Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
The Past
A slow, steady rain starts to fall and pelts the window, creating tiny rivulets that drip down the glass like teardrops.
My fingertip follows the haphazard patterns they create as they trickle down the outside of the pane.
Chaos theory helps explain why their paths look random and chaotic, when in fact, they’re not.
Like everything in life, there are inherent repetitions, patterns, and feedback loops.
Everything is interconnected in some way.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I try to chase away the sudden chill, but the cold that has embedded its icy fingers in me goes bone deep. As deep as the betrayal I’m drowning in.
The men I trusted lied to me. Alana lied to me. And my mother…I hate her for what she did. I was her daughter. She was supposed to love and protect me. Instead, I was nothing more than a business transaction. She sold me off just like Francesco sold Alana.
I glance down at the floor where the signed contract with my mother’s elegantly distinctive signature rests at my feet in a crumpled ball, then lift my gaze to find Aleksander in the reflection of the glass, warily watching me from across the room.
“I may have been promised to you, but I am not your wife.”
I never consented. I never said, “I do.” I was nine fucking years old when the contract was signed between my mother and Nikolai Stepanoff.
In the eyes of the Society, it won’t matter. The legalities of things mean little to an organization that thrives on doing whatever the hell it wants with no repercussions.
Was this the betrayal my father spoke about that night?
When Aleksander doesn’t say anything, I cross the living room and take a seat on the coffee table in front of him.
I shouldn’t feel an iota of sympathy for this man.
He may not have had control over the things that happened when he was younger, but he’s an adult now.
Everything he’s done, he did so by choice.
Yet, I can’t help but feel sorry for him.
In a way, Aleksander and I are very similar.
“Let me take a look.”
Bright crimson blots the white terrycloth he’s holding to his neck.
“I’m good. Just a scratch.”
Just a scratch, my ass. I shove his hand out of the way. The blood hasn’t clotted yet and slowly weeps from the wound.
“Where’s your first aid kit?”
“I’ll get it,” he says and tries to stand, but I none-too-gently push him back down.
“I’ll do it. Just point me the way.”
He motions with a tilt of his head in the direction of the kitchen. “There’s one in the cabinet underneath the sink.”
On my way to the kitchen, I study the layout of the place. Nice, modern décor. Clean. There are maybe two bedrooms down the hallway that leads from the living room. The kitchen is small and utilitarian. Hendrix would hate it.
I miss them.
For fuck’s sake, stop thinking about them.
Opening the bottom cabinet under the sink, I immediately spot the first aid kit… along with a small revolver duct-taped to the inside of the cabinet door. My fingers itch with temptation when I lightly touch the hilt.
It would be so easy.
Ignoring it, I hastily grab the small plastic box and go back to the living room.
“I hope you’re up to date with your tetanus booster.”
“I am.”
His eyes briefly fall to my right hand when I kneel in front of him and something akin to relief flashes over his face. He knew damn well the gun was there when he told me where the first aid kit was. He was testing me.
“If I was going to kill you, I’d have done it in the alley. No cameras. I don’t play games, Aleksander, so don’t play them with me.”
The side of his mouth curves in a bemused half smile. “Noted.”
I roughly jerk his chin up so I can clean and dress the wound. “Speaking of games, you’re an asshole for leaving those photographs in my journal for me to find.”
Ripping open an alcohol wipe, I clean away the crusted blood and inspect where I sliced into his neck with my knife.
His vocal cords vibrate under my fingers when he replies, “You would have never believed me without proof.”
I don’t disagree because he’s right.
After dabbing antibiotic ointment over the area, I use two butterfly strips to keep the cut closed so it heals properly, then choose a large, waterproof adhesive pad instead of gauze and gently smooth out the edges to make sure it stays secure.
“You’ll live,” I tell him when I’m done.
He covers my hand with his and softly says, “Thank you, Aoife.”
Aoife was the girl I used to be. The woman I am now is someone entirely different. In order for me to begin taking back my life, I have to make a choice. Be the na?ve girl whose life wasn’t her own or become a strong woman who will never let anyone control her again.
“It’s Syn,” I reply intentionally. I pack everything back into the first aid kit and move over to sit on the couch across from him. “And you can thank me by telling me where to find the man with constellation tattoos.”
I refuse to say his name out loud. The next time I utter it will be the last thing he hears before I kill him.
Considering me, Aleksander props his elbow on the arm of the chair and touches his thumb to each finger, pinky to index and back again.
“Tristan hasn’t told you anything, has he?”
My heart painfully slams against my chest. No matter how much they’ve hurt me, I can’t just shut off my feelings or make myself stop loving them by flipping an invisible off switch.
“If there’s something you want to say, spit it out.”
He leans forward, and by the seriousness on his face, I know I’m not going to like what’s about to come out of his mouth.
“Tristan came by looking for you last night. He also wanted to know where our father was.”
Our father?
Whatever I was going to say abruptly dies on the tip of my tongue. And then I get angry. Fuck him. My tolerance for manipulative bullshit is at capacity.
Unable to listen to one more person lie to me, I’m off the couch and walking toward the elevator.
