10. Charlie
My breath comes heavy as I roll my shoulders out, trying to ignore the stinging pain in my left forefinger. Rookie mistake, angling the blow the way I did, catching my hand like that. It’s a testament to how distracted I am.
It’s unfortunate that my hands will look like this, freshly bruised and broken, when I get to the hospital. Normally, I prefer blades. The precision and control are more comfortable. But there has been something particularly fulfilling about killing those that played a part in my mother’s harm with my bare hands.
A soft sob comes from the man tied to a chair in front of me, and I refocus. He’s held out longer than I thought he would, especially considering I don’t need anything from him. This isn’t information extraction, it’s revenge.
I’ll admit, I’m impressed by his resolve. He had to know when he woke up here that he was going to die, had to realize what he was paying penance for. He could have succumbed to the encompassing darkness almost an hour ago, let himself slip into unconsciousness, but he forced himself to stay lucid. Perhaps it’s pride, or dedication to his mission. Both of which I can respect.
But, as they always do, he’s beginning to break.
I press my fingers under his chin, where shattered bone shifts under my touch. An involuntary cry slips from him.
“Aleksander, I want to thank you for this gift,” I say, forcing his gaze to meet mine. His face is so battered that his own mother wouldn’t recognize him, and I don’t know if he can truly see me. “It is rare to find a traitor who can withstand this much torture. I haven’t had this much fun in years.”
I think the look he gives me is supposed to be a snarl, but it’s weak. He’s almost there.
They always break. They always submit.
It’s a trial-and-error thing, learning how to bring someone beyond their limits without killing them. When I was a teenager, my mother would let me watch her work, talking through the decisions she made based on the subject’s heart rate, response to blows, reaction to cuts. She’d have me slice into my own thighs to learn where arteries and muscles were, noting every flinch of pain as a failure. I studied other’s weaknesses, not only to exploit them, but to ensure I didn’t have them myself.
Aleksander’s head hangs down when I let go. Another blow across the face, but he can only groan. One more, and he can barely turn his face back toward me. I shake out my hand.
“Turning on the Costas, who have supported you and your family for generations, is the height of cowardice and shame. What would your daughters think about their father if they could see him like this?”
And that’s how I know how far gone he is. He doesn’t react. Three daughters, and he doesn’t lift his head to ask if I’ve gone after them too.
Pathetic.
“No, please don’t beg,” I say, my voice heavy with disgust as I circle him. “The Costas do not punish children for the sins of their parents. They will remain safe, if not cut off from the comforts they experienced under our protection.”
He doesn’t move—doesn’t say anything.
I think about prolonging this, if only for my own personal retribution. He may have only played a small part in the ploy that nearly killed my mother, but I’ve had little time to seek out the larger actors. Aleksander is getting a disproportionate burden of my vengeance.
But before I can land another blow, a rap comes at the door. There’s only one person it could be, so I call for Zane to come in.
“We’ve got to meet the girls in two hours,” he reminds me, leaning against the door frame.
Zane may mainly act as my driver, but he’s no stranger to the activities that happen in this room, so he barely glances at the man in the chair.
“I’ll finish this, thank you Zane,” I say, and as he closes the door behind him, I grab my hunting knife off the table on the other side of the room.
“Lucky for you, I don’t have the time to make you feel all the pain you deserve.” I press the knife against the side of his throat and slice, severing his carotid. “I have somewhere much more important to be.”
After I shower and change, I lock the basement behind me and meet Zane in the foyer of the farmhouse.
“Text Renee and Nickolas and have them clean this up before the end of the day.”
Zane nods and pulls his phone out as I slip into the back seat of the sedan. The garage door rolls up, and we slowly make our way past the acres of central Virginia farmland belonging to the Costas, home to hundreds upon hundreds of pigs.
Useful animals, in my line of work. Hungry, thorough, and undiscerning with their meals.
The dirt road leads into a forest of red maples, and Zane takes the turns smoothly as I stare at my phone, seeing nothing.
