4. Alek
ALEK
“I’m not sure I can trust him,” I tell Travi and Jake as we stand in the makeshift kitchen of the underground. “Is his family really any better than the Bianchis?”
“They’re one of the most powerful families in Italy, but they don’t kill mercilessly like the Bianchis. The Dresvannis have motive and power, but they also have sense,” Jake explains.
I sigh and shove my hands into my pockets. “That does not mean they won’t kill me. It means they will have a good reason for it.” I look to the side as several others walk by and they stop to see what we’re talking about.
“This doesn’t concern you,” I say simply. My voice cold and low.
It’s Kullen who rolls his eyes and doesn’t make a move to leave.
“It’s about Tommaso Dresvanni, isn’t it?
You’re still refusing to work with him. You know, we have a good deal going with the Dresvanni family.
They know about us, about our resistance against the politics and joining a family, but they let us live anyway. ”
“Oh, they let us live,” I say slowly, “what a wonderful gift. I should get on my knees and thank them the next time I see them. Should I just say thank you, or should I go all the way and blow them?”
Kullen’s face flushes red and he walks away grumbling something about me in Italian.
I look back to Jake and Travi who seem…stressed about all of this.
“We owe him; he really saved our asses a few years ago,” Travi reminds me. “You might be new to all this, but you know better than anyone that we keep our word.”
“Then keep your word,” I insist with a wave of my hand that comes out of my pocket. “It’s your word, not mine. You have information about the Bianchi family as well. You tell him.”
“You’re the one creeping around them, insisting on pretending that you’re a part of them and you have some kind of loyalty to them. You’re the one with the most information. He knows that, and he’s not going to stop trying to get it from you,” Travi says.
“All because of you. You put him on my tail, and he almost outed me the other day,” I say through grit teeth.
Every part of this makes my head hurt. I’m not interested in working side by side with a crime family that may or may not be just as terrible as the Bianchis.
What I’m being told doesn’t change how I feel, doesn’t change the doubt that lingers.
“Look, all I want is to get my job done and have that be that,” I tell them. “I could have the Bianchi family ready to tear down in a matter of months. I don’t have the time to play errand boy to the Dresvannis.”
Jake shakes his head. “You’re seeing it all wrong,” he tells me. “You’ve got the same goals. You’re trying to tear down the Bianchis, they’re trying to infiltrate and take them down before they can return the favor. It’s in your best interest to work with them. They’ll be able to help you.”
“I work alone,” I spit out. “This is about more than some…petty feud.”
“What’s it about then?” Travi asks. “You haven’t told us why you showed up here a few months ago and set your sight directly on the Bianchi family in the first place. You’re lucky we don’t pull you out.”
Frustration boils at the surface of my being. All I can think about is what I want to do to Don Bianchi…everything, for what he did.
“No one pulls Alexsandr Volkov out of anything,” I tell them as I step even closer. I see my ice-cold anger mirrored in their eyes. “You can try to, I dare you.”
Jake eyes me in return and puts a hand on Travi’s chest before stepping back once.
“Look, no one wants to get in your way,” he says, “but we do think it’s a good idea for you to work with Tommaso. You’ve got the information, he’s got the muscle, and the manpower.”
“We’ve got the manpower,” I remind them. “And the Rose is supposed to be unaligned.”
“You’re not aligning with anyone. You’re taking opportunities where they arise,” Jake insists. “Sure, we’ve got the manpower, but not everyone here is willing to risk their lives for your vendetta. Dresvanni are on the same side as you, no questions asked, it seems.”
I lick my lips as I think for a second. Maybe I’m being too stubborn about all of this. I exhale heavily before speaking. “Why did Tommaso show up instead of the boss then?”
“You know how it is, the Don’s don’t show up face-to-face unless they absolutely have to. They have more to lose. A legacy to uphold,” Travi reminds me. “Besides, Tommy is the one who worked close with us the last time; we have history.”
I look at them with a flat face, trying to ignore the irritation and doubt causing anxiety to run up and down my spine. Making my stomach ache.
“I don’t have time for this…” I turn on my heel and make my way down the tunnel. Not toward the exit, but toward my room. It’s the only place I have some peace and quiet, usually. The only place that’s all mine.
I gave up my house and everything else I owned when I came here. When I decided to leave it all behind after…her.
