51. Anastasia
ANASTASIA
April
Lost in a few files at work, I miss Sasha entering my office and dropping a shoebox in front of me. “Delivery.” She leaves as quickly and silently as she entered.
I glance up from my paperwork at the popular-brand shoebox with a single strip of tape sealing it shut. There definitely aren’t shoes inside, that I feel with absolute certainty.
When I drag the box closer, a foul odor hits my nostrils, sending a hand straight over my mouth and nose to prevent my gagging from resulting in something. Whatever’s inside is probably about to ruin my day, and with a bated breath filled with dread, I rip the tape off.
Red.
A lot of it.
A bag filled with red—the source of the smell. While a part of me wants to bolt, I lift it to inspect.
An organ.
Blyat.
It falls back into the box, and I slam the lid over the stench to start killing it off. I rush to the other side of the room, near the door, sucking in deep inhales until the scent of death fades. Whoever sent it is getting a bill for the professional cleaning this place needs.
The mystery of the box eventually draws me back to the desk. It’s an organ, but which one—do I really want to know, though?
“Why me?” I grumble aloud as I reopen the box. Distracted the first time by the very prominent item in it, I miss the black notebook beneath the container. I yank it out, shut the offending box for the final time, and return to the door, this time parting it a couple inches to let in fresher air.
A folded-up piece of paper is jammed into the middle of the book. When I tug it out, the notebook fall opens naturally, revealing the pages that have been opened and shut many times with years of writing.
Familiar writing.
Papa’s writing.
“What the fuck?”
I flip through the notebook, bypassing notes and ledgers about money coming in and out of his accounts—none of it overly interesting. Nothing to explain why this was delivered, who sent it, and why a body part was included.
I keep flipping, stopping on a page marked L with a list of dates and numbers jotted beside them. Dates I recognize as being when Papa threw Lev into prison and the length of each stay.
My finger scans them, counting the days until landing on a total. At the bottom, I return to the top to reread it as I envision the asshole sitting at a desk, gleefully recording all his hatred for his son. Did he even wait to get home after dropping Lev off before recording his treachery?
“Papa, you fucking psycho.”
If his ghost lingers, he better accept my mental middle finger to mean go away.
I read the list again before chilled fingers flip the page. If he’s recording Lev’s imprisonments, then it stands to reason he has something on me.
The book slips from my grip when landing on the page marked A—and the list of names that make me want to burn the book, then locate the ashes of Papa’s corpse, which we had the funeral home dispose of. With them, maybe I’ll find a way to reanimate him, all to burn him alive.
They’re names I’ve long stopped thinking about, in order to survive the hatred and trauma.
While Vanessa chased and hunted her ghost—the man Ursin sold her virginity to—I ran from mine.
Most of them are dead anyway, done by my hand, but the few Papa found more profit in blackmailing with his underage daughter rather than making them disappear are still around.
I’ve pretended their existence means nothing.
That, in order to not obsess over hunting them, chasing leads will get me nowhere.
Now, with the Bratva’s power behind me, removing them would be all too easy. But trauma is a funny thing. Dimitri’s situation really sold me on not following up with the remaining men. It’s easier to leave the nightmares behind me and focus on the present.
Everyone has different survival techniques, and that’s mine.
Every man, dead or alive, is named. Every single one Papa forced me into a room with.
It’s the five names of the men still breathing that grip my attention the longest. Each scenario rushes back, shattering what years of building safety nets had done to avoid reliving it.
The five men who raped me, so he could gain favour. Favour or blackmail he brought to Ursin and Ivan to prove his worth and loyalty.
Everyone won in those cases. Everyone but me.
A tear slips from my cheek, hitting the book and mingling with the smudge of blood on the corner of the page. I wonder which of the dead men it belongs to. After a moment, my muscles cooperate to shut it, closing that part of my life once more, and I focus on the paper jammed into the top.
The handwriting isn’t the same as what’s in the notebook.
I wronged you in so many ways by stealing vengeance that was yours.
It’s not the same, but maybe this will give some of it back.
You probably have your reasons for not hunting them already—because we both know you’re strong enough to—but in my opinion, they don’t deserve to breathe after harming you.
They’ve been living on undeserved mercy.
I planned on leaving all five to you, as is your right, but I couldn’t help myself. I figured you already hate me, so what’s one more reason if I got to avenge you, just once? This time, knowing what they’ve done—what was done to you, and with you on my mind.
Below are the addresses for the remaining four, for you to ultimately decide their fates. The power is in your hand.
Let them live, take them out yourself, or allow me to kill in your name (because it’ll be done if you let me). Make that choice.
N.
“That fucker.”
Vanessa eyes the book, note, and drying heart with amusement. Amusement that matches her husband’s roaring laughter. He snatches the note to skim it again. “It’s definitely Nero’s handwriting, that I’ll confirm.”
Vanessa crosses her arms over her chest, fighting her smirk. “It’s…sweet in a way.”
Zeno peeks into the box for the fourth time, his laughter fading into a twist of his lips. “Not sure what’s getting worse: his benders or sobriety.”
