Chapter 20 Rafael
The fire before me crackles, the dazzling flames hypnotizing my mind as I twirl the white feather between my fingers. I’ve thought about throwing the damn thing into the fire hundreds of times, but I’ve never been able to release it.
I’ve always felt a unique pull to fire, how it cleanses to near perfection by means of destruction. Dismantling and ruining so that new life can begin without whatever tainted the environment before.
Mother used to say a controlled fire can be the most powerful weapon known to man, but a wildfire, blazing through all, does not discriminate, it will destroy good and evil.
Contain your fires, my boys and you will see a new beginning flourish.
Grow wild, and you can destroy that which you love the most.
Sometimes, I wonder if she was right. Maybe the only way to eradicate the constant and vile evil in this society is to simply raze it. Whatever good lingers in the dark will soon tarnish anyway. What is one small light amongst pitch black?
A target.
Loud, thunderous footsteps thud through the hallway and two seconds before he crashes through the door, I know they belong to my brother.
Speaking of uncontrolled fires… He barges through the library door, disrupting the quiet I was bathing in.
“Brother, to what do I owe the interruption?” I pocket the feather, picking up the glass of whiskey next to me instead.
“Lucy’s covered in scars, Rafael. Did you know?”
Scars? A rattle of rage courses through my mind and I trace the lines of my palm to contain my first instinct which is to run to her and demand answers. Breathing in deep, I let it out slowly to the count of three. “How would I know? I’ve not had my hands all over her like you.”
The tiniest spark of jealousy flares inside me but I snuff it out. She’s not mine, she’s not even his. No, Lucy Sinclair is the type of woman that would never belong to anyone. Enzo can delude himself into the fantasy, but even he sees her for what she is. A wildfire.
“They surround her ribcage, Raf. Like—” He paces before me, pulling at his hair. “Like fucking tally marks.”
I don’t respond right away, taking the time to recall every ounce of information I was given on Doctor Lucy Sinclair. Yet as I flip through the files in my mind, I do not recall ever seeing any medical records or information leading me to believe she had any physical trauma in the past.
“Could they be self-inflicted?”
He shakes his head rapidly, refuting the idea before it has time to settle. “No way, they surround her ribs. They conceal perfectly under her bra, like they were intentionally placed there.”
Lucy being marred in such a way will bring about a side of myself I reserve for those who have truly pissed me off, which means before I hunt down every fucking human that has been close enough to her to deal this level of damage, I need to be sure there is in fact a soul to collect.
“Enzo, could she not have intentionally placed them there?”
Obsession has consumed his mind; he can’t see logic. “No,” he protests again. “You’re not hearing me, Rafael.” He pauses, standing directly in front of the chair I rest in. “They wrap around her entire rib cage. She didn’t do this to herself. I know it. I know her.”
My thumb and forefinger pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fratello, you do not know her. You’ve just met the woman. You must control yourself.”
Hypocrite.
His fist collides with the wall next to the fireplace, denting the drywall. “I fucking know her, Rafael!” His fists clench at his sides, blood dripping from his knuckles and his pupils blow wide with the ferocity rolling through his system.
Enzo has always been a train running full steam ahead with little regard for flying off the rails, but this version of him is dangerous.
Violence and abuse to women and children rules our lives, it’s the foundation in which our father and his father before him and so on built their fortune and it has been our goal since we were young to erode and eradicate that foundation.
Needless to say, he’s reacted strongly to abused women for as long as I can remember but this reaction is without logic.
My brother, although he may not seem like it most of the time, usually has incredible control over his actions.
Each move he makes has intention. Even when Nova comes to us beaten and bruised, he maintains his composure, often deflecting with humor to quell his anger.
But acting as erratic as this is rare. So why is it the doctor has him rattling the cage of his composure?
I relent, proving my point, knowing when my brother acts this way there is no speaking logic to him, but I can calm him.
“Rafael! Stop staring at me like you’re digging into my fucking brain with a spoon. I need to know who did this.”