Trying not to think about it, I head into my room while raking my fingers through my shoulder-length hair. I take the band around my wrist and tie it at the back and out of my face. Several stubborn strands decide to stay in my face anyway and only further aggravate me.
I huff and sit down on the edge of my small bed. I look around at the room.
Small chest with my clothing in it, table, bookshelf with a few of my favorite books tucked between others that just happened to be here when I arrived.
A poster of a rockstar that I didn’t tape to a wall.
A ratty crochet blanket. Bits and pieces of someone else’s life.
Whoever was in this room before me. Mingling with my few belongings.
I run my fingers along the edge of the crochet blanket and feel each stitch and where it’s coming apart. The ratty blanket is mine, not theirs.
Despite how worn down it is, and the fact that I have no idea how to mend it, I can’t get rid of it.
It’s grey and red, with small bobbles sticking up every other row in an alternating pattern.
My throat tightens as I feel the worn yarn against my skin and I close my eyes.
I don’t want to think about her. I don’t want to think about it.
I can’t stop myself. The memories flood my head without my permission and all I can do is see and hear everything in my mind’s eye as if it is happening here and now.
Her voice calling out to me. Desperate and terrified. She screams my name but I’m not able to get to her. I can’t move fast enough. I can’t move at all.
Flames surround me from all angles, burning through my clothing and licking at my flesh every now and then. I try to move out of the way but something pins me to the floor. Heavy, overbearing. I’m not strong enough to move it.
I call out for her. My heart races in my chest.
“It’ll be okay, I promise!” I tell her. I hear the fear in my own voice. Even I don’t believe it, but I make the promise anyway.
One that I’m unable to keep.
My hands ball into fists as I’m caught in these memories. I swallow down the lump in my throat and try to push them away, but I can’t.
I see her face through the fire. Her bright eyes, so full of life—they’re filled with horror now. The flames are engulfing her, all she can so is cough and scream. Cry.
Her tears prompt my own, but I hold them back as much as I can. Trying to keep myself as composed as possible. I need to get up; I need to help her…
Everything is so fuzzy. I’m so dizzy.
“Aleksandr!” she calls for me.
I try to will myself up, pushing the beam off my body but I feel so weak. I can hardly breathe.
Within the darkness that starts to overcome me, I see her face one last time. I watch as her visage is melted beyond recognition. I listen as she goes silent, and that silence brings my own pain to its highest point.
“No,” I growl, pulling myself out of my own head. “No, no, no!”
I slam my fist against the wall beside the bed and ignore the prickling of tears at my waterline.
I stand up and start to pace the room.
“I shouldn’t be here,” I huff. “I can’t…” I put my head in my hands and start to shake. The glimpses in my head are too much to bear.
“It’s been years. Stop this. Stop it,” I talk to myself. Trying desperately to make the thoughts go away.
I thought coming here would make the flashbacks less frequent, but sometimes it feels like I’m in the middle of a war zone. All I can remember are the flames and the cries for help.
“I need to see her.” I decide this very suddenly. I cannot stay here any longer, pacing the room, feeling sorry for myself. I need to leave; I need to go to where I left my heart and make sure it’s still there.
So, I do. I make my exit quickly. Not telling a single soul where I’m going or what I’m doing. Simply disappearing into the early evening with only the bare essentials of what I need. Passport, ID, and cash. Leaving behind everything else I own, because none of it matters right now.
I won’t be there long.
The overnight flight is long enough that by the time the plane touches down, I’m almost entirely calmed. My body doesn’t feel like it’s being torched and the flickers of memories have ceased. Still, I can’t shake the feeling of grief. Heavy and hollow in my chest.
I stop by a flower stand near the airport and carry them with me the entire way.
Poppies. They smell so familiar that it aches.
I haven’t even been around one in almost a year, much less smelled one.
It reminds me of the day I had been surrounded by dozens and dozens of them…
All centered on tables and sending wafts of their clinging scent all around the room.
It’s another twenty minutes before I’m finally there.
Standing at the entrance to the cemetery. I struggle to take my first step in, but after a moment or two, I finally do.
My eyes scan the rows of graves on either side of the paved pathway. The light snow covering the grass and foliage gives everything a slightly glittering appearance.