Chapter 39 INTERLUDE - THE NIGHT OF̣ KNIVES
Kian
Past: Chicago, February Twenty-Eighth, Twenty Years Ago
Omens.
I had never believed in them until the day my life changed.
My mom had hailed from a tiny town in Albania, and she was superstitious to the bone.
She used to say, “Keep your head down. Work hard, so the devil doesn’t come to collect.”
I’d laugh and tell her I didn’t believe in that stuff. She’d furrow her brow, wag her finger, and say, “Qofte larg!”
Don’t jinx it.
Her words had echoed as I parked my bike and headed into the antique shop—the same one I was caught shoplifting from the year before and kneeled for two hours as punishment.
It was February twenty-eighth, and it should be freezing cold in Chicago, but instead, it was the opposite.
Sunlight broke through the clouds, glinting off patches of dirty snow. The world was still an endless wash of gray, but it was warm. Too warm.
And yet, nature hid. No birds. No wind. Just the world—trapped in silence.
Mom would call it an omen, a harbinger of something.
I told myself, the devil could come collect me after that day, because it was Elise’s birthday.
The tiny doorbell rang as I stepped inside. The same clerk was behind the counter. He narrowed his eyes, adjusted his glasses, his lips twisting into a sneer.
“You again, pretty boy? Wanna kneel again until your knees are raw? Didn’t get enough last time?”
“No, sir.” I raised my hands. “I’ve got cash this time.”
I pulled out the wad of crumpled bills from my jeans pocket. Guilt pinched my chest knowing these were all the savings I made from the sweatshop, plus the small stash I found under the bed.
It was reckless—spending all this money on something that wouldn’t feed little Beatrice or fill our stomachs.
But I deserved to be selfish for once, didn’t I?
I’d been working hard, taking care of my younger siblings while Mom and Dad worked double shifts. I’d scrimped and saved.
I was a “good man,” as Dad would say.
I deserved to do something for myself.
That “something” being the green pendant hanging on the mannequin near the door—the same one I tried to steal the day I met her. Elise later marveled at it and said it matched the color of my eyes.
Her beloved music box was locked up tight inside a glass case. I didn’t know much about jewelry or fancy stuff, but from the way those gems sparkled, I could tell there was no way I could ever afford to buy it for her. But this little green pendant—lab grown, maybe—I just might have enough.
“I want that necklace,” I had told the clerk.
He eyed me, then my rolled-up, sweat-creased bills.
The clerk checked each one—fives, tens—all fruits of my labor, blood, sweat, and tears. He examined them like I ran a print shop. I snorted. If I could counterfeit, I’d never have to steal.
I swallowed my impatience as he counted. Finally, he shrugged, lifted the necklace from the mannequin, and dangled it on his fingertip.
Bubbles prickled in my chest. I imagined Elise’s eyes lighting up when she saw it.
“Does it come with a box? One with a bow on top?”
The clerk sneered. “This is a clearance item. Whoever the chick is, I’m sure she’ll be happy. After all, her standards can’t be high—picking a guy like you.”
Heat surged in my chest, but I bit my tongue.
I snatched the necklace, stuffed it into my pocket, and climbed back onto my bike.
The clerk’s words bothered me more than I would admit.
It was the same thing I’d been telling myself.
Whenever Elise came to my rundown apartment, or when we squeezed onto that tattered twin-sized bed on the floor.
Or when we’d share a slice of pizza—deep dish, my favorite—because I couldn’t afford two.
She’d always hug me with gratitude, and that joy carved something deep inside my heart.
It ate at me because she deserved more. A lot more than I could give.
At school, I’d look her up online—photos of her looking breathtaking at some ball at a place called The Orchid. She looked like a fairy tale princess. Her brothers, her father, all dressed in tuxes, fancy shoes, and expensive watches.
What could I ever give to the Anderson princess except a promise I couldn’t keep?
And now, time was running out. She would head back to New York after the quarter.
My heart clenched. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t imagine a world without her, without the scent of her roses, her joyful laughter, her warmth beside me.
I couldn’t imagine a future where I couldn’t buy her the dream house she wanted—with the music room, the library, and the indoor garden with windows big enough to see the stars.
