10. LEIGH
Chapter 10
LEIGH
The scent of old paper and ink fills the dimly lit dungeon as I turn another page of Vivienne’s journal, my stomach twisted in knots. It’s been hours since dinner, and I’ve barely looked up, lost in the depraved mind of the woman who birthed me. My mother.
No.
That word tastes wrong on my tongue. She was never a mother. She was a monster. She was just Vivienne.
The words scrawled in her delicate but precise script blur slightly as I struggle to absorb them. My pulse pounds in my ears. My hands tremble.
This can’t be real.
But it is.
Vivienne Vasilikis was a sick, twisted, insatiable nymphomaniac who saw people as nothing more than tools. To be used and abused. To be manipulated. To be destroyed.
She loved control. She thrived on it. And she wrote about it with the same enthusiasm most people use to describe a favorite meal or a thrilling adventure. She got off on other people’s pain. The more they screamed or begged, the more pleasure she derived from it.
“Oh, my fucking God.” I shudder.
Her first journal details her “ partners in sin and pleasure ,” as she calls them—IN and SS. Obviously two men. She describes their bodies in graphic detail—their cocks, the way they fucked her. But the way she refers to them…
“My perfect trio.”
“Together, we will own this world.”
“Fucking insane.”
Jesus. The things they did to people. The things they did together.
I gag, swallowing down the bile rising in my throat. I force myself to keep reading, skimming past the more grotesque details. She never saw people as humans, only as opportunities—tools or toys.
And me?
I was just another tool in her arsenal.
She even wrote about me. Not as her daughter. Not as someone to love or protect. But as an object. A means to an end. Apparently, my tears, rosy cheeks from the slaps she doled out, and split lips were aphrodisiacs to her. It’s no wonder I never cried. I was scared she was going to collect my tears and drink them.
I flip the page and pause, my breath catching.
“ That little parasite that nearly ruined my body as she leeched off me for nine months owes me. When she’s older she’ll be of use to me. We’ve just got to ensure that her fucking father dies, and that SS wipes out the entire family including that bitch trying to steal IN from me. Once they are gone and the false heir takes over as the parasite’s father, I can get him to ensure I’m the executor of the will—then I can get rid of him. Granted he is the apex monster and the best fuck in the world. The things he does. But he too is competition for In and people like him are hard to control.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Did I just read Vivienne planning to kill my family?
I slam the journal shut, chest heaving.
My fingers dig into my temples. The pressure isn’t enough. Nothing could be enough to push away the sickness crawling under my skin.
Maybe I’m lucky my memories are Swiss cheese.
Because if I had to remember this woman—really remember her—no therapy in the world would fix me.
I stare blankly at the candle silver table. I’ve been at this for hours, sitting in this dungeon, pouring over her words. I must have skimmed half the pages, but the worst part? My mind is desperately trying to piece together the things I don’t remember.
I reach for Journal Two.
My fingers hesitate over the cracked leather cover before I force myself to pick it up. The first entry dates back to the year we moved to Vegas—the March before I turned four.
I begin to read.
“I’ve finally gained the interest of my target, and oh my God, is he a monster. More than I could ever have hoped for. And his body is magnificent—Jesus, I’ve never had such a perfect cock—Oh yes, I think one day RN will be my next husband. Together, we’ll create a legendary empire, and that little parasite bitch will finally be of some use. My little HS is the NY to everything I’m about to get and everything that will ensure I keep it. I will never have to bow down to anyone ever again. I will be the apex monster.”
My body goes cold.
RN.
RN. RN. RN.
Who the fuck was RN?
I flip through the journal with shaking hands, searching for another clue. A confirmation. And then I find it.
“ What a fuck! Tonight I got pleasured by two brutes after they let me help them interrogate a traitor. Oh my God. Tonight, I found mine and RN’s third—RV. And if he wasn’t married, he’d be my next husband. Maybe he still could be if I could get rid of the bitch he’s married to.”
RN. RV.
My breath comes in shallow gasps as I grab a notepad and scribble the letters down.
Gunther Mirochin – RN – That’s it. Vivienne uses the last letter of each name to abbreviate.
Vladimir Molchanov – RV.
I stare at the words, my entire body vibrating with horror. My stomach churns violently.
Vivienne was going to marry me off to Radomir.
I was fucking four years old, and she had already mapped out my life. Who I’d marry—without one fucking thought or care about me. Then another thought hits me like a sledge hammer to the brain.
My mind spins, nausea gripping me hard. Did Uncle Mark know? Did my father?
Nikolas… my father… had one of Vivienne’s journals. My head tilts as I look at the three books laid out in front of me. He’d said the book would help me remember—that I had to remember because my life was in danger. Something nags at the back of my mind.
Suddenly I hear my father’s voice: “I bought you each four songbooks. Look, they have leather covers, gold writing, and I had each of your initials put on the bottom right so you wouldn’t muddle them up.”
“What the fuck am I going to with books?” Vivienne had fumed.
“You both like to write music. Maybe it will help you bond with Leigh. For fuck’s sake, Vivienne, she’s your daughter too.”
“She hates me,” Vivienne whined. “You’re never here to see how rude she is.”
“She’s three, for fuck’s sake,” Nikolas had growled. Then his voice dropped, low and threatening. “Put it this way, Vivienne—if you don’t at least try to make an effort with Leigh, then when the divorce comes through, I won’t be able to let you see her. At least not without a chaperone.”
“Divorce?” Vivienne spluttered. “Are you serious about that?”
“I told you I was,” Nikolas said flatly. “The papers will be ready by the end of the month. You know we’ve never worked. You’ll be set up for life—comfortable. And as soon as I’m confident you can get along with Leigh, we’ll set up visiting rights.”
Vivienne and Nikolas were getting a divorce—the year we moved. The year Popop Dante died.
I clutch the edge of the table, trying to steady my breathing. But it’s too late. The memories are coming too fast, crashing over me like a tidal wave.
Sometimes, Leigh, the mind protects us from ourselves as well, not just from pain. The reason you don’t want to remember isn’t just because of the trauma—it’s because you’re afraid of something.
The words of one of my old therapists echo through my head, but the voice that follows makes my heart slam against my ribs.
This is my fault. I hurt them. This happened because of me. It was me—I killed them. I killed them because I’m just like her. I don’t want to be like her!
The voice is young. My voice.
It’s not laughing. Not sassy. Not confident.
It’s hysterical. It’s afraid.
“Fuck,” I whisper hoarsely. “I didn’t want to remember because I didn’t want to be like Vivienne.”
My throat constricts, making it harder to breathe. My vision swims.
I shut my memories away. I shut my memories away.
My chair scrapes against the stone floor as I push back abruptly. Panic wells in my chest, clawing up my throat. My breathing is too fast. Too shallow.
Then—
A blast.
The impact rattles through me. The force vibrates up my arms, through my fingers.
I look down.
Blood.
My hands are covered in blood.
No. No, no, no.
I stumble back, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My pulse pounds against my skull as I bolt toward the basin in the corner, my hands trembling violently.
I scrub. Hard. Desperate.
Tears blur my vision as I frantically try to wash it off, but the blood won’t come off.
I press my palms against the cool stone, gripping the edge as my body convulses with silent sobs.
The images hit me like a freight train.
The gunshot. The screams. The blood on my hands.
And a voice—Vivienne’s voice—whispering like a ghost in my mind.
You’re my little key that unlocks the world I’ve always dreamed of and keeps me safe from the cunts that would try and take it from me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can’t shut her out.
I can’t escape her.
I can’t escape myself.