Standing, I grip his shoulder.“I do not know who could have done this. Did she say anything when you asked her about them… An abusive ex?” I pause when his stare meets mine, full of guilt. “You did ask her about them before raging in here like a fucking bull, right?”
My brother paces back and forth again, trying to solve a puzzle he doesn’t have pieces for.
“Of course I did. Could be an ex...she didn’t flinch.
When I slammed my fist close to her, she didn’t move a muscle.
Our girls, they react when men get violent.
They flinch or scream, but she didn’t show a single glimpse of fear when I got in her face. ”
“What do you mean you slammed your fist close to her face?” For some odd reason, my chest constricts at the image his words conjure.
I don’t like it one bit. Not the violence, that’s typical for my brother…
but that it was directed toward her, that for a split second, I wanted to slam my fist into him for exposing her to such behavior.
“She was underneath me in the boxing ring, I thought after we…she would tell me, but she didn’t. She was hiding yet again and I…reacted. She wouldn’t tell me and I…it just happened before I could reign it in.” His fingers pull at his hair. “Fuck! I didn’t mean to. But… Raf, I think she’s like us.”
Filling my lungs to the count of three and exhaling to the same steady count, I calm my mind. It does seem Lucy Sinclair has done something strange to my brother, whether that something is positive or negative is still unknown. “Speak clearly, Enzo. What do you mean like us?”
Gripping my whiskey glass to steady myself, I sip the bold liquid and let the burn soothe my mind. I clear my throat as some strange feeling inside my gut makes me question who Lucy Sinclair is.
She’s simply our doctor.
But the thought sours in my mind. The image of her in a ratty old T-shirt, the way she delicately cleansed my wounds, the barely there smirk I saw her try to hide. It doesn’t make sense, this growing feeling of savagery I find myself holding back at the idea of someone carving into her skin.
“I think she’s seen and experienced so much fucked up shit in her life that not even the devils scare her.”
My glass clinks against the wooden desk as I set it down, my fingers itching to rub at my palms. Fuck.
My mind creates images of Lucy, crying and screaming for someone to help her as a monster carves into her skin.
Pulling in air through my nose and pushing it out my mouth proves futile, the air in my lungs still heavy.
Why do these images of her elicit such a response in me?
It doesn’t make sense. Any violence toward innocence stirs strong feelings inside me.
That must be it, right? She’s merely another life I must protect.
But this wouldn’t be the first time my mind has lied to me.
I can’t breathe. I. Can’t. Breathe. I wake in a feverish sweat, my clothes covered in blood. Why is there so much? Rushing to the bathroom, I turn the water on and furiously scrub at the stains coating my white cotton shirt. Before I know it, my entire shirt is soaked, and I cry out.
The red hasn’t faded.
“Rafael?” Mother’s voice filters into my brain but it’s like she’s speaking through water. “Rafael. What are you doing, moya lyubov’?” She holds my face in a warm embrace.
“The blood, Mamma, I can’t get it out. I—I don’t know where it came from.”
She frantically looks over my chest, down my body. “Rafael, I don’t see any blood.”
“It’s right—” I go to point out the obvious bright red stain, but it’s gone. Only a sopping white T-shirt clings to my muscles. What is happening to me?
“I—It was there,” I whisper as she pulls me into her embrace.
“It’s okay. The mind is a dangerous place sometimes. You’re okay.”
Pulling away from her, I shake my head frantically. “I—how do I escape it?”
“Here.” She holds out her palm to me. “See those three lines? The heart,” she runs my fingertip over the faint crease closest to her fingers.
“The mind.” Next, the deep line running through the middle of her palm.
“And life.” Lastly, she runs my fingers over the crescent line around her thumb.
“When your mind is a storm, anchor yourself in these three places.”
My mind pulls itself from the memory as I faintly trace the three lines on my palm. Resolve and serenity finding me once again, calming the fire. If what Enzo says is true, and I have no reason to believe otherwise, then our doctor earned herself the protection of two devils she never asked for.