forehead. After an X-ray, I find myself in his office later the same day and he looks even more concerned and asks me what I’ve been through. I tell him to fucking spit it out.

  The earth is trembling underneath me as I’m back out on the street. My lungs apparently look like shit, scarred and stiff, and I’ll never regain my old physique. I sway. I don’t know what to do with the rest of my life. I only know one thing—how to fight, how to hurt people.

  I refuse to budge and go back to my regime. Legs. Back. Chest. Arms. Repeat.

  On the sixth day after my last, tumultuous visit to Salvatore, I realize I’m stalling. I’m stalking again. Stalking and stalling. Pathetically. Who the hell called me pathetic once? I am strong enough now. And if the fucking doc’s right, it won’t get much better than this. I hope she won’t try to kill me when she sees me because she might very well succeed. I hesitate for a moment. Would she?

  It’s Friday evening and by now they will have eaten and are watching cartoons on TV.

  It’s time.

  I listen for a moment. There’s music coming from inside the door. I recognize the song immediately. I always did like Creedence.

  They sing of trouble that’s on its way.

  I can’t help but grin at the accidental meeting between my knuckles on her door and John Fogerty’s foreboding words.

  I hope I’m not trouble. I don’t think I am. I hope she’ll welcome me. In fact, I’m terrified she might not. I hesitate a moment longer. This could change my life forever. It can go either way. She can throw me out, and then there’ll be only darkness. Or she can welcome me into her light, into her bright house, where all the life, and everything I’ve ever cared about exists.

  I almost touch the door, and then I pull back.

  I could destroy her life all over again, rip away the safety she has felt since she returned. I think of leaving her alone and immediately reject it. I need to know she has forgiven me. I need to know what I once did has been undone.

  Then I knock.

  Kerry

  Cece is watching the Disney Channel, some cartoon I think is just a little too violent for her age. The hollow sounds of fake laughs and characters beating each other to a pulp are increasing and I realize she must have found the volume control again. The noise from the TV mixes painfully with the music I have on in the living room. I am just about to enter her room to switch to another channel when I hear the knocking on the door. Not the doorbell, nothing that should be even remotely startling, but just a couple of soft knocks.

  I…

  I stand indecisively in the upper hallway, staring at the stairs, then at Cece’s open door. I take a few quick steps inside her room and lower the volume.

  “Mom!”

  “Too loud, hon. Bedtime soon. Hop in your PJs.”

  My mind is already completely preoccupied with the stranger outside the door, Cece’s choice of children’s show and my concerns about it already forgotten.

  It’s just…

  I don’t know who it can be. A twinge of fear makes my heart tremble for a moment. Salvatore? Then I get angry with myself. It’s a neighbor, maybe the new one who moved in after Mr. Edwards apparently was moved to a care facility. Or Gayle. It’s a considerate person who knows it should be about bedtime for Cece. I drop the remote on Cecilia’s bed, run down the stairs and walk with determined steps through the hallway, unlock and open the door. At the same time the CD has come to its end and the music stops.

  I know the moment I see even a part of the dark suit. My knees nearly fold and on instinct I scream and try to slam the door shut.

  His foot sneaks into the gap and stops the motion. “Kerry,” he rasps, “don’t shut me out.”

  I only hear his voice. His voice. And see the tip of an impeccably polished shoe. He pushes the door open enough that we can see each other. I have tunnel vision and all I see is his eyes while I hear the still too loud, clanking sounds from the silly children’s show from upstairs. His voice is desolate and his eyes are so dark. I see him throwing himself, without concern for his own safety, to save Cecilia.

  You died!

  You’re alive!

  “Please,” he says, holding a hand on his side of the handle, his foot still preventing me from shutting the door.

  I let go and stagger back. The hallway is dark and the only light enters from the narrow ray from a streetlamp that shines between the frame and the door. Then the ray gets wider as he slowly opens the door and enters. He’s my whole world in that moment. I don’t hear anything else, see anything else. Him and me, that’s all there is.

  I think I’m going to faint. Or throw up. But I do nothing.

  When he shuts the door behind him, we’re thrown into near darkness, only the light shining from the kitchen allows us to see anything at all. And the sounds from Cecilia’s room return.

  “I thought you died,” I finally whisper.

  He is quiet for a moment. “Did you really think that?” he whispers back.

  Did I?

  No. Not really, really. He’s like a force of nature. Like energy. He can’t ever truly cease to exist.

  I shake my head and he nods in acknowledgement. We’re like accomplices, partners in the sham. I could have told the policeman from Winnipeg, Officer Tremblay, it was very likely that Christian would turn up again. That he always does. But I didn’t. The moment he saved my child—our child—was the moment he also earned my protection, what little I can give. I want to lay my arms around him. I want to lean my head against his chest and hear if there’s really a beating heart in there. I am so incredibly relieved he is alive; I want to touch him to feel if he’s real. The urge surprises me and I clench my hands, my arms glued to the sides of my body. No. Instead I get angry. Angry at myself for even thinking of wanting to touch this monster, this murderer. Angry for all the agony he’s put me through these last months when I thought he was dead.