I jam a finger close to the disgusting organ. “Is he actually insane?”
“Probably.” Zeno shrugs, as if his friend’s mental instability isn’t a concern. “Two months ago, I’d have said no, but he’s different now. It explains why he flew back to the Cayman Islands the other day.”
He happened to find Papa’s book somehow. Something we didn’t even know existed. Following the thought, I grumble, “I didn’t even know Papa kept this. How did Nero know to look?” Was murdering my father not enough? He toured the place afterwards too?
“He made some correlation between paperwork and their age or something.” Zeno shuts the box, ending the now-faint but still abhorrent smell.
“He’s desperate and went on a sober rampage to do right by you.
He was gone for days and would barely respond to my texts.
” He flicks the edge of the box. “Guess this explains what took him so long.”
“Desperate for what?” I ask, a bit breathless from earlier because I know. He’s desperate for me to contact him and reply to his apology text. To find a reason to forgive his actions so that blame he spoke about having can end. Guilt over Zeno’s father turned into guilt towards me.
Vanessa watches me, as if dissecting my thoughts. “Are you still angry with him?”
“Of course, I am.” It comes out quicker than intended, a bite. “One dead rapist isn’t changing my feelings.”
“The whole thing’s ironic.” She tosses me the notebook and Nero’s message. “What do you plan on doing with it?”
“Same as always. I’m not bothering with the ghosts of my past.” Sliding the note inside the book’s cover, I tuck it close to my side as I debate where to store it. Maybe in a fireplace somewhere. Or in a garden on the other side of the world. Choices.
Vanessa hums, glancing at Zeno. “Have you spoken to him since?”
“Obviously not.” Not for lack of attempt or missing him even.
“Can we help with that? Bring him here, act as a mediator between you two or something?”
My head jerks. “Explain why the hell I’d want you to.”
“You once did the same for me. Did you or did you not lock us into a club so we can talk it out?”
“Sure, but you two were annoying.”
Her brow lifts. “And this isn’t?”
“You were moping. I’m…fine.”
“Try again, this time with conviction.”
Snarling, I grip the book tighter and whirl for the door. “Everything is fine, and I’m still pissed at him, and you can’t claim otherwise. Leave it alone, Van. I beg you.”
Neither of them stops me as I rush from the office and head down the hallway with no destination in mind. I stalk by Lev’s basement when the door opens and shuts, but I keep walking because I’m really not in the mood to deal with him right now.
Instead, a gentle voice calls my name, and I glance over my shoulder to find Serafina standing by the shut door, fiddling with the edge of her shirt. Her nervousness pulls me to a stop.
“Hey. You good?”
“I’m fine, but can we talk?” Her hands drop her shirt, smoothing out on her thighs as she takes a steady step forward.
I glance at the door and back. “Is my brother okay?”
“He’s good, just…” She licks her lips, peering up through her bangs. “Promise you won’t be mad at him, or me as the messenger? He wanted to have this conversation himself, but you know how hard it is for him.”
My stomach drops. It’s like they planned it all or something.
“Sera, I can’t—”
“It’s about Nero.” She rushes forward another two steps. “Lev feels you’re not as mad as you were months ago, or else you would have taken the fight to him. Instead, you’re refusing to talk to him. Do you know we all avoid mentioning his name, or else you leave the room?”
She’s lying. I don’t do that.
“Lev and Van sometimes say his name to gauge your reaction. We’re all worried, and but Van’s tried to talk to you before but you shut it down. Dimitri said he misses the old you.”
Anger licks down my spine. “You’re everyone’s messenger, huh? Draw the short straw or something?” My tone is harsher than I’ve ever used on her, causing her to flinch.
“I volunteered because they’re worried. They love you. All you do these days is work and dance and work some more. None of us see you anymore. Van claims the light has faded from your eyes. Says you’ve always had a special brightness, but around Nero, you were shining.”
My hand curls around the notebook. If they all sit around talking about me, planning this little intervention by sending the most harmless person in this house to pass along the sentiments, my family can die. None of them understand my anger like I do. Every claim Serafina makes is false.
“This is nothing,” I say instead of the many other things I wish to. “Everyone here is proof of living through pain, and Nero’s actions are no different. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
She stops my escape with a hand to my wrist and a question that shatters my resolve.
“Then why do you act like he’s died? Z texted us and told us about what he did.
” She nods to the book in hand. “I’ve known Nero for a long time.
He’s been Z’s best friend since before I was born, so he’s like a second brother to me.
Which is why I know this is his fucked-up way of trying to apologize. ”
By locating my enemies.
By donating to my cause.
By gifting me flowers.
At what point will my soul crack open enough to allow forgiveness to slip inside? Forgiveness doesn’t even feel possible.
Maybe that’s his endgame. To crack and shatter my soul, breaking through every other barrier formed over the past couple of months. Then, when I’m a ghost of my old self, and he’s taken everything, he assumes anger will have nothing to attach to, so I’ll forgive him. He’s cheating, essentially.
Without another word, I leave, gripping the notebook. Walking away is easier than facing the truth.