Chapter 15 #2
For her, I would. For her, I would rather burn the world down than live with the fact that I did not prevent them from hurting her.
“Anything else you would like to add?” My voice shifts, unrecognizable, low, so low I barely recognize it.
“Cole sends his greetings.”
“Wonderful,” I say flatly, standing and grabbing the screwdriver.
“I would have made it quicker if you had cooperated, but you had to choose this road, so…” I shrug, crack my neck, and murmur in his ear, “Keep a warm seat in hell for me, huh? I’ll send you Cole in a few days.
” And myself too, when my day comes, for this is now the day I break the vow I made to myself.
I will do better tomorrow.
I am so sorry, Ella.
I wish it were all sunshine and rainbows.
I wish I never had to do this, but sometimes we have to do the right thing even when it is wrong.
Then, without letting him answer, I pierce the side of his throat with the metallic tool, blood jutting everywhere, making sounds only butchers know the melody of.
Nonsensical syllables jerk out of him, his body spasming as his carotid frees his blood to meet the cold concrete.
Would Ella approve? I would rather not even think about that.
She told me she would rather not know, as long as I keep her safe, so I guess not.
Exiting, I do not look back, as if death were a disease I could catch with one glance.
Standing with one foot on the wall, Paxos, dressed in full black and owning the kind of face that only promises trouble, aquiline nose, hands in his pockets, asks, “Did he talk?” I shake my head, my shirt covered in blood, my hands dripping wet and red, so red.
“We’ll need others. As many men as you can find. Sooner or later, one of them will break.”
“What happens next, then?” Ignoring his question, I drift away, wiping my hands as if it could wash the blood away.
“Do you play chess?”
“Nope. Why, boss?”
“When a man thinks he’s setting a trap,” I explain, “he starts seeing the board the way he wants it to be. Every move confirms it. Every piece falls into place exactly how he planned. It’s called a confirmation bias."
Paxos frowns as the combination of moves plays in my head on an invisible chessboard, life-size. Cole is waiting. He is waiting for a mistake, a misstep, a moment of vulnerability, an action pointing at my Achilles’ heel.
My family and Ella.
The first is more guarded than a fortress.
The second is vulnerable, a target easy to spot and steal.
Sweat gathers on my nape as I see Ella folded into a corner of Cole’s basement, clothes torn. Never mind the ball. It is a luxury we cannot longer afford.
Ella needs to stay locked into her usual schedule, or risks being noticed by her stepmother and used as a pawn against me.
Six a.m. She must be still sleeping in the exact position I left her, quietly breathing under her sheet, her perfume permeating the air, holding me hostage to her spell.
I hope she will understand and forgive me for going back on my promise of giving her a night she dreamed of.
There will be many more, and I will make sure to show her everything she has ever dreamed of.
I rush into the darkness of the hallway, leaving Paxos there to deal with the remnants of my wrath.
My lungs close on me, and I tug at the collar of my shirt.
Why is it so hard to breathe? Killing for the first time, although easy, will always be, I am afraid, unnatural to me.
Ella’s face burns behind my pupils, and I blink her away.
I need to add security, men on her street making sure no one follows her or tries to break in.
Right. That is the right thing to do. I press my eyelids with my fingers, pain whispering behind my brows.
Sleep. I need to sleep, an ice pack over my forehead and tomorrow, tomorrow I will make a new plan.
No one can stand between her and me, and I will make sure of it.
A shadow of threats falls above her without her knowing, and I stand as the sole responsible for all those arrows pointed at her.
It is my duty to protect her from my enemies, to keep her safe.
But I cannot stop a voice from murmuring to me.
What if I fail to do so?
Ella
Unfolding my hands, tulips expand in the vases; the crystal is too high, made for Mara’s large and grandiose bouquets.
These ones were cut from the garden, since I have neither money nor the opportunity to find a florist. Besides, Dad never really cared for flowers.