  I open my mouth to speak, to reject him again and to let that anger well up, when his gaze shifts and he’s looking behind me. I spin on my heels and see that Cecilia, true to her nature, has dropped the less exciting thing for the more exciting. She’s standing on the last step of the stairs, peeking around the corner. I glance back at Christian, finding him crouching, transfixed by my—no, our—daughter.

  “Hey,” he whispers.

  Cecilia gazes at me for a moment, then she hops down the last stair and walks straight up to Christian and takes his hand. “I am Cecilia,” she says, loud and clear, exaggerating every syllable, pronouncing them perfectly.

  I stay out of their way for the next hour, letting Cece show the interesting stranger her room, her drawings, the contents of her wardrobe and every little bit and piece of her world. She chatters vividly, as cheerful as always, and I hear Christian’s soft murmuring answers.

  Walking back and forth in front of the panoramic window, I’m beginning to wonder how long it will take before I’ve made a groove in the wooden floor. I’m clutching a cold cup of tea, and I haven’t taken a sip in probably the last half hour. Every nerve ending I’ve got is directed toward his presence. I feel him more than I hear him. I’m exhausted from the constant fear that I’ll suddenly hear the front door slam shut and find them gone. When he comes up to me from behind, I turn deliberately slowly. I don’t want him to know how on my toes I really am.

  “She’s yawning.”

  I stare at him. He’
s thinner than I remember him, his hair has lost some of its luster, and he seems older, even though only a few months have passed. I still can’t believe what I’m seeing.

  He clears his throat. “I think she’s tired, I figured you’d want to do the bedtime thing.”

  I force myself to snap out of my self-induced trance. “Why didn’t you let me know?”

  His eyes dart between mine, a pained expression on his face. “Can we talk later?”

  I nod numbly. “Okay.”

  His gaze makes my back tingle and burn all the way until I’ve turned the corner where I fumblingly support myself on the wall as I make my way upstairs to my daughter’s room. I have to stop and lean my forehead against the cool wall. Oh. My. God. My life is once again turned on its head, I’m losing my footing and I don’t know how much more I can take.

  When I read to her, I have flashbacks from when I put her to bed that first night, with him in the cabin, and I can barely breathe. It hits me hard. How afraid I was. How angry, disgusted, and filled with hate. I try to feel her soft, warm skin against mine as I help her into her pajamas. I try to be here and only here, to cherish the moment, because God only knows what awaits us in this next round in our lives. But I fail. I’m not here. I’m far away as I put her to bed. I’m back in the cabin. I’m listening for any sounds from outside her room, trying to keep track of his movements in my house. I’m anywhere but with my daughter.

  Our daughter.

  I taste the words and realize I can’t hide from them. He has earned the right to be with her, to get to know her. If that’s what he wants. What if he wants more? The voice in the back of my mind is small, but persistent. I shut it out. Am I afraid? Yes. Of course. Will he hurt us? No. At least not intentionally.

  She’s been asleep for awhile and I’ve been hugging her little body for comfort for much longer than she needed, but not for as long as I need. My brain feels like it’s melting from all the swirling thoughts and images and I’m exhausted before we’ve even talked.

  Chapter 18

  Kerry

  He has pushed the large sliding door to the side and stands there, tall, magnificent, his broad back to me, staring out into the dark. In the far distance the lights from the bridge break the monotony of the darkness. The breeze ruffles his black tresses. My heart jolts when he turns to me. I can’t believe I still find him so beautiful despite everything he’s done to me.

  “Hi,” he says in a hushed voice. “Thank you.”

  I stare at him a moment longer, still unable to process what I’m seeing, then I force myself out of my reverie. “For what?” I busy myself with some plates, gathering them, piling them along with the knives and forks, every part of me hyper aware of his presence.

  He shifts and pushes his fingers through his hair. It’s shorter than when I last saw him. “For allowing me to spend time with her.”

  I drop the plates with a slam, that makes us both jump. “I thought you were dead! All this time—” My eyes fill with tears and I have to look away, unable to meet his piercing gaze.

  “I thought that was what you wanted.”

  “I—” I swallow and try to pick up the plates again, but my hands shake too much. “You could have just fucking let me know. How long have you been back?”

  He hesitates, takes a step toward me, stops. “A while.”

  “What’s a while?” Anger rises in me. I should be happy. He’s alive. Or should I? Does it start again? “Did you follow me?”

  “Ker, honestly—”

  “What do you want from me? Honesty? What a joke. You’ve done nothing but fool me since the first moment we met! How the fuck could you not let me know you were alive, you piece of shit?”

  “It hasn’t all been a lie—”

  “Bullshit!”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Fuckin’ hell no. Not everything was a lie, Ker.”

  I grimace and sit. He sets himself opposite me at the table. I can’t even believe there’s anything to discuss. “You played pretend right from the start, Christian.”

