Chapter 11
ELEVEN
LUCIE
Hangovers are the worst. This is why I don’t drink.
This insistent pounding in my head as if someone was running an ice pick through my eyes and turning my brain into mush is the worst feeling in the world. I should know, I used to have one at least three nights a week.
But becoming a Bratva wife for half a year has turned me into a sober version of myself. Yet, I drank last night like I still knew how. Newsflash. I don’t. And I have no interest in going back to my old habits, either.
The group chat with Dante, Aleksei and Irina is going wild, asking if I’m okay.
Shit.
I called them to hide a dead body and ghosted them without actually telling them that I was home safe.
After a dangerous man saved me from a rapist and I touched myself until I passed out.
I won’t write that one of course. I’m not even sure I’d tell Mina. How can I justify that my mystery man made me come harder than I had in months without ever touching me, and that his murderous energy made it all the better?
I ignore the calls. I don’t need them screaming my ear off about safety and what not.
Instead, I ignore everything and put a smile on my face, going through my day as if nothing happened.
I shower—cold as ice—eat breakfast and decide to go for a short run through the Meadows.
Might not be the best for hangover but the idea of rotting in bed all day with my family on my ass is worse.
Guilt gnaws at my gut so I knock on Gemma and Milosh’s door. They don’t answer. Shit, I must have gone a little too hard with the pills. I tell Dante to check on them via text.
He doesn’t berate me and that makes me breathe easier.
It gets even better after the three miles I manage to run.
Okay, fine, one of them was a brisk walk.
It still counts. And my saving grace comes from my cousin telling me I won’t have bodyguards anymore, and to be on my toes and tell him if anything suspicious happens.
Ah! The only thing suspicious is the sensation of being followed that never quite seems to leave me lately, though it’s absent this morning as I run in circles, out of breath and regretting my choice of workout.
I hate running, but maybe, just maybe, I was hoping he’d chase.
I’m not about to admit to anyone that I was disappointed when he didn’t.
Least of all myself. It could be someone really dangerous.
Maybe that’s how the Moscow Bratva will get to us.
Make me fall for a masked stalker who happens to be a murderer.
They won’t need to kidnap me, I’ll walk straight into their arms.
Gosh, I’m stupid.
Yet, I still can’t shake the way the man made me feel safe in a world that has never felt like it.
The only person that truly made me feel that way before was Toma.
With his easy smiles and puppy eyes so at odds with his massive chest and arms that could probably rip anyone open with his strength alone.
After my run, I take a shower and decide to check in on Gemma and Milosh. Say goodbye. It wasn’t their fault I had to have bodyguards.
They still don’t answer and a creeping doubt floats through my head.
It’s soon replaced with that same, well-known feeling of abandonment.
I know it so well by now it’s like it’s part of me, not something I merely feel but something I am at my core.
They didn’t say goodbye. Like everyone else.
They left like I meant nothing. I was just a job, I know that. But it still hurts.
I swallow and get through the motions of studying, cleaning my place before I finally make it outside my home for a grocery run. I won’t be able to count on Gemma—if she was the one doing the groceries at all.
Sweaty and breathing hard, arms full with bags, I enter my home and gasp.
A single yellow sunflower has been added to the desiccating daisy that’s about to take its last breath. I can’t make myself throw it away yet. Next to it is a shaker bottle I’m certain I don’t own with a pink goo inside. I sniff it, suspicious, then see the note underneath it.
Drink. It’s good for recovery.
Oh my God. Is my stalker also going to be my nutrition coach? That’s fucked up. Yet, I have to tighten my lips together not to smile. My mood soars, warmth filling my chest and my whole body in a slow sweep.
I take a tentative sip. It’s pretty good. Strawberries and lemon, with a slight taste of banana and a sort of powder making it more thick.
I finish the thing in three minutes. It’s delicious, and it’s making me feel full and satiated. And weirdly happy.
My jaw opens and I blink slowly when I cross the threshold of my bedroom. The bed is made, my keychain primely placed on top of my pillow. My heart seems to have descended to the apex of my thighs, beating wildly.
Should I get a better lock?
I’m so confused by my body. How fear and arousal mingle like they’re best friends in my blood stream.
Irina would be so disappointed in me. She might have trained me to shoot a moving target, but my preservation instincts are non-existent.
As is my habit, helping me to remain a high-functioning adult, I park all those questions in that neat little box in my head.
It’s a little overflowing at the moment, but I can’t afford to be distracted.
Mid-terms are fast approaching and studying for this degree is all I have to separate myself from the life that was decided for me.
I’m making something of myself and I won’t let a hot, masked stranger derail me from my goals.
****
Atext comes through when night has long fallen already. But it’s not from Mina, complaining about Benoit puking everywhere, or my family urging me to stay home and lock myself up.
Unknown
Go to bed, Lucie.
Oh shit.
It’s one thing to know my stalker visited my home, followed me around and killed someone for me.
Another to see first hand that he can get anything on me, including my phone number.
I know full well he’s not inside my flat but I look around, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights.
A cold sweat gathers at my hairline, fear and arousal mixing together again in that heady cocktail, making me reckless. I swallow hard and stare at my phone.
He’s so bossy. I want to huff with indignation but I’m soaking my knickers. If he were here, there’s no telling if I’d run to try to escape, praying he’d catch me, or if I’d fall to my knees, ready to be bossed around.
