Chapter 51
Damien
I had to drag myself to this hangar, but I knew I didn't want to miss a single second of her end.
Years of dreaming, memorizing, planning it all so she'd pay for every piece of me and Berna she destroyed.
When I reach the door, I glance once more at the swarm of soldiers crawling through the space.
I have to admit—I'm impressed. My nephew came with a whole damn army.
Over the years, with Sarin's help, I'd managed to keep a line of communication open with him, and though I knew Marzena was planning something, I didn't have a date or a plan.
Sarin anticipated she'd strike and that our best weapon was Casimir, who could intercept her movements fastest. Even though he was an hour late—an hour Roxanne spent bleeding—it could've been worse.
I push open the door and look toward the only lit spot, where the two chairs Roxanne and I sat in still stand.
Marzena is strapped to one, a bandage wrapped around her leg where Cas shot her when he made his entrance.
It's a superficial wound, but for someone who's spent her whole life getting off on causing others pain, she doesn't know how to handle her own.
"You sure those legs are gonna hold you?" my nephew asks from where he leans against the wall.
I look at him, at the man he's become. Six foot five, broad shoulders, that black hoodie hanging off him, close-cropped hair. His eyes are green, and for the first time in seventeen years, I step close and pull him into my arms.
His body goes rigid, but then he pats my back lightly, and I smile.
He was eight when I left Warsaw, and the guilt of leaving him, just a kid, with this woman will eat at me for the rest of my life.
"I survived, Damien," he tells me, like he's reading my mind.
"Now it's time we actually live, Cas," I say back because I know neither of us has allowed ourselves that luxury, not with Marzena and her secrets hanging over us.
I turn toward my dear mother, who glares at us. Beads of sweat dot her forehead, and I have to admit, this is my favorite scent. Dust, cement, and her fear.
"I should've made sure to get rid of you the day you were born," she spits at Cas, who just stares at her with bored indifference. "You were, are, and always will be a mistake on this Earth."
That's when I step in.
Maybe Casimir doesn't feel emotions like the rest of us, but he's smart. He understands them conceptually, and even if he can't experience them, I won't let her do to him what she did to Berna and me.
"For someone who's gonna need to regrow layers of skin just so I can peel them off again, you talk way too much," I tell her.
"You really think you'll do it? You still haven't figured out that you're too weak. All you ever wanted was love. A little affection, a few feelings. You'll put a bullet in my head in less than an hour."
I look at her.
Because she's right about what I wanted.
Her love. Her approval. That's why I learned to hold a blade.
For the appreciation in her eyes, I memorized every layer of skin and muscle in the human body.
For a single stroke of her hand moving hair from the left side of my forehead to the right, I drove the first blade into a soldier who'd failed her.
Only to realize in the end that I'd been waiting for her to slip me some of her love when she was actually empty of it.
I reach for the blade at my back and lift it, running my finger lightly along the edge.
"Was it worth it?" I ask her.
She knows what I'm talking about. All the pain, all the blood, all the humiliation I endured so she could collect the necessary secrets.
So she could taste from the chalice of power that was never in her hands and never would be.
Not all the secrets, not all the blackmail would've brought her the crown.
The Council would've preferred to dismantle the organization rather than put a woman in charge, but they let her believe she had a shot. They manipulated her to this point.
"Every single moment," she answers with a smile.
"You know how I grew up, Damien? With two older brothers who passed me around to their friends so we could scrape together some cash.
That's when I saw what it meant to have power, to decide, to be the one laughing instead of the one begging.
When I met your father, I thought he felt the same.
The same thirst to stop groveling at others' feet.
But no. Our money, our status, their votes going to you—it's all because of me. "
But at what cost? I want to ask, though I already know she won't care. For her, all the evil is justified.
When I'm just inches from her, I bend down—even though my legs scream they're about to give—just to be at her level.
"I'll make sure our wait is worth it too," I tell her.
"I want to be the one who sends her to the other side," Cas says from the corner, and I look at him.
He doesn't need to justify it. I see in his eyes the reason he wants this revenge: my sister's name is written in bold there.
Because she was the greatest victim. Years of abuse. Years of crying. Years where, little by little, she couldn't scream anymore. Couldn't hope.
When I was seven, I remember finding her one night crying.
She cried so quietly, only her body trembled, and I went over and wrapped my arms around her.
All she whispered was, "Everything hurts," and I didn't know what to do except put my hands around her and hold on, terrified she might shatter right before my eyes.
I yank up her shirtsleeve to expose her forearm, and though she tries to fight, she has zero chance of escaping my grip.
"If I were you, I'd stay still. I've had a long day, and my hand's shaking a bit too much," I tell her, flashing a fake smile.
"When I don't return to Warsaw tomorrow, all the secrets, all the information will end up in the hands of people who'll make sure you're hanged by your own Council," she says with a triumphant smile.
