27 | Nate
Nate
The chaos twins have been chatting about something, and I have found myself on a quest for answers.
I move slowly, leaving my seat next to Mike, without any of them noticing.
I need to know more about this woman’s story before I let blood spill under my roof.
Well, my rental roof. My temporary home.
Fuck it. Why do I even care? It’s not like my amazing boyfriend will let her live.
It’s pointless. Yet I still need to know more.
Blame my curious side, or my Italian side.
You could totally blame my Greek side too, because Greeks are nosy.
Gossip thrives there. They even have their own word for it: koutsompolio.
And trust me when I say no one knows more about what happens in a place than the Greeks living close by.
I have only been to my mother’s hometown maybe twice.
Once when I was too little to remember, and another time when I was about six—or ten, or something.
I was still young, but old enough to have a few memories of the place.
It was my uncle's funeral—Alexander and Jax’s father.
I think what struck me more was the fact my aunt and cousins weren’t there.
No one knew where they were. It was one of the reasons it took me so long to connect with them in adulthood, too.
It was as if they had fled Greece and never looked back.
My uncle's death was a terrible crime. They never caught the guy, but the family arranged a funeral after the body was released to them, and our side of the family was invited. Because to Greeks, status is everything. My yiayia insisted that if she couldn’t have her niece present for her husband’s funeral, she would have everyone else—especially the rich Americans, as they called us.
The ones living the dream. They weren’t exactly wrong.
When we finally got to Greece after a long flight, it was a fucking shock.
Animals were running around everywhere in that small village outside of Thessaloniki.
Kids were playing in the street. And everyone who saw you asked who you were, because if you weren’t from there, they had to know.
The funeral itself wasn’t much different from the Italian ones I’ve witnessed before.
The family gathered at the house of the deceased, sharing stories and waiting until we all drove together—different cars, but everyone following one another to the cemetery.
That part was a little different. The casket was carried to the plot where he was going to be buried, and the family followed behind.
In the front row were his mother and my aunt’s mother—the closest family—along with his brothers and their families.
A little behind was my yiayia with her kids and my mother.
I stayed further back with my father since we weren’t blood-related to the man, and immediate family took priority in saying their goodbyes. I didn’t care.
What shocked me, though, was what happened after the funeral ended.
Everyone gathered over coffee and liquor.
Chatter filled the room as everyone talked over one another.
I was expecting mourning, crying, grief.
Instead, I witnessed gossip, rumors, and laughter.
It was different. New. Unexpected. And to my small, childlike mind, it was vastly interesting—more than it should have been.
I haven’t been to Greece since then, and while I’ve been to Italy a few times, I wouldn’t call that part of the family any better.
Both are loud, nosy, and a little weird.
Which explains why, despite knowing better, I find myself walking down to the basement.
Because I need to know her story for myself.
I don’t care what the idiots upstairs believe; this woman might be innocent.
We can’t truly know unless someone with less emotional involvement actually hears her out. And I plan to be that person.
As my feet reach the last step, I see her sitting upright.
She isn't tied up anymore, but she is still a captive in every sense. She is free to use the bathroom down here, and I bring her food every few hours, but other than that, she is still a prisoner. She hasn’t touched my food, of course, and the only water she has accepted is bottled.
Smart woman. She is taking care of herself, even though I’m pretty sure she doesn’t expect to survive.
I can see a lot of the boys in her. Now that we know the truth—DNA and all—it’s painfully obvious she’s their mother.
“Mary, I would like to ask you some questions,” I tell her, and she nods.
“I know you’ve told parts of the story to the guys.
” She nods again. “But I want to know what happened to you after the boys lost their families. Because there’s a part of your story that doesn’t quite fit.
Mike told me you claimed not to know, but there were multiple news stories on the internet, and it was all over the media for a while.
Conspiracy theories about how the boys killed both families had been circulating for years after their deaths.
It strikes me as a little weird that you never searched for your siblings.
Even at night, with a glass of wine, you never considered looking up your family on social media?
