13. Bianca
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
bianca
“ S o let me get this straight.” I stop and look at Dmitri. His swollen face was hidden behind a bulging, blue ice pack.
“You let them take you? As in… you fucking let them take you!?” I am verging on screaming at this point.
“Well, I guess I didn’t let them, but I didn’t fight them either. I saw them drag your unconscious body out of the bar, and I was worried that if I put up a fight, you might-“
“Get hurt? Are you fucking kidding me, D? New flash! I kill people for a living. I’m fine, and I don’t need you to…do whatever you think you are doing to protect me.” I step around the counter to his side and pull the ice from his skin.
“Hsssss” he hisses when the sting floods in.
“Dmitri, do you realize they could have killed you? I told you not to mess with their fucking turf. It’s not worth the trouble, and look at your stupid face. Somehow, you’re even uglier than before.” I laugh, and he gently punches me in the gut in response.
“Well, do you realize we are twins? So if I’m ugly, then biologically you are too?” He snarks back at me.
“Regardless. I still have a job to do tonight, and I need to know you aren’t going to be getting in a mess I have to clean up while I’m gone. Can you promise me you’ll stay put tonight? You need the rest anyway if you’re ever going to look normal again…” I curl my lip in exaggerated disgust as I look at his busted face.
He nods, and I kiss the top of his head. He stays sitting at the counter, elbow propped up to help support the ice on his face. I can tell he’s hurting pretty bad, but I checked him out when we got home, and he doesn’t seem to have any injuries that need attention. They really fucked him up though. I know this life. I know how shit works and if the tables were turned I would do the same thing. I’m not as old school as my father regarding turf wars. It’s such a waste of time to measure dicks about zip codes when there is actual work to be done.
My father owns four nightclubs in the area. I would say that it’s his primary job, but it’s honestly more of a side hustle. His actual job is importing and exporting Russian arms into the US. He has an army of guys that work the ports, keeping everything running smoothly. He, of course, pays out the ass but his people are dispensable. Not all of them have spent thirty years training like I did. Most of his men were inherited from the old guard. All of my father’s closest comrades are long gone, and in their place is a wave of younger, stronger sons, cousins, and friends. It’s a family business, after all. I occasionally have to work a club and it’s so fucking boring compared to my usual tasks. When I wake up in the morning, I don’t know if I will be serving drinks or death notes, and I love it. Call me a sadist, but I really love knowing that I can take down anyone at any time.
The thought makes me smirk.
I leave Dmitri in the kitchen and travel toward my room. I still smell like hostage and sex. That should be a cologne name . I smirk again at my internal dialogue. At least I think I’m funny.
I walk through the den, which is filled with Russian literature and some of my father’s ancient whiskey. As I continue, I run my hand along the back of a leather couch.
The den opens into a large foyer lined with black and white checkered floors. A thick wooden staircase frames the room on both sides. Directly in front of the stairs leads to the front door. All of the bedrooms are upstairs. All eight of the bedrooms, I should specify. This house has always been way bigger than it needs to be. I’m not complaining of course, but I will confidently say I have never felt warmth here. This has never been a home. It was my training center, my school, my church, and my future. Being born into this life sometimes weighs heavy on me. I think about what it might’ve been like to be a school teacher or a bank teller. Clock in, do my job, clock out, and go home to my husband and two children. We would have lasagna and talk about our day around a table, catch a game show, and then go to bed. We would make love, always kissing each other goodnight. I start to head up the stairs, picturing my suburban alter ego living her best life. I don’t know what I would really want from life if I had a choice in the matter, but I don’t think it’s a white picket fence and a golden-doodle.
I like who I am, and I’ve made peace with the brutality in my life. Though I’ve never felt finished, like something is still missing within me, but when I was with Dante, that went away. I’m not a ‘love at first sight’ or even a ‘love at… any point’ type of person. I wanted to rip him limb from limb when I first saw him, so it definitely wasn’t that. Once I started talking to him, I didn’t want to stop. I felt the urge to bare my soul to this sexy stranger, and it was the most fear and the most love I have ever felt. I think he feels the same way I do but how the actual fuck would we ever make this work?
When I reach the top of the staircase, I look down the hall toward my quarters. I close my eyes and rethink my suburban life. This time, it’s with Dante. Me, Dante, and our daughter, standing at the top of this staircase. Instead of drugs and weapons, we both work for the CIA. Yeah, that sounds nice. Spies by day, Mom and Dad by night. Always reading our daughter a bedtime story before ravishing each other until the sun comes up.
This time, I actually laugh when I open my eyes. God, Bianca, you are pathetic. Spouses in the CIA? You’ve seen too many action movies.
Finally, back in the real world, I snag a towel from the linen closet and walk through the bathroom door. The bathroom on the east side of the house has two doors. One door goes to the hall and the other goes into my bedroom. My bedroom also connects to a small living area and kitchenette. Dmitri has the same on the west side. My father has the massive suite in the center, and the remaining bedrooms are single. There are two other bathrooms upstairs, along with three bedrooms. Our poor house staff has to clean so many toilets…but hey, that’s why they get paid as well as they do.
I lean down to the claw-foot tub and turn the hot water on. While it fills, I begin to undress and stand in front of the mirror. I can’t believe I showed Dante my scar. If that wasn’t bad enough, I completely trauma dumped all over him. He probably thinks I’m as pathetic as I feel right now. Even with all the shit we both have been through, this scar was my worst moment. I tilt my head slightly as my gaze burns into the scar. I run my hand across its bumpy surface. The memories rush in like a movie I wish I didn’t have to see. Years of therapy have helped me work through some of those issues, and when I talk about it there, I keep my demeanor the same. Nothing is worse than speaking about a horrible incident and then feeling people pity you for it. I didn’t ask to get kidnapped, raped and cut open like a fucking gutted fish. I barely survived. I don’t want pity. I want revenge, and one day, soon, I’m going to get it…