The depressing thoughts kept me company as I entered the iron gates of Hollow Gardens. I patted my pockets, making sure the pendant and Geraldine’s truffles didn’t fall out.
We were supposed to meet here to celebrate her sweet sixteen.
The wind picked up out of nowhere. Smothering clouds—gray like nightmares—pressed down upon us. Looked like it’d snow again soon. I shivered and hurried to our elm tree.
But she wasn’t there.
I checked my watch. Five minutes late. She couldn’t have left, could she?
Something twisted inside my gut, like watching the seams unravel in a perfectly knitted sweater—all the hard work, wasted.
“I’m thinking too much,” I muttered, and sat beneath the bare branches.
I traced our words on the tree, thinking about the only girl I’d ever love.
I wasn’t ready to give her up. I didn’t know if I ever would.
Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two.
Worried, I paced before the tree. Cold sweat dotted my brows.
If only I had a phone, I could text her, see if she was okay. Maybe someone needed her at school.
Everything was probably fine. She probably left a message for me at the apartment.
Lead seeped through my veins as I biked home.
When my building came into view, the lead turned to anvils in my shoes.
It was quiet. Unusually so. Nothing in this neighborhood was ever quiet. It was like the Reaper came and took every soul with him.
Nonsense.
My breathing echoed in the damp stairwell as I climbed to the third floor. I turned right, moving past the apartment numbers.
Twelve…thirteen…
I stopped in front of the door that should’ve been number fourteen. It was sixteen now, after Dad changed it for reasons I still didn’t understand. Something about fourteen being unlucky.
The doorknob burned.
The lightbulb flickered overhead, then popped. Little Beatrice cried loudly behind the door.
Panic seized me. Did someone leave the stove on? I yanked out my keys and unlocked the door.
A baseball bat slammed into my side. I crashed onto the floor.
“Kian!” Mom’s muffled cries finally reached my ears.
The world swirled as I lifted my head. She was bound and gagged beside Dad by the TV. Two men in ski masks hovered, guns pointed at their heads.
Flames engulfed the drapes, bitter smoke stifling the air.
Sofia whimpered, hands clasped over her mouth. She was curled up on the sofa, little Beatrice next to her.
Dark spots swam in my vision.
I crawled toward them. “Mom,” I gasped. “St-Stop this.”
Slowly, I staggered to my feet, the floor tilting.
The men laughed.
“Look at him. Weak. Can barely stand,” the short one sneered.
“We have nothing.” I swayed and pulled out the remaining cash I had left. “This is all we have. Pl-Please let them go.”
The tall man barked out a laugh. “The boy thinks we’re here to rob them.”
The shorter man yanked Sofia off the couch. She shrieked. “This one’s a beauty. Be a shame to waste her.” He eyed his partner. “Don’t think The Association would mind if I take her?”
The other man shrugged.
Mom screamed through her gag, her head shaking wildly. Dad threw himself against the short man’s legs.
Sofia struggled, her terrified eyes meeting mine.
“Take me! Whatever it is. Take me. I’m strong. You can use me. I’d do anything. Let my family go.”
The short man studied me with interest.
“Anything, huh? You’re pretty too. Maybe I could use you.” He covered my sister’s mouth, muffling her cries. A sadistic glint shone in his eyes. “Drop to your knees, boy. Beg us.”
I kneeled, my pulse hammering inside me. Glass shards from a broken vase dug into my skin, but I barely felt them. Beatrice’s cries rose to screams, her little face mottled and red.
The shorter man snarled and pointed his gun at her.
“No!” Mom cried. The man swiveled in her direction.
Bang!
Time suspended. I flinched. The sound burned into my skull.
Mom collapsed onto the floor, lifeless. Dad wailed. He threw himself over Mom.
No. No. No. I crawled toward her still body.
Beatrice’s shrieking ripped into my heart.
Another gunshot thundered against the walls.
She stopped crying.
The tall man socked me across the face and white-hot pain exploded behind my eyes.
The room tilted, my limbs clumsy and slow, and smoke suffocated my lungs.
Through the haze, I still saw everything.
But nothing compared to the pain and grief shredding my insides.