It was Mom’s thing. She would make the most beautiful bouquets with flowers from the supermarket, display them on the kitchen counter, and make up a bouquet of her own, like a painter.
“Ella,” Dad’s faint voice calls for me, and I turn, his index finger pointing at the TV.
Oh, right. I forgot to turn it off when I walked in.
“Are you sure? It’s your favorite,” I sign, knowing this Latin soap opera is a highlight of his day. It is eight a.m. I came in after breakfast, just before starting on my chores.
“You’re the best part of my…day, honey, please,” he says, but his voice cracks, and I cannot help but notice the pale shade of his skin.
Turning off the TV, I sit next to him, the window above the tulips casting light on our tragedy as if we were the protagonists of the TV show, playing a heartfelt scene. If only.
“Dad, how have you been feeling lately?” I sign before the back of my hand rests on his forehead, the warmth nonexistent. Fever is scary, but the opposite is even worse.
“One of those days, Ella, one of those days,” he repeats, wincing, putting on a brave face despite the obvious situation.
“I…” I say it silently. Where can I start? How can I ask him what Tristan and I discussed yesterday? Could it harm him more than he already is? I did not think about that, but now, in the light of day, frail and weak, Dad does not seem like someone who could handle bad news.
“What is it, love?”
“I don’t even know where to start.”
“Just…take your time. Time isn’t an issue.” It is, Dad. It truly is.
“Things with Mara and the girls aren’t exactly going well and…I’m starting to think that she might have something to do with your current state. Did she… Did she administer something to you? A drug? A painkiller of some sort?”
“No, no. Mara is kind and loving… She would never do such a thing. Just this morning, before you came, she was here and…so nice, so kind… All she does is be kind and help me with paperwork.”
“Paperwork?” My alarms are on. Dad hasn’t been working for years; there’s no logical reason he should be signing anything.
“Oh, nothing you should worry about, Ella. Business things, banking access, that sort of thing.”
“Dad, I think…”
“Ella, don’t see evil where it isn’t. She’s family. We are a family.”
“But…”
“Sssh,” he breathes, leaning back into his pillow, closing his eyes.
“I’m going to…nap a little.” And without giving me enough time to talk to him about moving into a flat downtown, Dad is already asleep.
How? He never does that. Not in the middle of a conversation.
Something is going on, and I have an awful intuition it has to do with Mara.
My dad is too weak to see her real side, so I will have to protect him myself.
I will carry him on my back if necessary.
The rings of a bell chime from the kitchen.
A jolt rides up my nerves. Time and time again, I have heard it.
The bell. My bell. Shiny and golden, Mara found it in an antique shop, once used by nobles to call their servants, now used whenever she pleases to call me, since the house is too spacious according to her.
My fingers find my necklace, and I would like to think that I’m holding my mom’s hand right now.
Kissing Dad on the forehead, I make my way to the door before stopping midway.
Mara is used to people doing everything for her.
Surely, if she were to tamper with Dad’s meds, she would leave a trace.
Crouching, I scan the floor. Nothing under the dresser, nor the bedside table, and the…
Gotcha.
An empty syringe, with no label, waits under the bed, probably pushed there with the back of her cream stilettos at an inopportune moment.
Or perhaps I am imagining things. Grabbing the plastic tube, I turn it over.
There is still something inside. Not much.
Just a thin film clinging to the plastic, catching the light when I tilt it.
Blue translucent liquid shines inside the tube.
My stomach twists. I know all of Dad’s meds.
Because I am the one here for every appointment.
I know the dosage and how often he takes them.
I know his meds. I have organized them, counted them, watched the nurse explain every single one and warn me about the risk of overdose.
Labels, dates, instructions. This… This one is not part of the doctor’s approved list.
I stand, looking over at my dad resting under the white sheet, the fabric unmoving, still perfectly tucked due to his absence of movement. He exhales, long and slow, as if the air is being pulled out of him instead of given.
It’s okay. You’re okay. He’s just sleeping, look. He’s breathing. But for how long? a voice inside me whispers.