I know I’m an obsessive person. When I saw my mother burned in that bed, the need to plan our retribution overwhelmed me. I fixated on the path that would ready me to take over my inherited responsibilities.
Now, I feel myself obsessing over Gwen. Maybe it’s natural, considering the way the universe seemed insistent on pushing us together. But what I didn’t expect was wanting to know more than just how she would affect me and my family. I just beat a man near to death, and all I could think while I was doing it was, I wonder what Gwen is doing right now.
I thought this persistent tug toward her would be relieved once she agreed to my proposal. And why wouldn’t it? I needed someone to play a part, to act as a piece in a larger puzzle, and she fulfilled that. Box checked.
But I already know Gwen is more than that, even if it’s difficult to admit. My attention is consumed with what I could do to make her more comfortable in our arrangement during the entire drive to the city. We make a few stops before the hospital, filling a backpack with everything Emily recommended based on her research into DCIS and her deep dive into Gwen and Ana’s spending habits: socks, books and manga, one of those massive reusable steel water bottles, the speciality lotion a bunch of blogs recommended, and endless snacks. The kid eats a shocking amount of Takis and Twizzlers.
Gwen insisted that, for at least the first few sessions, she and Ana commute to the hospital as they normally would. I know it’s to avoid overwhelming Ana, but something about not having her in my car sets me on edge. Perhaps it’s my predisposition to hypervigilance. I can’t protect her, both of them, if they’re not near me.
Zane drops me off, handing me the backpack and a thick envelope through the window. It’s colder today than it’s been, the bitter, quick wind biting at my face but soothing my bruised hand. I flex it, allowing the pain to ground me as I make my way through the sliding doors.
I haven’t been to many children’s hospitals in my lifetime, but the odd discord between the cheerfulness of the decor and the worried faces of families milling around the lobby is unsettling. Hot air balloons in multiple colors and patterns hang from bright blue ceilings over people huddled with their loved ones, staring at their phones and glancing at their watches. I can only describe it as surreal as the receptionist at the long check in station waves me forward.
“Hi there, welcome to Children’s National Medical Center. Who are you here to see today?” Her tone is pleasant and professional, but I see the way her eyes flicker over my tattoos, her nose scrunching.
“My girlfriend’s sister has a radiation oncology appointment today, and I’m here to meet them,” I respond, laying the accent on thick. It has its intended effect. I’m not sure why Americans are put so at ease by a Mediterranean accent, but I use it to my advantage.
“Last name of the patient?” She asks, her smile brighter.
I give her Ana’s information, along with my ID, and she prints me a sticker to wear, directing me to the elevator bay after a security guard checks the backpack.
There’s no preparing for the terrifying nature of the child’s voice that announces the elevator is going up. It’s like a line from a horror film, and it actually makes me shiver.
When I exit the haunted elevator, there’s another receptionist who directs me down a labyrinth of doors and hallways, all color-coded and animal-themed, until I finally reach the radiation therapy waiting room.
Gwen looks up as soon as I round the corner, and something settles in my chest when I see her.
She gives me a soft smile, and Ana glances up from her phone and waves.
“Hey, Charlie, you didn’t have to come to this,” she says, pulling an earbud from her ear. Despite her words, she seems happy to see me, but from the way she’s glancing between Gwen and me, I think she’s more happy for her sister.
“Wouldn’t miss it. Plus, I heard you might need post-appointment distractions.” I hand her the backpack as Gwen raises her eyebrows at me, but keeps her lips sealed.
“Oh awesome, Demon Slayer!” she nearly yells, pulling the manga out of the backpack and flipping through them. “This is so cool, thank you!” She flashes me a grin that I can’t help but return.
“You’re welcome.”
The words are barely out of my mouth before a staff member in pink scrubs opens the door at the end of the hall and calls Ana’s name. She starts to get up, and Gwen grabs her hand.
“You’re good?” she asks, and Ana nods, only looking a little scared. “You’ve got warm socks? And your playlist?”
“They let me play whatever music I want over the speakers the whole time,” Ana explains to me, leaning around her sister.