Because that's how she stayed alive. With so much information, the Council forbade me from taking any action against her, just so certain things wouldn't come to light. With one condition: I couldn't be the one to attack. But since she came here, no one will expect her to be forgiven.
“Jan's dead. Your files are stored somewhere safe," Cas says from behind me, and I turn toward him too.
What the hell is he talking about?
"Excuse me?" she asks, but her voice is weak.
Jan was her right hand. The man who found connections and helped her plan each victim. I think he was also her lover, but I didn't bother looking into it.
I watch as she realizes her only card has disappeared, but I still don't like that I didn't know this detail. Cas is going to have some explaining to do. Then I remember what she said to Roxanne, and pointing the blade at her chin, I bring her gaze to mine.
"Who is The Bloody Dahlia?"
A crooked smile takes over her face, and I know she'll do what she's always done—sell her secrets for power. Except this information is just a bonus, not her salvation.
"Let me go and I'll tell you," she says, and now it's my turn to smile.
"I'm going to cut your Achilles tendon, then work my way up to every ligament in your knee. I'll peel the skin off your face piece by piece and attach them to your body. I'll make sure you're conscious. Don't test my patience, Mother."
For a few seconds she just studies me, and I could swear it's on the tip of her tongue, but at the last moment her stubbornness wins and she turns her head away, drawing her own scratch with my blade.
So be it then. And I let years of training do their work.
While her screams echo through the hangar and her skin falls onto the cement, I think of Berna, of Roxanne, of Cas, of me. Of Sarin's hollow eyes. Of all her victims who didn't deserve the fate they received.
The process is so mechanical—I've done it countless times before—that I don't need to pay much attention to how deep I insert the blade or how much I cut.
Casimir approaches with a rag in his hand, and opening her mouth, he shoves the cloth down her throat.
"For my mother, who hasn't had a voice for thirty years," he says through clenched teeth, and I have to swallow the lump in my throat.
Berna has gone entire months without uttering a word, barely eating and drinking just enough water to survive.
And even though my sister doesn't seem to register my nephew's existence, I know that somewhere, buried deep in her soul, is the love she holds for him.
He's the reason she never put a noose around her neck or slit her wrists in a bathtub.
After I finish cutting, I collect all the pieces of skin and slowly attach them to her neck and face.
"LET ME GO!" I hear the muffled words through the rag, and I smile.
I move closer to her, pull the cloth from her mouth, and turn my ear toward her.
"Say it again."
"LET ME GO!" she screams and tries with her last strength to thrash.
My eyes fall on the tray where I've placed the pieces of skin I cut from her, and I see there's exactly one left.
Damn, I missed one.
I pick it up and have to suppress a shiver at its texture. I grab her cheeks, forcing her mouth open, then shove the piece of flesh down her throat. I clamp her mouth shut, and her eyes widen until they're about to pop from their sockets.
"I was ten when you forced me to swallow a piece of skin.
It belonged to a soldier who'd dared to intervene for Berna when one of your associates wanted to hurt her.
That man intervened for your daughter, and you decided he deserved to die.
I vomited for three days straight until Vasili stole an IV from a pharmacy and, without knowing what he was doing, saved me. "
I watch her throat contract as she swallows the piece of flesh, and then her whole body enters a series of convulsions.
Her head drops to one side from the effort of trying to break free and from all the blood she's lost, so I step back. I don't want to rush this.
"Leave her here for a few days with just an IV for hydration and some food. I'm not done cutting."
I look to Cas, who nods slightly, and then I find myself asking, "Where did you get this whole army of men?"
For a few seconds he looks at me, then exhales.
"From my biological uncle. And before you ask—no, I'm not telling you who he is."
"Cas, that man—"
"He's not the one who raped her. Berna's with him now. She went with him willingly, but I don't know all the details. I know she's okay; I see her on video calls every day when I check in."
I look at him, and I don't think he realizes how much emotion is in his voice.
"She smiled," he whispers with his head down.
My eyes widen instantly, and I step closer.
"On a call two days ago. She was in the garden at sunset, and she smiled. Faint, but damn it, Damien, it's the first time I've ever seen my mother smile. So she's staying there until she gets better."
My eyes are wet because I understand what this means for my sister and for him, but I don't know if Berna will ever truly get better. Whoever this man is whom she's with now, I hope to God—for the sake of his kidneys and liver—that he's taking care of her like a precious jewel.
"I'll be back tomorrow," I tell him because I'm about to collapse any minute.
He nods slightly but doesn't leave the hangar.
When I reach the door, I turn back toward him and watch as he stares at Marzena.
We were told since he was little that emotions would be impossible for him to manage, but I know that gleam in his eyes.
It's the satisfaction when someone who hurt you pays.
The satisfaction that you're the one causing damage now.
And that's one hell of a feeling for someone who, in theory, feels nothing.