Chapter Thirty
Graham
The clip Grandfather gave me only held two bullets.
That’s how easy he’d expected the job to be.
Two bullets, a quick job. Now those two bullets resided in Andrei’s shoulder and my grandfather’s brain, respectively.
So, when I pulled the trigger, finally hoping to end it- all the misery and pain that had become my wretched life- there was nothing but a disappointing click.
Kira is at my side before I can even lower the weapon, ripping it from my hand and tossing it across the room.
She cups my face, looks at the bruising around my neck, the teeth marks on my back, the blood drying on my skin and she pulls me into a hug so fierce I break down into gut wrenching sobs.
She holds me in her arms for so long we lose track of time and place.
She holds me until Sonya starts screaming, until there are red and blue lights outside the windows and cops breaking down the door.
A neighbor had called the cops when they heard the gunshots. Kira holds me while they search the house and tries to hold on as they take all of us into custody, even Sonya.
Down at the station the two security guards who lived on the premises tell the cops it was me- that I’d apparently been plotting to murder my grandfather for months- and I’m booked as a juvenile, mugshot and all.
The staff admit everything they know, and the police believe them when they say they only worked in the house and had nothing to do with the drugs or the trafficking or the weapons.
They believe Sonya was a victim despite there not being a scratch on her, and eventually- after several long interviews with Kira and the paramedics and a social worker- they finally believe that the murders I committed tonight were in self-defense.
The state of me helps that argument easily.
The paramedics assess the cuts on my body gently and then a social worker is speaking to Kira- who is released following her own testimony against her employer- regarding my parents and my sister and where I’m supposed to go still weeks away from turning eighteen.
Kira offers to keep me but because she’s not my blood, was just arrested at the scene of my crime, and has questionable legal status the social worker tells it’s unlikely the state will allow her to take me in.
She was brought here on a special visa twenty-five years ago, which expired within a year.
No one ever looked into it because my grandfather was very good at making certain people not exist. I’m hyper aware that the only reason that’s been discovered is because of me and my actions tonight.
When Sonya- who is already twenty-one- is asked to take me, she profusely refuses.
“I will have nothing to do with him! He’s taken everything from me!
Can you not see all that I have lost?! I am twenty-one I cannot take care of him!
He is troubled!” No one understands her Russian, but Kira politely translates that the answer is a firm no.
It’s hours- maybe even days- before the scene at the house is cleared and I’m being let out of a cell and put into the back of an SUV.
My cuts are clean and bandaged and a fresh shirt on my back.
Sonya is also released being led away from me to another vehicle, and not by a public officer.
A private car arrives for her, and my pulse rockets when I realize who might have sent it.
Pulling away from the social worker I reach for her arm. She pulls away with a disgusted sneer.
“Don’t touch me—”
“Don’t marry him,” I warn her. My eyes are wide, pleading, and she must see it because she doesn’t walk away. “Please, Yaya… Anyone but him…”
She looks me over, her gaze catching on the bandage on my neck. Her throat works to swallow, her jaw tight. Finally, she says, “I believe you have ruined that prospect for me anyway. God only knows where I will end up now.”
Then she leaves, and I’m taken to a boys’ home for the next six weeks while they wait for me to turn eighteen. It’s the last time I see my sister for over twenty years.
I see Kira one last time before she returns to her family in Serbia.
She leaves me an envelope of cash to get by once I’m on my own, but more importantly she gives me my father’s name- Graham Alejandro Rosales.
His family is still in Venezuela, and eventually I’ll reach out to my aunt and get to know them.
But for now, I hold onto his name, keep it close to my heart, and intend to take it the first legal chance I get.
I’ll change all of it, I’ll leave my old life behind and become something better.
Someone worth dying for.
I end up back in jail six months later and spend a year in prison for dealing narcotics.
It’s my first offense as an adult- my fourth overall- and I’m let out on good behavior, but any hopes of getting a respectable job, of being better than I was shaped to be in that house, are gone the moment those cuffs lock around my wrists.
???
I meet Elias Santos and Rowan De La Torre when I crash a club after one of Elias’ shows.
He’s not insanely famous yet but well known already amongst the Latin community.
He’s good from what I got to see of the show, but I didn’t crash the party expecting to meet him.
