Chapter 51
Chapter
Fifty-One
Alexei
The name Isabelle plays on repeat in my head. Familiar as it sounds, the answers are locked far behind fragmented memories I can't quite collect. I recall moments from my childhood that I know I was far too young to understand or place on a timeline.
Isabelle.
It is familiar. There are memories of a woman with long dark hair and a kind smile.
Sitting at our dinner table. A tiny hand holding hers.
Laughing with us and bending down to squeeze my cheeks.
But my memories betray me as they all mesh together.
It wasn't unusual for there to be women around when we were kids.
I hated them all. Usually, when there were women around, Mom got sad.
I never understood why until I was far older.
I'm zoned out enough that I only hear Chet when his shoes tap across the floor as he stalks towards me.
"You've made quite a problem of yourself, nephew," Chet says, pulling a hunting knife from his belt.
He stops in front of me, brandishing the knife.
If he expects me to cower, he will be disappointed.
He's only lucky the knots bounding my hands are very well tied.
"I had high hopes for Victor. After my own brother cast me out of our family, I believed Victor had finally seen sense."
Chet shakes his head even as he polishes the knife.
"How ironic for my brother," Chet says. "All that time spent training Victor and yet you are the one who thinks most like him."
My anger flares at Chet talking about my brother as if he knew him, boiling and spilling over with the thought that Chet could never know my brother better than I did.
Even if I disapproved of what Victor had done it was never a surprise.
Only something I spent too long denying, but knew in my bones all along.
"Victor may have gotten your father's even temper but you have his calculated cruelty, don't you, nephew?"
I've never liked being compared to my brother or father. But the more Chet does it the more I see our family patterns repeating themselves over generations. My father and his brother, Chet. Myself and my brother, Victor. Pit against each other in every way that matters and ending up torn apart.
I wonder if my father experienced the same level of pain at casting out his brother that I felt at losing mine. I've never had much sympathy for him, assuming he was hard and tough like Victor. Level-headed where I can't be. Nothing like me with my unrestrained rage and affinity for violence.
Chet chuckles to himself. "I can almost hear how loudly you screamed each time your father beat you into submission.
" He looks at me with a smirk. "And then one day, the screaming stopped, and you just learned to take it.
He should've known that breaking you in would only make you stronger than your brother. "
"I am strong," I agree, bite in my voice as I spit at him. "And you are weak. Just like they turned out to be in the end."
Chet's jaw hardens, having hit his sore point.
He bares his teeth, but eventually thinks better and composes himself again.
He straightens his cuffs and flips the knife around in his hand.
"You have become more DeMarco than Rushkoff haven't you?
Look at you defending them. Taking your own brother's name in vain to protect them. "
"I'm not protecting anyone."
"You are more like your father than you think, you know," Chet says, licking his lips as he sizes me up. "You may have my temper, but you have his sense of justice."
I know he is trying to break me. Before all of this, just a comparison to either my father or my brother would've been enough to do it.
It would've been plenty to break my rage free from its poorly held leash.
I spent years living in their shadows, blindly following their word and believing they knew best.
Well that illusion has been shattered. And though it still hurts something deep in my soul, there are only a few things that can break me anymore. And hearing about my father nor my brother certainly isn't any of them.
"I spent a lot of time with Victor in the end," Chet says, glassy eyes staring off into the distance.
Almost as if he recalls my brother fondly.
Like he might actually miss him. "He never once considered that this would end badly for him.
Always wanting just a little bit more than he already had.
I could have warned him, I suppose. That wanting more only means there is more to lose. "
Chet takes a deep sigh, looking like he's lost somewhere in his head.
"Anyway, I don't have to tell you that, do I?" Chet says, pointing the knife between Sage and I.
"Spare me the senseless drivel," I sigh. "I'm nothing like my father and I'm nothing like you."
"Wrong!" Chet says, slamming his hands down on the armrests of my chair, wild eyes in my face. "You're exactly like us." His voice is a sharp hiss. "There is nothing more Rushkoff than letting your anger blindly lead you into a promise of revenge."
I narrow my eyes.
I don't want him to be right, but he is. We are all known for revenge and vendetta. That is what we do. Drawn from the rage inside all of us, those of us who choose to hide it or show it, it doesn't discriminate. We hold grudges and we act on them.
I look over to Sage in that moment. I won't let regret show on my face. But it's what I feel when her emerald green eyes worry into mine.
Chet removes his hands and takes a step back from my chair. "You promised me a death," he says. He turns and points the knife at Sage. "Both of you."
I struggle against the restraints, tightening my fists and pulling with everything I have to break the ropes, but they don't budge.
I know he's only pointing her out like a target because he knows it will get a reaction out of me.
But knowing doesn't stop me from proving his point and reacting, anyway.
"One of you has to die," Chet says. "That's what you promised isn't it? I don't see you two doing much fighting to the death."
He goes closer to Sage with the knife and my breath hitches, but he only uses it to lift her chin and force her to stand. "You promised me a death, little Sage," he says, taking her hand and gently placing the knife into it.
My eyes widen as Sage looks at me in horror.
A wide, evil grin spreads across my uncle's face. "Kill him for me."