Chapter Thirteen Larissa #2
“I’ve become the woman I am despite and to spite that upbringing, but mostly because of the sick feeling that I get every time I think about that house—about Ciro.
No one stopped him. Ever. No one has. He’s an effective monster, and his darkness—once you’re exposed to it—stays with you no matter how much sun you soak yourself in to try and ward it off … It followed me to Italy.”
Nothing, not a single look, but I keep going, for me.
“I made a joke about being devout, but I do pray. A lot. I fear for my soul. I would do anything not to resemble the man who gave me life, but in ways, I do. I’ve used those similarities to carry out his orders.
What’s worse, I think … no, now I know that I possess the ability to blacken my heart. To detach if I choose to.”
He easily pulls apart a set of branches, and as I pass, I glance back at him. Nothing. Not even so much as an acknowledgment that he’s listening.
“I’m sure it’s obvious I know many of the men whom I’m marking for your birds to target right now.
Known them for most of my life. It’s been hard typing some of their names—adding them.
Not because of allegiance to them but to their wives and children.
Some who adored me in a way that can’t be faked, and trust me, being a don’s kid, you learn how to decipher that shit early on.
A lot of them treated me well out of respect—mostly fear—but some of it was genuine, even if they weren’t blood family.
These are the women who taught me to cook, cared for me when I was sick, and attended both my christening and my first communion.
Until I was sent away, I was surrounded by their children, some of whom I considered friends.
Many of whom have never partaken in the life or shared the sins of their parents.
Who don’t deserve to be collateral damage of Ciro’s downfall. ”
I bite my lip, knowing I’m walking a dangerous line with my next admission.
“I’ve hesitated in giving you some of those names because many of those I have left to give are those people.
I feel an incredible amount of guilt in finishing that list, and it’s one of the reasons I’m stalling.
I feel like a Judas, no matter how corrupt some of these people are and what sins they’ve committed.
Though I know you won’t hurt them. Not the wives and children. That’s not who you all are.”
He stops and looks back at me, seeming to really look at me for the first time today.
“You want to know who I was, Tyler, but the truth is, I don’t know or remember who I was before I identified as the monster’s daughter.
Now I’m a woman capable of committing the same type of sins because I spent a large part of my life training to become competent for the sole reason of putting him the fuck down, while praying every year someone would beat me to it.
But no one has been so brave. So now I’ve committed similar sins just to be able to put myself in the position to end him …
and”—I swallow hard—“and because of that, I now fear for my soul.”
He grants me a sharp nod before stalking forward, and I speak at his back.
“Do you ever fear for your soul … or believe in God at all?”
He continues to guide me through a small clearing, the blooming greenery surrounding us marking the true start of spring. For a long minute, he’s quiet, but just as I think he won’t answer, he speaks.
“I had a science teacher in high school who once said there’s a theory of two versions of God—the active God and the watcher.
The watcher having created the heavens and earth before sitting back to observe, to witness his experiment unfold, and nothing more.
Then there’s the active God, the one to decide who gets the miracles, the blessings, and the one to grant answers to prayers. ”
“Which do you believe in?” I ask.
“If I have to choose”—he scans the blooming grounds—“then I would go with the watcher.”
“That’s my fear … that he’s witnessed me kill men in cold blood to satisfy Ciro’s curiosity about my ability to take on his role. To do so without flinching, and I didn’t. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t hesitate. That’s how I knew, and now God knows.”
“I’ve killed taking orders,” he admits easily. “Am I a monster too?”
“There’s no comparison. You’re right. You’re a soldier. It is different.”
“Again, I’m a Marine who was raised by different types of soldiers, many of whom walk both sides of the moral line without issue, as do I. Though I gave you shit about it, it isn’t that different.”
“How so?”
“That answer is complicated.” Temporarily depositing the bucket at his booted feet, he hooks my waist and easily lifts me over feet of cliff rock before releasing me.
“Tell me,” I demand, staring down at him as he hands me the bucket before he hoists himself up.