Gwen shakes Ana back to her.
“You’re going to be fine, okay? It’s less than an hour.” It’s clear Gwen’s convincing herself more than she is her sister. Ana leans down and hugs her gently.
“First few are the easy ones, save the nerves for when I feel like ass.” Ana pops a kiss onto Gwen’s forehead and takes off toward the waiting tech before Gwen can respond.
She seems to be frozen as she stares at the door Ana disappeared behind.
“She shouldn’t say ass,” she whispers to herself, clasping her hands together tightly.
I bump her shoulder gently with mine to try to loosen her up.
“She probably says it a ton when she’s not around you.”
Gwen rolls her eyes at me, a smile slipping over her lips.
“Yeah, but I pretend that’s not true,” she says, tilting her head back and resting it against the wall. Her eyes are closing when she speaks again. “She’s right. You didn’t have to come. She’ll be fine.”
I consider brushing it off, but the truth is, I want Gwen to realize how much I meant it when I proposed a friendship.
“I think Ana couldn’t care less if I showed up. I’m here for you,” I say, settling back as well, my posture mirroring hers. She opens her eyes to give me a look that”s half surprised, half annoyed, before closing them again.
“I’ll be fine too,” she murmurs.
We sit in silence for a bit, the quiet only interrupted by the sound of footsteps occasionally passing by. I have no baseline for how busy a pediatric radiation therapy unit usually is, but it seems fairly empty today. A blessing.
After a bit, Gwen cracks her neck and sits forward, running her fingernails through her scalp and shaking out her hair.
“She’s right, though,” she finally says, turning toward me in her seat and crossing her legs so her whole body is jammed into the little chair. That cannot be conformable. “Everything I’ve researched says the first few weeks are pretty easy with the side effects, but eventually she’ll start feeling terrible. Ana needs vegetables, and more calories, but we’re supposed to avoid antioxidants? And she’ll be dehydrated, so I bought like five cases of that stuff you put in water to boost the hydration? I don”t even know if that works.”
Gwen’s babbling, but she’s also staring at me like she’s desperate for validation that she’s doing this right. And she is, because she’d do anything for Ana, and that’s really all that matters.
I reach around her, grab the backpack I brought off Ana’s chair, and unzip it for Gwen. She peers into it tentatively.
“I got a few recommendations. Lotions and body washes for when her skin gets irritated. I was also going to suggest we find somewhere new to get dinner after each appointment, so she’s got a reason to look forward to meals. If I can’t be there, Zane will take you, or have it ready to go when her session is done.” She picks through the chips and sweets, staring into the backpack. “We’ll figure it out.”
I might be pushing it. Gwen has figured it out on her own for so long, and accepting financial support doesn’t necessarily mean she’s ready to accept emotional support, too. But it feels important to me.
I saw the way my parents were. They didn’t love each other when they got married—they barely knew each other. But they have spent every day supporting and caring for one another, and found the most steadfast love I’ve ever seen along the way. And even though that won’t be the result for us, I still want her to know that she can rely on me.
She swallows hard before looking back up at me. Her expression is guarded, but she nods once, zipping the backpack up and placing it at her feet next to her bag. Her movements are careful, like she’s thinking too hard about them, and I wish I could say something to convince her to trust me.
She eyes the envelope tucked under my arm, and I hold it out to her.
“Our contract,” I say as she turns it over in her hands. “You don’t have to review it now, but it proposes both of our roles and responsibilities in this partnership, as well as a tentative timeline for major milestones. I’ve flagged some areas for your feedback, but please leave commentary wherever you see fit.”
She pulls the small packet out, neatly stapled and littered with yellow flags.
“Most romantic proposal I’ve ever seen,” she murmurs. Heat crawls up the back of my neck and I try to grab the file back from her, but she turns away from me. “I’m just teasing.”
“I know it’s a little clinical,” I admit, my knee bouncing. “I just thought that would make things easier.”
