Page 64 of The Killer Card

“Mierda…”

A sharp knock at the bathroom door makes me jump, but I crack it open, more afraid of making them wait. Thankfully, it’s only Kira. She looks me over quickly, her concern ebbing the less blood she finds on my person.

“You’re not hurt?” I shake my head and she holds out a plate of steak and potatoes. “Eat before you shower. Take your time.” My brow furrows but she holds out her hand. “Give me your suit. I’ll have it taken to the cleaners with tomorrow’s pickup.”

I quickly take off the pants- making sure to keep the knife hidden behind my back- handing her the stained shirt and jacket. “Gracias…”

She gives me a chiding look before shaking her head. “Do not listen to those hyenas,” she tells me gently. Reaching out she wipes a stain I must have missed from my cheek. “They will eat you alive if you let them. Do not let them.”

I nod once and she clicks her tongue at the state of me again. “You deserve so much better.” Then, shaking her head- dark curls bouncing around her shoulders- she turns to leave, still muttering under her breath.

I wait until she’s out of view, then close the bathroom door and stare down at the knife in my hand. It’s not too big but has decent weight. Flicking the blade out, I test the edge against my thumb. A bead of blood leaks out, but I hardly feel the familiar sting.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, I rip into the steak with my teeth. I put dull, persistent pressure on the tip of the knife, hoping to feel something other than the cold that’s beginning to seep into my bones.

This is what I have to do sometimes, when the day has been real shit- which most of them tend to be. A little controlled pain is sometimes just enough to make the other aches fade away. And sometimes, like today, I need it to remind myself to feel something. I have to turn it all off when Grandfather makes me do jobs for him. I never know what to expect- pain, fear, disgust- so I just shut down everything. And every second my thumb is on the knife by body is screaming at my brain- turn back on! Feel something! Stop! Stop! STOP!

Tonight, my thumb continues to bleed, and I continue to feel nothing.

✽✽✽

There’s a woman sitting on my bed when I make it up to my room. I recognize her from my grandfather’s dinner early tonight. Pretty, tall, dark hair and pale skin. She looks to be about thirty-five, certainly hasn’t had enough work done to be in her forties but maybe she just ages well? She’s smoking a cigarette, flicking through an old comic book, but when I enter she looks up, letting her eyes wander appreciatively over my naked chest.

“Mmm,” she takes an elegant drag, releasing smoke as she bites her lip. “Andrei is wrong about you.” She says in broken English.

“Is he?” I mutter scornfully, glad now that my nervous system remains shut down. I wrapped my thumb- it’s definitely broken anyway- staunching the wound I made and stabilizing the bone. “How?”

She grins like a feral cat. “You are not puppy,” she takes another inhale of smoke, then holds the cigarette out to me. I take it, knowing when I do that it will free her fingers to glide down my abdomen to the towel slung low on my hips. “You are wolf. Or perhaps mighty panther.”

I snort, placing the cigarette between my lips and inhaling deeply. “You’re funnier than his other associates.”

Chuckling, she shakes her hand, her fingers still skimming across my abs, making my skin prickle. “I’m not associate.” When my brow furrows, smoke clouding around her smiling face, she shrugs. “Your sister will marry my brother.”

I blink several times, letting her take back her cigarette as she watches me from beneath thick, fake lashes.

Sonya is getting married? When was this decided?

It’s not like I never expected it to happen. Sonya is a woman, which in our grandfather’s line of work, means very little outside of marriage prospects. She’s too pretty and demure to be sent out in the field. She’s never been trained to handle a weapon. No one would ever dare lay a hand on her. She has a security detail everywhere she goes. I’m not at all surprised she’s going to be married off, probably to that guy who was sitting too close to her at dinner. From the accent of the woman feeling me up, he’s Italian, and looks about fifteen years too old for my twenty-year-old sister.

An unfamiliar rage bubbles in my gut. I wrench myself away from this stranger and her touch, turning toward my dresser. “Leave,” I tell her in Italian, proven correct in my assumption when she audibly scoffs, and then laughs.

The glare I turn on her is lethal, but despite her compliments, I obviously am still a puppy. Because she pats my cheek, blowing smoke in my face when in Italian she says, “Not a chance, little roach.” A hiss escapes through my teeth when she puts out the cigarette against my chest. “I already paid for you. I plan to get my fill.”

As I let her unfurl the towel from my waist, I idly wonder what she paid. I always do. This isn’t the first woman I’ve found waiting in my bedroom, and she won’t be the last. It’s just another one of my responsibilities, another line item on the list of ways I’m paying off the debt of my existence. Of course, I’ve asked several of the other women- all associated with my grandfather in some manner of speaking, all wealthy, all dangerous- but the number is always different. I think he charges for my services based upon the whims of the client.

At fifteen- the first of these occurrences- I was so horrified, Kira had found me curled up in the shower the next morning. She’d taken me to the kitchens, made me cinnamon oatmeal and told me gently how I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do. Andrei had walked in during this moment of comfort and laughed at me. He thought I should be grateful a woman as beautiful as that first had wanted to touch me at all. The second time it had happened, I did my best not to end up sobbing and by the third I had done a little… Research?

Okay, I stole my some of the dirty books from Kira’s room. But reading them had helped immensely because I managed to not only impress the woman, but I did it without ending up sobbing in the shower. By the fifth I learned to turn off all emotion to the matter entirely and just be what they expected. Then, when they were gone, I’d allow myself long stretches of time in which I’d focus my mind on other, more uncomfortable feelings.

Not every session, as I’ve taken to referring to them, is the same. Sometimes they want me in control, shoving them down and doing or saying unspeakable things to them. Others want to do unspeakable, downright filthy things to me and I find I like those evenings best.

There’s something about these nights that I find hard to explain. It’s like my mind just kind of… Turns off? Without me actually having to do the work to make it do so I end up in what I can only describe as a fugue state. Unburdened. Untethered. I am free when I relinquish control to them. I still don’t enjoy the acts committed against me, it’s a violation of the worst kind, but I have learned to bear it. I have learned to survive it at the very least.

“Until next time, little wolf.”

I don’t look at her as she leaves- I never do- reaching for the cigarette she left burning in the ashtray on the bedside table. I take a long drag as the stairs creak, releasing it with the click of the door. Then I close my eyes and slowly, press the burning tip of the cigarette into the new, raw scar just over my heart.

2 Days Before the Wedding