I certainly didn’t expect for him to invite me to drink with him or for him to…
. Want to get to know me? No one ever wants to get to know me, kind of comes with the disheveled homeless thing.
Except Elias genuinely seems interested when he asks, “So where are you from, Graham?”
I haven’t been able to officially change my name yet, the legal system and I don’t exactly see eye to eye, but it’s my father’s name I give out now when I introduce myself.
I take a long drink from my beer and tell them, “Right here in New York.”
Elias laughs. “No shit,” he nudges Rowan who has watched me like a hawk since we left the bar for the VIP section. “We’re from Washington Heights. Where are you from?”
Shrugging, I take another sip of my beer. “The city.”
Rowan’s glare becomes more prominent. “Which part of the city?”
He doesn’t trust me, and that’s valid. I’m pretty fucking shady compared the people he normally surrounds himself with, being a military man and all. Doesn’t mean I have any desire to make him feel better or like me or whatever. I stopped giving a fuck who liked me years ago.
Meeting his eyes, I wait what I can tell is an annoyingly long time to him before admitting, “The Upper East Side.”
Military man snorts, shaking his head. “No fucking way.” Eli frowns at his cousin. “This guy is such a liar, Eli. No way you,” he gestures to me. “Are from the Upper East Side.”
I set my beer down on the table between us, reaching into my back pocket for my wallet.
From the hidden inner pocket, I take out my I.D.
- the real one I got at sixteen with my old address- handing it over.
Rowan snatches it from me, reading the address, looking between the picture and me, checking my birthday, and then my name.
Slowly he raises his hazel eyes back to me, narrowed further with suspicion.
I take another sip of my beer as Rowan passes my license to Elias, who’s brow narrows more in concern than betrayal as he looks over all the information.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Can you not read, camo pants?”
Eli snorts but hides it behind his drink when Rowan shoots him a glare. The soldier turns back to me. “Grigory Lucas Antonov? A Russian who speaks perfect Spanish, has an elite address on Central Park but looks like his last meal was out of a dumpster. Who also gave us a fake name—”
“It’s not fake,” I snap. I take back my license from Elias, tucking it away in its hidden pocket again. “I’m in the process of getting it changed. Parlo anche italiano, se questo ha qualche valore per te.”
Elias blinks several times. “And Russian—”
“Конечно, я говорю по-русски,” I say in my native tongue. Switching back to Spanish I add, “My jaw line and sparkling personality does not make it obvious?”
Eli let’s out a clearly uncomfortable chuckle, “So what? Were you part of the Russian mob or something?” He laughs again, looking at Rowan who is watching me closely. Neither of us join him and slowly his laughter dies. “Cono…”
Looking around at the security detail for the club, Elias leans in to mutter, “Are you like, wanted or something?”
His concern is adorable, but I shake my head, assuring him, “Trust me, I was no one important.”
His brow furrows. “You’re a little young to be ex-mafia….”
“I grew up in it,” I tell him. “I didn’t join willingly or anything like that. It was a family business. I did a lot of work for my Grandfather.”
“And,” Rowan interjects. “He won’t be looking for you? Where is he now?”
I look him right in his sharp hazel eyes, lifting the beer to my lips as I say the word, “Dead.”
By the way he looks at me, I can tell Rowan knows I had something to do with it.
Elias is not as perceptive as his cousin, but I’m not going to wait for him to catch up to the conviction in my tone.
He seems like a really nice guy and maybe a little too trusting for his own good.
Best I end this before it goes any further or before Rowan decides to make the judgement call for him.
Finishing my beer, I set down the bottle and stand. Both of them follow my lead but I hold up my hands. “Look, it’s been nice chatting with you both, but I really need to run.”
Elias follows me out of the VIP area despite his cousin trying to keep hold of him. He leans in, glancing at his security quickly before asking, “Do you need a place to stay, Graham? We can get you a room at our hotel, it would be no trouble—”
“No,” I tell him too quickly. He blinks, brows knitting further. Cono, this is not what I needed tonight. Holding out my hand for him to shake, I say a bit more gently. “Thank you, Elias. But I can handle myself. It was nice meeting you. Good luck becoming a big shot. Your music is awesome.”