Our eyes meet, and the flush that crawls over her skin has my hands itching to trace its path. This is what I meant by easier. If the contract is detached and analytical, it won’t give her any reason to blush like that. Which means I won’t imagine what the rest of her body looks like flushed, under wildly different circumstances.
“Easier, yeah,” she mutters to herself, digging a pen out of her bag. “Well, I’ve got nothing else to do right now.”
It’s not particularly long, but it is detailed. Sections on our roles within the Costa family, as members of The Syndicate, as voting parties on the council. She adds a few notes here and there, and when I try to look over her shoulder, she hisses no peeking.
I resign myself to listening to her flip the pages, scratch her notes, hum to herself. That is, until she hits the timeline section.
“Moving in next week? Seems a little fast, doesn’t it?” she grumbles, scratching out the clause in bright green ink.
“We’ve been dating for six months already, remember?” I argue, but she just rolls her eyes at me.
“And that’s supposed to be long enough? I can’t imagine living with someone before we’ve been dating for at least a year.” Her eyes continue scrolling down the page. “Though you’ve got us married by that time.”
I can’t help the laugh that slips from me at her tone.
“While I appreciate the societal norms here, I do also have a schedule to keep.” She bites the inside of her lip. “Tradition holds that I can’t take my role officially until I’m legally married, and while I’m willing to wait some time for Ana’s sake, my family also needs me.”
I think of my mother, unable to speak to us, fighting every day to heal when the nature of her injuries begs her to succumb. Of my father, looking at her like he nearly lost his sun.
“You’re right,” she whispers, resting her shoulder against mine. “I can agree to engagement within six months if we can push back the move-in to six weeks, just to give Ana time to adjust.”
We negotiate back and forth a bit more. She’s quick to agree to quit her job, but would like to become more involved in the Costa family work once Ana is back in school. There’s a lot more to that conversation, especially considering the way the memory of her killing has me playing out some elaborate fantasies in my mind, so we table it for the time being.
She asks a little about what her friends—mostly Kenzie—are allowed to know, about how much people like Sammy and Catalina are aware of. She pushes back on Ana being given a trust. When she flips the page to the last one, her hand stills.
“This is something we can discuss in the future, if you’d like,” I say, trying to gauge her level of discomfort or possibly panic.
Bold of me to just throw the heading offspring onto the last page and leave only a tab with a question mark, but I had no idea how else to address the subject.
“Is that something that’s required?” she asks, keeping her eyes on the page.
“No, not at all. Clara is required to have an heir, but even she’s not expected to have children biologically if she doesn”t want to. There are no requirements of me here.” I want to see the look in her eyes, to be sure if my words are soothing her, but she doesn”t look up at me.
“And if children were something I theoretically wanted in the future?” she asks.
Now that she’s said it, my imagination runs away with itself. My body on top of hers. Feeling her arch underneath my touch. Begging her to let me fill her.
I’m barely able to stem the upswell of possessiveness that hurdles through me. She’s not asking for that. She explicitly stated so.
“Obviously, we wouldn’t go about it in the traditional way.” She cringes, and I rush to make sure she knows I didn’t include this as some creepy ploy to get her to sleep with me. “There are plenty of safe in-vitro methods, or we can discuss adoption. There are some moral quandaries we’d have to think through, bringing a child into The Syndicate. But yes, if co-parenting is something you wanted, I would be open to it.”
My pulse is racing and I feel like I’ve just run a marathon. How do you explain to someone that you’re not pressuring them to have children, and most certainly asking them to sleep with you in order to achieve that goal, but also impress that you’re not opposed to fatherhood, all in a marriage contract you typed up on your phone in bed?
She’s tense and quiet for a few moments, scribbling bright green flowers into the corner of the page. She finally takes a deep breath and writes below the heading open to the possibility.
She reviews the last section on security for her and Ana, making a few small edits, before passing the document back to me.
“Let me know if you’re amenable to those changes,” she says, and her voice is almost teasing, even if her smile’s a bit tight.
I’ll take what I can get in this moment.
“We’ll make it work.”