Keep(Romanian Mob Chronicles 1)(46)

“That mark on her arm, the one that you put there. She touches it sometimes. I don’t even think she realizes she’s doing it, but I see it. She touches it and then gets this look in her eye.”

“She did that herself! I fucking saved her…” He cut off on a deep cough, the blood he brought up dribbling out of his mouth and onto his chest. I ignored him though, instead focused on that vein, thought I could hear the blood rushing through it, felt my lungs squeeze tight with the excitement of the thought of opening it.

“You remember what you told her? That she could only die when you said so?”

He gurgled and said something indecipherable.

“Answer me!” I yelled.

“Yes,” he pushed out through swollen lips.

“That wasn’t true. You took from us, took from her, but she’s still here. Will be long after you’re not even a memory.”

I wrapped the pliers, now slick with David’s blood and my sweat around that vein. Then I clipped, watched as the blood gushed from the wound, fast at first and then slower, and then even slower until it was just a trickle.

He went limp and I waited. Watched the blood drip, drip, drip out of him.

A long time later, I left.



Vasile

“You drive,” I said to Sorin.

I was so exhausted I could barely move, but I felt something that approached peace. I’d never heal, would never forget, but he no longer breathed. And if I’d never given Fawn anything but suffering, at least I could say I’d given her that. Small, but maybe it would help me make amends for so profoundly failing her, failing both of them.

The ride home was a blur as was the walk up the stairs. I stripped and went straight to the second bathroom, not wanting to bring my filth to her. And then, more tired than I could ever recall being, I stumbled into the bedroom. She jolted and then turned to me. I stumbled and kneeled next to the bed, my head next to her. She reached out to me, and I clasped her hand in mine, feeling that rightness, relief, that I always did with her. It was different now, but it was there nonetheless, and I prayed that at least some of it would survive.

And then I slept.





Thirty-One





Fawn

Three Months Later



* * *



I took a deep breath and then knocked on the door. He’d told me I didn’t have to do that, but what he said and how I felt were seldom the same thing, not when his words welcomed me with open arms but his voice, his body, his ice-cold eyes told me to stay away.

He opened the door and stood in the entryway, looking down at me with a frown and question on his face. He seemed the same physically, imposing form, cold expression, but he was burdened now, changed, and even though I couldn’t imagine all the things he’d seen and done in his life, I could see that he was different, weighed upon.

I planned to do my part to lift at least some of that burden.

“I’m going to Esther’s,” I said.

“One of the men will take you. Stay as long as you want.”

He turned, but stopped when I spoke. “No, Vasile. I’m going and I’m staying.” He looked at me, seemed to notice for the first time the bag that I held in my hand. He focused on it and I saw a fleeting flash of regret across his face. But then his expression closed, and he shut down completely.

“It’s probably for the best. I’ll have someone watch the house.”

And then he again turned to walk away, but I stood rooted in my spot, frozen. I knew I was doing him a favor by removing myself, but to hear him so casual, almost relieved, broke what little was left of my heart.

My vision watered, and the room went blurry.

“You want this. Why are you crying?” he asked, sounding as if he was inquiring about the weather or some other mundane concern.

“Why wouldn’t I cry? There’s so much to cry about,” I said.

“Like what?” he said, voice flat.

Anger, burst through the pain, sharp and stinging.

“We almost lost her, Vasile! Our daughter, Maria. You remember her, don’t you? She’s in the hospital, but she’s coming here soon, back to what was supposed to be our home,” I said, voice hitching.

He visited her every day, but when we were inside these walls, he acted like I, like she didn’t exist. Had even emptied her nursery. “Just in case,” he’d said, like not having her stuff here meant I wouldn’t get attached, that he wouldn’t get attached. He’d shoved her into a box, tried to keep himself distant so it wouldn’t hurt as much if she didn’t make it. Seemed he was trying to do the same to me.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, voice harsh, icy eyes filled with pain.

“Too late.”

He had come back to me, and through watery eyes I could see the serious expression on his face, the anger that was the first sign of life that I had seen in him for months. As then I was grateful for even that, welcomed any sign that the person who had captured my heart might still, somewhere, exist.