  “You already know this part, Kerry. Are we really gonna go through this shit again?”

  I jerk as his hand shoots out and grips around my forearm. His touch is electric. I can’t believe how he can touch me like that. I wrench out of his hold and massage my skin where his fingers made contact.

  “Shut up,” I snarl.

  “No,” he says. “I won’t shut up. No matter how fucking wrong it was, it was still real between us, and you know it.”

  I’m so cold. I shiver despite the warm night and I stand abruptly to close the sliding door, feeling his eyes on me as I move. I sit back down on the chair again and pull up my knees, hugging them, my jaw so clenched it hurts.

  “Y… ou h… urt me,” I manage to croak.

  A look of concern crosses his face. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m so c—cold.” I hug my legs even tighter and rock back and forth. And I really am. I’m frozen deep into my marrow. I can’t control my shuddering. The shock from seeing him before me again suddenly rolling over me with its full force.

  “I’ll get you a blanket, hang on.” He stands and disappears before I can even say something. I still can’t move an inch as he comes back with my blanket, draping it around my shoulders, making sure it stays on before he goes back to his spot. “Better?”

  I stare at a piece of macaroni, lying alone on Cece’s side of the table. You hurt me. Nothing can make that better.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  My eyes look up to meet his. He’s looking straight back at me, and at the same time I get the feeling he’s having a hard time holding my gaze, that it’s his sheer willpower that makes him meet my pain.

  “About what?” I ask, my voice hoarse. Even though I know.

  “About… what I did to you.” He licks his lips, and his gaze flickers.

  I scoff. “What good would that do?”

  He shakes some stray strands of hair out of his eyes and leans back, his gaze hardening, becoming more distant. “Why the fuck are we at this again? How can you not see that all I do is try to redeem myself, for fuck’s sake?”

  “Shut up!” My heart slams against my ribcage as I jump up. The blanket falls to the floor. “Get the fuck out of here!”

  He shoots to his feet and storms toward the door.

  “How could you?” I ask to his squared shoulders.

  He stops and turns. “It was my fucking job!”

  “You hurt me!” I scream.

  “I hurt you because we had connected. Right, Ker? It wasn’t my gun to your head that hurt the most, was it? It was because we were something more than just killer and victim. Weren’t we?”

  “No,” I mumble unhappily.

  “And you couldn’t believe that I, of all people, could do that to you, of all people.”

  “No!”

  “And you thought more of me, didn’t you? That I was a better person. That because you felt something for me it meant I had to be a good person deep down and not who I really am.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. And it has hurt ever since. That you fell for me. That your judgment was so flawed.”

  “Shut up! Get out!” I’m shaking. I need to throw up, but I won’t do it when he’s anywhere near. “Get out of my house!”

  “Kerry.” His voice is suddenly calmer, subdued. “I didn’t mean… We need to get this shit out of the way.”

  “You’re defending what you did!” Nausea washes over me like waves of muddy water.

  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “Then you’re hearing it wrong.”

  “Really? Then tell me how I should hear it.” I pick up my blanket again, wrapping it tight around myself, making it my protective shell.

  “I can’t undo it—”

  “That’s true at least,” I snarl.

  “When we met… I didn’t intend to put you through that.”

  �
�You came to fuck me and then kill me! You knew you were going to kill me. You tied me up, scared me, beat me.”

  He regards me, something dark flashes through his eyes for a brief moment, making my gut churn. “I should leave. And you need a fucking spanking for being so fucking mouthy!”

  “You’re an asshole,” I spit. “You’re just like your boss, like that shit Salvatore! I hate you all!”

  He blinks and throws out his hands. “What do you want from me?”

  “I thought you wanted to talk.”

  “You’re so hostile. This isn’t easy for me either.”

  “Do you think I care what’s easy for you?”

  He bites his lower lip and his eyes narrow. Then he turns. “Bye.”

  “Don’t!” I blurt out, suddenly afraid he’ll disappear again. I look at his back as it slumps. He puts his hands on either side of the doorframe. His shoulders rise and fall rapidly. He doesn’t turn, but he doesn’t leave either. I swallow hard before I say it. “Please, don’t leave.” I close my eyes to shut out the moment. Why didn’t I just let him go?

  He still doesn’t move.

  “Are you?” I ask and open my eyes.

  He turns slowly and leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed defensively over his chest. “Am I what?” he spits.

  “Are you a better person?” It feels as if my whole life hangs on the answer.

  He closes his eyes and presses his lips together into a thin line, looks at his feet and then up at me. “What do you think?”

  That’s not the answer I wanted. Not the answer I crave. Like always. I look away from him, out into the blackness. What do I think? My image of him is so blurred, so complex. I’ve seen so many sides of him that shouldn’t even exist within one person. I close my eyes and swallow hard.

  “Are you killing people?”

  He looks at me. As the moment stretches, my stomach clenches more and more. “I’m not.”

  “Will you?”

  He waits a long time before he answers and his voice is suddenly slow, measured. “That would depend on the situation.”