Both?
Both.
Me
Who are you?
I wince. Of course he’s not going to tell me.
Unknown
Your darkest nightmare.
I burst out laughing. The tension I was holding diffuses out of my body. My stalker is bad at flirting. What was that answer? Silver lines my eyes. Seconds later another text comes through.
Unknown
I’m someone who wants what’s best for you. Go to bed. You’re exhausted.
Me
You can see me?
Unknown
Always.
I look around again, then under my bed, in the corners of my bookshelf, under my favourite candle and in the spine of books. No cameras. I shake my head. He can see me. I glance towards the window of my bedroom. The blinds are open.
Unknown
You’re not ready to see me. Go to bed, Lucie. Don’t make me ask again.
My father raised me to have a mind of my own but I can’t deny what receiving his commands does to me. What would happen if he asked again? I bite my lip, heat spreading through me, making my ears warm.
Minutes later, I yawn, confirming what he already knows, what I have been ignoring in my own body for the last hour or so.
I close my computer and books, brush my teeth and get into bed.
Mindlessly, I clutch the keychain Toma gave me, working my fingers over the grooves over and over. The repetition soothes me. And before I know it, my breath evens out and sleep takes me under, a smile on my face.
****
The next few weeks pass at lightning speed.
And my silent protector is getting more bold.
The worst part is that I’m kind of getting used to coming back from uni to a fridge full of food, little flowers or plants on my living room table and my favourite snacks always stocked up and ready for me to binge.
And always the little notes.
That yellow dress looked good on you.
Tampons are in the first drawer of your bathroom.
That one had me blush a little. Nothing to be ashamed of, half the world population menstruates.
But now, my mysterious stalker-protector knows I’m not exactly the type that takes care of herself well.
Maybe that’s why this is so enticing. He takes care of me, and it doesn’t look like he wants anything from me in return. Which is refreshing. And scary.
He has my number—because of course he does.
Which stalker worth his salt wouldn’t find that kind of information easily?
We started texting every day, but he always jots down some words for me to find when I get home.
I keep them in a neat stack by my entrance door, reading them before I leave every day and when I get back home.
My stomach flutters at the simple words written with a thin ink pen. Some are quite bossy.
Don’t forget to eat tonight.
Take your meds.
Water the cactus.
Don’t go to bed without blowing out that candle.
For someone who’s been told what to do and how to act all my life, it surprises me that I like it when he does it.
It just feels different when it’s him. Less of an imperative or an order, and more of a kind encouragement to take care of myself.
Toma was like that, too, when Dante was taken and I couldn’t eat because of the stress and the grief.
He shadowed me, made sure I ate and slept and was a comforting presence when all I wanted to do was drown.
Ever since I realised I have a stalker, I haven’t felt compelled to touch the raised skin on my thighs and reminisce about how it felt when I put it there.
It used to be a strong outlet to my constant fear of not being enough.
For the grief. Because grief isn’t something I can control but bleeding was.
I’ve managed not to touch a blade in that way for years now.
Though I’m proud of what I have accomplished on my own, it’s easier knowing I’m also doing it for him.
He probably wouldn’t like it if I hurt myself that way.
None of my family members would like it either but I’ve kept that side of me hidden and I have no intention of ever showing it to them.
I dial my father, who’s still due to visit me, but hasn’t made any effort to choose a date. It hurts more than it should, but I ignore it. That smile is firmly in place when he picks up.
“How’s my princess? How’s Scotland?”
“It’s great,” I manage to say, the lie tasting ashen on my tongue. “I can’t wait to show you my neighbourhood. They have this super nice pub around the corner with so many craft beers, you’d love it.”
He clears his throat and I brace for what I know will come next. “That sounds fantastic, but I won’t be able to come in this semester, ma princesse. I’m sorry.”
“Oh. Sure. Of course.” As casually as I can—though my voice breaks—I ask, “So, any news about Diane? Busy at work?”
“You know how it is.” He dodges my question again. My father has never shied away from showing me all the ugly parts of our business.
“Did something happen?” I push, anger starting to bubble under the disappointment.
“Nothing to worry about.”
“Dad, I know when you’re lying.”
This is the first time I’m so curt with my dad, and his silence tells me he’s surprised by it.
I crush the phone in my hand, my other fist blanching with the strength of my frustration.
I deserve to know if anything dangerous might happen to him.
I know it’s a daily occurrence. Threats against his life and our organisation, debts to collect and enemies to keep at bay.
But this is different. He’s keeping me in the dark on purpose.
You wanted out of mafia life, didn’t you? My brain reminds me. My vision blurs but I clamp my lips shut so the tears don’t fall.
“You know what? Never mind. Keep your secrets,” I quip.
“Princesse, don’t be like that. I can’t talk about it, okay? The less you know, the safer you are.”
“It didn’t used to be like this,” I retort, angry and hurt.
“You used to be a mafia daughter,” he replies like it costs him to say it. The words are like a whip. Because he’s right. This is what I wanted. My choice might cut me deeper than a blade ever did. “I’ll call you soon, princesse. Bye.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer and hangs up, leaving me to deal with the emotions left in the wake of this bizarre conversation. I’m not a mafia daughter anymore, but they’re still my family. How do I cleave myself in two and get out of it intact?