“I’ve never been much on sharing, Larissa. In fact, I’m pretty notoriously known for the opposite.”
“Okay, so”—I shrug—“go hypothetical then.”
“That’s kind of fucking pointless considering we both know differently.” Now inches away, he slowly traces my face, his own expression indiscernible. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m intrigued by why you believe we aren’t different.”
“I didn’t say that. I said we’re similar in that respect.”
“I disagree,” I argue, “so explain your point to me.”
He sighs before turning and stalking forward, and I follow, noting his posture is drawing up. Though on the defensive, he surprises me with an answer.
“Because I knew going into the military that whatever mission I would eventually be sent on, the orders might be given under false pretenses. All dependent on what the conflict was and where those orders stemmed from. I can’t claim ignorance of that, because I both knew and was told that, given certain circumstances, I might not be protecting anyone but instead be used in a trillion-dollar lie to fuel the corporation we call our country.
This straight from a devout Marine’s mouth. ”
“What lie?”
He stills and shakes his head. “You want hypothetical?”
I nod. He cracks his neck—a sign I now know means he’s uncomfortable—before he draws out the lingering silence. Just when I think he’ll change his mind, he finally speaks.
“Imagine you’re a twenty-year-old newlywed sitting in your recliner one night as your wife breastfeeds your infant son.
You’re watching this conflict escalating on the news, and you decide you can no longer change the channel.
You’ve considered signing up because, for one, the trade job you chose isn’t getting the bills paid.
But, most importantly, you’ve been thinking more and more about taking part in it, doing your patriotic duty, and protecting the serene smile on your wife’s face as she holds both your worlds in the palms of her hands. ”
I nod that I’m following when he gives me a sidelong glance.
“So you sign up and ship out, opting to leave that bubble you were in, keeping the memories fresh as well as your reasons for doing it. You dive in headfirst, ready to man up and take your licks on Parris Island and know the place won’t at all resemble any part of its namesake—and it fucking doesn’t.
Some days, you curse your stupidity for doing something so fucking asinine when you were in such a bubble of comfort back home.
You miss your son, your wife’s cooking and warm pussy, the look in her eyes, the comfort of her wrapped around you, but you endure it for that purpose.
After a week of paperwork, twelve weeks of hell, and a fifty-four-hour test called the Crucible, you’ve done it.
You’re a United States Marine. Your proud family holds your welcome-home banner as you spitshine your title as one of the highest trained soldiers in the world. ”
He slows his footing as he gathers his words.
“After briefly returning to your bubble, everyone around you is boasting and proud. You’re now a part of something bigger than yourself; you have purpose and meaning and a gleaming future.
Your confidence is at an all-time high, and you’re prepared, ready for your first mission, and feel the jolt the second you get your orders. ”
He takes a few more steps, and I can feel his hesitancy to continue.
“Filled with that pride and ready to put your training to use, you land on foreign soil and ignore that voice in your head telling you that this is not what you thought it would be. It isn’t.
Nothing’s familiar. You can barely inhale the air over there without feeling like you’re suffocating.
Color becomes a luxury because the terrain consists of rock and dirt—dirt that’s constantly under your fingernails.
You long for good food and a hot shave, for the little things you need and don’t have. ”
He glances back at me, eyes distant.
“Then your company is called, and your mission is given. Nothing but the mission matters. You strap up, ready to rock, a ready ‘rah’ on your tongue as you finally join in the fight you believe in. Only to quickly realize that those you’re fighting don’t look anything like you.
They don’t have uniforms like yours—which you expected—but it’s surreal to see that they’re fighting in street clothes, and the man you expected to face in battle is a teenager with a very fucking adult gun pointed back at you.
The reason he’s pointing it at you is that he was told that unless he fought you, his family would suffer a horrible death.
Just days ago, that kid was a farmer, so he had no choice but to lift that rifle. And when he does, you fire first.”
He swallows, and though physically in front of me, it’s clear he’s thousands of miles away.