Chapter 39 381 #2
The late October sunshine doused the apartment we were touring in orange light.
Crisp air flowed through the open windows, and the brick walls and light hardwood floors made me feel at peace.
The loft seemed perfect. It hit all my checkboxes, and logically, I liked it.
But I had no genuine happiness for anything.
"The great thing about this loft is that it's already soundproofed, the maintenance fees aren't exorbitant, it's on the third floor—which is much safer than the first, and the view!" The realtor walked up to the windows, and indeed, the view of the neighborhood was lovely.
"Lastly.” She turned to me, smiling as if thinking someone over.
“I'm really not supposed to tell you this, but…I had a client who lived in this building in the past, and there’s a way to access the rooftop.” She pointed up.
“It's flat, the ledges are high, and it's very private.
Put up a few chairs and some twinkly lights, and you have your own private patio.
" My realtor, Mia Tanner, really was very good.
She submitted the offer, and it got accepted. I bought my own apartment! I was in disbelief, like I was living in an alternate reality. I had a home. After years of instability and discomfort, I owned a beautiful place.
The large bedroom was upstairs with its own bathroom, and the rest was open concept with huge windows illuminating the whole place. I wanted to renovate the kitchen and change the floors, but otherwise, the place was ready to move into today.
My life was changing, normality was slowly creeping in, and as exciting as it was to have a home to live in, nothing brought me any joy.
I suffered. Day and night. Without him, I couldn't and didn't want to enjoy anything. It's like I was living in a movie. Nothing felt real; nothing felt good.
Roman never let it go—he kept his eye on me everywhere I went. School, work, my Airbnb, the coffee shop. Someone was following me every step of the way, and he was probably getting updates when he wasn’t accosting me in random places.
Fine. He could torture himself all he wanted, but…he was also torturing me.
Every night, he showed up in my dreams. Every night. Every morning when I opened my eyes, I’d turn to the side, thinking he was beside me. And every morning reality rudely slapped me in the face.
I was alone and broken, never to be complete again.
By mid-December, I was truly exhausted from all the work the semester threw my way. I was emotionally drained and physically depleted. My birthday was coming up, but it meant nothing to me, just like the last few years.
My last day at the clinic wrapped up, and Mia took me for a celebratory dinner, presenting me with keys to my new home.
Her bright smile put me at ease, and we chatted about random things, carefree and unserious. She was radiating happiness and positivity, and the dagger of jealousy stabbed me deep in the heart. She was able to live her life without pain and suffering…and I wanted that too.
"Call me anytime, Isla. I really enjoyed working with you, and I feel like we've become friends." Mia spoke genuinely and hugged me like an old friend. Damn, I was so glad I came upon her; it felt strangely calming knowing that there was a good person in my life who seemed to have it sorted out.
Instead of renovating, I decided to just move in for the time being and deal with it all later. A few days after settling in, I was putting away a few groceries when I turned around to see my new, empty home.
I had a bed upstairs, two bar stools that the previous owner left me, a desk, and some books. Those were all my possessions. The movers piled the mountains of Roman’s gifts in a corner, all still neatly in their boxes. I didn’t get around to donating anything, too defeated by life.
Alone, I stood in the middle of the empty living room, all of it blurring. The tears poured out of my eyes, at this point feeling like a natural state of being. I cried all the time; it wasn’t anything new.
I had been here once before—in the middle of an empty apartment, but back then, Roman showed up at my door, changing my life forever. But this time, I knew he wouldn’t come.
My sobs echoed in the empty space, as if repeating to me an inescapable truth—you will never get over this. But just as I was about to head up the stairs, a knock on the door halted me mid-step.
Couldn’t be.
It couldn’t be him. I must have been hallucinating.
It wasn't. I swung the door open to see a man with a thick envelope, his glare expectant and calm. He handed it to me and walked down the hallway and out of view, as if I was supposed to have any idea what this was. He didn’t ask me to sign for it, didn’t ask for my name—he didn’t say a word.
With trembling fingers, I opened the envelope and spilled the contents onto my kitchen island.
Roman had delivered his final and most important gift, and I knew my heart and mind were about to descend into hell again.
Inside were details about who my father really was.
There were newspaper articles, police reports, coroner reports, copies of emails and texts, transcripts of phone calls, incorporation documents, bank statements, tax returns, and photos.
Forgetting to breathe or blink, I stood at the kitchen island and pored over the contents, listening to the sound of my own blood pumping in my temples.
Was any of this even real? There was no way for me to know, but there was one thing I was certain of: Roman wouldn’t have faked any of this. Maybe he was a killer, but I knew…I knew he wouldn’t lie to me like this.
One email exchange really caught my eye. It was between my father and one of his directors named John, whom I had met many times.
February 14, 8:08am, John Clemens
The russkis are really pushing. They mean business and I believe we really have to sit down and reconsider our plan, Dave. This will become an explosive situation and we have delayed until the absolute LAST possible second.
They’ve been accommodating like never before. They’re willing to give up smaller contracts to have this one. Our time is running out—let’s talk about it asap.
February 14, 2:40pm, Dave Barrington
I know your concerns and the risks, but I will not bow down. We worked very hard to secure this and have cleared the path for ourselves, not for them.
March 17, 9:05am, John Clemens
R is coming in next week, for the last time. He has provided us with a final warning. Dave. Reconsider. You have a family.
March 19, 9:40pm, Dave Barrington
He won't do anything.
March 19, 9:42 pm, John Clemens
You've used the same methods, you know what can happen! You have a daughter. I pray that they will target you and not her…R has been fair and given you the choice. He will stay true to his word.
My parents died on March thirtieth. This email exchange left nothing to the imagination—this was John trying to convince my dad to give in to the demands Roman was making. How the fuck did Roman find this?!
My mind racing, I wondered how I could find John Clemens again to confirm these details and ask more questions. If he could verify that this email exchange really happened, it would turn my whole world upside down.
It would prove that my father was not who I thought he was, no matter how much I tried to deny it.
It would prove that my father had, in fact, refused to negotiate and back down when the Russian Mafia was intimidating him, placing himself and his family at risk.
And finally…it would prove that Roman was playing by the rules, just as he said.
I whipped out my phone and found John’s name on LinkedIn.
Frantically, I typed out a message, asking him for an urgent meeting.
This couldn’t wait. And then, I turned back to the contents on the kitchen island, forgetting to breathe, forgetting to think, forgetting to blink—I needed to know everything first.
There were many, many, many coroner reports. Oh God, oh God, oh God. All the previous owners of Anders C & C—the three brothers—had undetermined causes of death. No heart attacks, no slip and falls that were described in the article Roman made me read.
The information was undeniable. My dad was involved in all the sins this wretched earth contained.
There were emails with state officials, articles questioning the methods of Anders C & C and describing their tactics, and then…
an article about the journalist who wrote the piece and his untimely death.
There were financial documents of my dad's competitors' companies and how Anders used to lend them money, bankrupt them, and then take over. So many emails and texts, all easily decipherable.
When I thought my head was about to explode from the information, my phone lit up with John's response.
Hi Isla. Great to hear from you. I hope everything is okay. Come by my office tomorrow at 4pm, let's have coffee.