Pools of crimson spread across the white tiles. Sofia kicked and flailed, her eyes bright with fear as the short man carried her out of the apartment.
Dad’s mournful sobs. His body over Mom’s as he begged her not to leave him. Words I didn’t understand. The Association. The Six.
Bang!
Then the horrifying silence.
Black venom invaded my senses. Flames rose, a vicious monster, devouring everything in their path.
My vision flickered. Once. Twice.
Ragged breaths throttled out of me.
A sweet scent drifted to my nose—the melted chocolates in my pocket.
I heard Elise’s laughter and imagined the elm tree in spring as darkness overtook me.
I woke to fire singeing my shoes, the smell of melted plastic corrosive to my nostrils.
And pain, so much pain.
Flames surrounded me, and for a moment, I thought I woke up in hell.
I staggered to my knees.
Mom. Dad. Beatrice and Sofia.
Images of what happened slammed into my mind. My family—I choked as black smoke invaded my nostrils.
But I still crawled toward where I saw them last.
Glass shards dug into my hands. More coughs wrenched out of my lungs. Too much smoke and the scorching heat—it was like my skin was melting off with each inch of forward movement.
And when I looked up, unable to get any closer with the burning furniture in the way, a sob lodged in my throat.
A fiery inferno had unleashed its wrath on everything I knew—four walls of crackling, burning hell. Charred smells reached my nose—the snapping beams and roaring flames warning me to get out.
It was too late for my parents and little Beatrice. Much too late.
Moisture clouded my eyes as I crawled toward the door. If I didn’t reach it before the flames, I’d die too.
And I wanted to. But I couldn’t, because Sofia was out there.
I needed to find her.
Pain scraped my legs as fire climbed my jeans. I rolled, snuffed it out, and dragged myself to the threshold, finally finding the strength to stand. A silver glint on the entryway table, which was still untouched by the flames caught my eye.
My dad’s beloved lighter. I grabbed it.
Something white flapped onto the floor from the table. Feminine scrawl with one word. Kian.
My sweet Lana Elise.
I grabbed it and stumbled out of the building as sirens blared in the distance.
Glass and rubble crunched underfoot. I leaned against the alley wall, my lungs heaving in desperate breaths.
I unfolded the note with soot-darkened fingers.
Kian,
Dad has pneumonia, so I have to go back to New York early. Sorry I couldn’t tell you in person. I’ll email you when things calm down.
I miss you and love you so much.
I’ll be dreaming of college in Chicago and being with you again.
Maybe I can come back during Christmas.
Love,
Your Elise
P.S. Two kind gentlemen were here looking for your family earlier.
They brought presents from Albania. I knew you guys were secretive about your address, but they showed me photos of your family and said they were your uncles.
So I told them to wait at the stairwell.
I knocked, and your parents said they weren’t expecting visitors.
Anyway, the men weren’t there when I went back to tell them you weren’t home.
They left the presents, though. I hope they’re something nice for you and Sofia. You guys deserve the world.
Shock was a liver punch to the gut. I slid onto the ground, not caring about the metal scraps and glass shards stabbing my backside.
My fist crumpled the paper, my mind reeling from what Elise wrote.
What she did.
“Fire’s out of control. Spreading southbound,” a fireman hollered in the distance. “Need reinforcements!”
Sirens bellowed. Police arrived in swarms.
Don’t trust the police. Another one of Mom’s rules. Most of them were in the mob’s pocket.
I staggered away, clutching the letter, my mind still refusing to accept reality.
A sharp pain speared my gut as I collided with a few box crates.
I caught my reflection in the half-boarded window. Blond hair covered in soot. Hollow eyes. Perfectly unmarred face. How was I alive, and how were they…gone?
“Pretty boy.” The shopkeeper’s voice. The murderer’s. “Kneel. Beg. Pretty boy.”
I fished out the pocketknife from my pocket and extended the blade.
A hiss escaped my lips as I carved a line down my left cheek.
Crimson dripped down my face.
But I barely noticed the pain.
Nothing could compare to the agony obliterating what was left of my heart.
Pretty boy no more.
The smoke thinned. My heart hardened.
And from that day on, I would never kneel again.