CHAPTER ELEVEN #3
Sometimes I’d get fed up with waiting and sit inside my room at the farmhouse reading books or watching movies on the old portable DVD player my grandpa bought for me. Hours would pass before Pawel eventually returned and when he saw the tears in my eyes from being left alone, he’d offer me candy.
Looking back now I realize he wasn’t a bad brother—he was a child himself. A child with limited freedom, always being forced to take care of his younger sibling because Sylvia was a shitty mother, a shitty human.
I look up to the sky and talk to the heavens.
“I’m sorry, brother. I’m sorry, Pasha.” I say with sadness in my heart knowing I’ll never see him again, because if heaven does exist, I know I won’t be invited.
The rage rises through me and the fire in my soul reignites as I finally acknowledge the fact we still don’t have Pawel’s body back. We’re still unable to give him the goodbye he deserves.
I need to lay my brother to rest but that decision has been taken away from me.
When my grandpa returned to the warehouse Pawel’s body was gone.
The destruction, the chaos, the aftermath—it was all gone.
No visible signs of the slaughter, the suffering, the loss.
The entire warehouse had been emptied as though nothing ever happened.
As if it was all nothing more than a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
I want to fucking wake up.
I take my phone from my jacket pocket and scroll to my contacts until I find his name, Miroslav. I pause wondering if it’s a good idea to make the call.
Dima, you’re going to make things worse. You’re going to start a fucking war. You fucking psychopath. Do you really want to put Natalia in danger, your grandpa in danger? We both know you don’t give a fuck about us, about yourself, but think ... fucking think, Dmitry.
Why am I like this?
I ask a question every part of me already knows the answer to.
I’m ... not ... normal.
Pawel deserves better than to be a rotting corpse dumped with all the other victims of the bratva. Dumped on a landfill, dumped in a river, or buried in an unmarked grave.
I’m going fucking insane wondering where he is.
Where is my brother’s body?
I know the Ropes have contacts in that world. I bite the bullet and tap ‘call’ on the screen. I’m met by the dial tone—it’s ringing.
“Hello.” A male voice answers.
“Is that Miro ... Miroslav?” I ask.
My leg bounces, so I place my hand over my knee in an effort to control it. I take a breath and wait for him to reply.
“Who wants to know?” The voice asks calm but assertive.
“My name is Dmitry Rushlakov. I think you helped me—”
Before I can finish my sentence the voice cuts me off, “—No I didn’t.”
“You did ... at the warehouse ... you ...”
“We don’t discuss such things. Your phone is it encrypted?”
“Encrypted?” I ask confused.
What the fuck does that matter. No one has my number. Fuck I hardly have any contacts in my phone. I can list the people that do on one hand.
“I need your help,” I say, ignoring his question.
“It’s foolish to call a number like this and not be using an encrypted phone. Goodbye,” he replies and the line goes dead.
Motherfucker.
I grip my phone so hard, I’m surprised it’s not shattered in my hand.
That was fucking pointless.
I push myself up from the bench and walk over to the barn. I push the door open to find my grandpa standing with his feet shoulder width apart, arm raised and hacking into the body of a pig he’s preparing while singing our favorite song.
A wave of emotion washes over me as I listen to him singing a few more lines of the song he taught me as a boy.
“Chop, chop, chop.
Bones and brisket. Loins and steak,
Keep on chopping our blade doesn’t break.
Flesh is flesh, the blood won’t stop,
Breaking bones until they pop.”
I take an apron from a hook on the wall and place it over my head, grabbing a machete as I walk over to my grandpa without saying a word. I stand beside him and start hacking into the meat and join in with our favorite song, and for the first time in a while we sing it together.
“Steel blade in hand, and soul long gone,
We carry out what can’t be undone.
The work isn’t finished until the body runs dry,
Tears for them we’ll never cry.
Slaughter, slaughter,
Son or daughter.
Chop, chop, chop.”
We look at one another and smile.
I know losing Pawel hit him hard. He’s always tried to protect us both. Him handing me the skull of The Man was a true act of love. He’s always been my only guardian, my only protector, the only man who taught me what a man should be.
“How are you, my son?” He asks and slams his blade into the meat.