“Syn, don’t leave.”
“I won’t let you use me for your stupid vendetta against Tristan.”
“Don’t go,” he implores, sounding almost panicked.
Incensed, I stab at the down button.
Aleksander bounds out of the chair and makes the mistake of grabbing me. Twisting out of his hold, I spin around to his back and kick out his knee. The hard wood judders under my feet when he hits the floor.
“You don’t ever fucking touch me without my permission.”
He twists his body around and looks up at me. I’m taken aback by the visceral sadness that clouds his storm-gray eyes. Aleksander is twice my size, but right now, he looks so much like the shy boy I remember from the gala ten years ago.
Bending his legs to his chest, he cups the back of his neck with both hands and drops his face to his knees.
“I’m sorry. I just…please, don’t leave.”
I glare down at him. “Give me one good reason I should stay.”
I said something similar to Tristan not too long ago.
His deep, gruff voice is muffled and barely coherent when he replies, “Because I have no one else.”
Damn him for saying that. I know that pit of loneliness all too well. I’d been submerged in it for the last ten years. The guys mentioned that Nikolai died several years ago. I don’t know what happened to his mother, Nina. And Aleksei…fuck.
I hadn’t felt any remorse for what I did to Aleksei until this very moment. I took Aleksander’s brother from him. But Aleksei isn’t his only brother.
Before I can convince myself that this is a really bad idea, I lower to the floor and sit cross-legged, facing him.
“You said ‘our father.’”
Uncomfortable silence descends and smothers the air around us.
Just when I’m about to say screw this and plow over him to get to the elevator and leave, he says, “I found out the night of the gala when I asked you to dance.” He chuckles quietly, but it’s hollow and devoid of any humor. “Helena Amato has a big fucking mouth when she’s drunk and high.”
Warily, I scoot a little closer. “Tell me.”
This is the last chance I’m giving him to be honest and real. A chance he doesn’t deserve, but one my guilty conscience wants to offer him.
“Tristan was with me when Helena spilled the secret.”
My heart breaks for the second time tonight. I search my memories, trying to wrap my head around it. Tristan never said anything, but I knew something was wrong when I couldn’t find him after their fight.
The antagonistic relationship between Tristan and the twins makes more sense, but it also doesn’t. They’re not responsible for what their parents did, so why do they hate each other so much? And Alana—she’s his half sister. She didn’t do anything to him.
Aleksander pulls me from my thoughts when he says, “When I confronted Mom about it, she broke down. I’d never seen my mother cry before, not even when Dad beat her.
She blurted out that Francesco had raped her.
She swore me to secrecy.” His biceps bulge as he grips the back of his neck harder. “I never even told Aleksei.”
Compassion pushes my anger away, and my hand unconsciously wraps around his forearm in a gesture of comfort. What he said hits me hard because of what happened to my mother.
My rage flash-freezes to a bitter, icy cold when I think about how scared Nina must have been.
Did my parents know that happened to her?
Did they do nothing, just like Papa did nothing after Gabriel almost killed Constantine?
I know damn well the Society wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help her or to punish Francesco for what he did.
Aleksander’s chest expands with a single, ragged breath. “She said it happened when Dad was away that summer. He’d been in Russia on business. She discovered she was pregnant right before he returned. Mom said he never suspected anything.”
Nikolai Stepanoff must have been the most clueless man on the planet. Surely, he would’ve looked at the ultrasounds or gone to one of Nina’s appointments and had questions about the date of conception.
“If Nina made you promise not to tell anyone, then how did Helena find out?” I gently query.
A snarled curse leaps from his lips. “Somehow, Francesco knew Aleksei and I were his. Admitted it to my face. Called me a dirty little bastard. Said I was nothing but the unwanted result of a bad fuck.”
I still have questions, but I don’t push for more.
Taking a chance, I cup the sides of his stubbled face and force him to look at me.
“From what I remember of Nina, she was kind and always nice to me. I’m so sorry. For her and for you. But it’s not Tristan’s fault. You can’t blame him for what his father did. He hates Francesco.”
Aleksander’s cruel fingers claw into my wrists with an iron grip. “You’re so fucking blind when it comes to him. He’s the reason your parents are dead.”
“No, he’s not,” I snap.
Outraged by what he said, I struggle against his punishing grasp, trying to break free.
He lifts my scarred arm between us. “He’s the reason for this.
Why do you think your father hid you in Ireland?
James made a deal with Francesco. You were supposed to belong to Tristan.
Your mother found out and made sure that would never happen.
Francesco retaliated. If Tristan couldn’t have you, no one else would. ”
“Shut up!”
With a strength born from rage, I use his hold on me to yank him closer. Wrapping my legs around his torso, I push forward and pin him forcefully to the floor, but he uses the momentum of his large body to flip us over and trap me underneath him.
“Get the fuck off me!”
Aleksander’s weight presses down, trying to subdue my efforts to escape. “I promised you revenge. I can give you Francesco and Malin.”
His words reverberate enticingly, quieting my struggles, their allure too much to resist.
“How?”
“Because I know where they are.”