I doubt that. Humans are curious creatures.
We like to poke around—even when we aren't wanted.”
She takes a sharp breath, accepting defeat.
“I knew they were dead. I learned the news about a week after the accident happened,” she explains.
I can feel myself starting to get mad, but I need to contain myself.
“I was listed as the biological mother on Mike’s birth certificate.
The adoption had a paper trail explaining why my siblings adopted my children.
When they looked into where Mike should go, they contacted me in case I was in a better place and wanted to take him in.
The system always favors mothers, even the bad ones.
They wanted him to have a good life, and I was the closest blood relative other than my brother.
” There isn't a single trace of empathy in her voice. It’s cold.
Calculated. As if she’s narrating facts that have nothing to do with her.
I take a seat next to her, following the thread I’ve been weaving in my mind since we arrived back home with her as our captive. Something doesn’t fit, and I need to know how right or wrong I am. “And what about Liam’s family? Did you learn about their deaths?”
“I did. Exactly the same as with Mike, even though there was a family already petitioning to foster them. I was contacted. I was their mother, after all.” I hold back the laugh gathering in my throat. I wouldn’t call her a mother, but I’ll allow her the delusion.
“So, even though you knew—and even though you claim your parents forced you to give your babies to your brother and sister—you still did nothing after their passing to get your kids back.” I lay out my observation, and she nods again.
“Your parents, though, had been dead for a while at that point. Correct?” She stays quiet.
“From what I’ve learned about you, when the accidents occurred, you were already married and had enough money to support your two sons if needed.
Your divorce didn’t happen until a few years ago, when your husband left you for his current wife.
” She nods again. Before I can continue, she opens her mouth to say something, then hesitates. I stay silent, giving her time.
Her entire body language shifts, and her voice loses any trace of fear.
It becomes cold as ice. “I never wanted them. I knew my family would give them to my siblings. That's why I went to my sister for help. She was never going to actually help me—the bitch didn’t even like me. But I knew she was our parents' favorite. My brother, too. They would never allow the family name to be stained. It was either give the twins to them or put them up for adoption. Either way, I didn’t care. If I had figured out I was pregnant earlier, I would have aborted those two the moment I found out. And seeing them grown up now, I regret not doing it. They’re pathetic. ”
I huff, knowing full well I was right. “So you lied to your kids, even though you know this is the end for you. Do you know what happened to them?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t care what happened to them. They weren’t my problem then, and they aren’t my problem now. They weren’t supposed to exist. They only do because I was too stupid to keep my legs closed.” She spits the words out like venom gathering in her throat.
I sigh. I know it won’t make any difference, but I speak anyway. “Liam bled every day under your brother’s belt. And your sister looked the other way when her husband satisfied himself by fucking an eight-year-old boy every night.”
Her face twitches in disgust. “That’s not my problem,” she declares.
“Whatever happened to them, they deserved it. They weren’t supposed to exist. They were evil before they were even born.
I vomited every day and felt awful until they were out of me.
It was as if my body could sense the evil inside me.
And look at them now... They’re serial killers.
I was right. They were evil from the beginning.
Whatever my family did to them, they deserved it.
” She says it with total confidence, and I realize her disgust isn't about what happened to her kids, but because she genuinely believes they are inherently evil.
“The rumors, though, are true. The twins are responsible for all of their deaths.” I take a deep breath, needing a moment.
“Some were innocent, and some were well-deserving. But when you’re in that much pain, your actions aren't calculated. They never intended to kill their siblings or Liam’s mother.
She did everything in her power to protect them, even though she was a victim herself.
I know he considers her his real mother, even if you’re the one who gave birth to him. ”
She doesn’t answer. Her eyes avoid mine, showing me—just as her son does—that the conversation is over. I get up to leave, then turn back to offer one last thought. “I hope you rot in hell, Mary. For every ounce of pain you cost those men.”
With that, I leave her, knowing full well it won’t be long before she ends up dead. I needed to know whether her death would be in vain. Now I do.