“I’m doing okay.” I pull the pigs legs apart and split it down the middle with my blade.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, Dima.” He tosses a piece of meat into the tray.
I let out a sigh and turn to him. “I found the page of names and numbers of Roped members in your journal.”
“I’m proud of you for opening my old book. I know it’s a lot to take in, but I hope it gives you answers.” A muscle thrums across his jaw.
“I want to find Volk and Nikolai, Grandpa,” I say with conviction.
“You’re not alone son. I’m working on it.” His eyebrows rise and he nods.
“What do you mean?”
“The night you got into trouble at the warehouse, I called in a favor from some old friends—members of the Ropes. Miroslav has never let me down.” He removes his apron, tosses it into a bucket, walks to the sink and washes his bloody hands under the running water.
“Miroslav is the man who carried me out of there, right?”
He nods and wipes his hands on a gray towel that hangs from a hook.
I copy his actions. “I tried to call him.”
“Ah yes, his number is in my journal. Did he answer?”
“A guy answered but he refused to speak to me and complained that I wasn’t using an encrypted phone,” I say, my tone defeated as I peg the towel back on the hook.
Grandpa lets out a chuckle.
I furrow my brows.
“Sorry, Dima. I should’ve told you about the numbers, about the rules for calls. The lines for communication are strict. Come with me.” He walks to the barn doors and pushes them open.
I follow behind and we walk together toward the farmhouse, as we approach the doorway Natalia catches my gaze and my girl gives me her wickedly beautiful smile.
Look at you sitting by the window waiting for me to return.
You’re loyal, beautiful, perfect in every way.
You’re mine now and you don’t want to leave.
You never left me; you never wanted to. You just wanted me to treat you like a princess and now you deserve the princess treatment and more, my sweet Little Sparrow.
Grandpa makes his way inside the farmhouse and I follow. Natalia turns away from the window and faces us both.
“I made lunch,” she says and moves to the pot of stew simmering on the stove.
“That smells so good. What did I do to deserve you?” I ask without needing an answer and move behind her, snaking my hands around her waist and peppering soft kisses along her neck.
“Dima.” She giggles. “Your grandpa is watching,” she says and stirs the pot as I continue kissing her neck.
“Don’t mind me. I was a young man once, too,” Grandpa says and heads toward the lounge.
Natalia scoops up a spoonful of the stew, blows on it and then places it to my lips. I don’t hesitate and devour it. It tastes of pork, and I grin.
“I know I’ll finish more than one bowl of this, my little Michelin star chef, you missed your calling in life.” I compliment her cooking skills.
She pulls away from me, drops the spoon into the sink, then walks away without saying a word.
“Natalia.” I call after her but she’s already heading for the stairs.
My mind moves a million miles an hour as I chase after her.
What the fuck did I do? Did I say the wrong thing?
I catch up to her, but she’s already at the top of the stairs and runs into the bedroom closing the door gently behind her. Even when she’s upset, she’s always so respectful of my grandpa’s home ... of our home.
I open the door and she’s sitting on the bed with her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. I sit down next to her and place my hand on her knee.
“Natalia, talk to me.” I plead.
She looks at me with her big brown doe eyes, but her lips don’t move. Sadness is evident and my heart aches.
Fuck, I’ve upset my girl. I’ve caused her pain. I fucking hate myself. Why am I such a fuck up?
Because you always are, Dima. You fuck up everything you touch. She’s better off without you.
I battle the demons in my mind; they’re already fighting me and fighting each other. My mind will forever be my own demise.
“My Little Sparrow, I’m sorry, whatever I did, I’m sorry.” I don’t know what I did to hurt her, but I apologize anyway. I’ll always apologize if I upset her.
My hand rests on her knee, and she places her hand on top of mine.
Is she scared to tell me? Is she scared of what I might do?
“Natalia, look at me.” I cup her chin with my other hand. “Please tell me what I did wrong.”
“It’s not your fault, Dima. It’s me,” she replies.
I remove my hand from her knee and move a loose strand of hair from her sweet delicate face. “What’s wrong, princess?”
“I’ve made so many mistakes ... so many stupid mistakes. I’m a failure, Dima. I could’ve made something of my life but instead I fell into a seedy world, it was awful, Dima.” She lets out a sob and tears cascade from her eyes like a waterfall.