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Dr. Tracy assured me that things would balance out in another few weeks, and I’d start feeling that elusive pregnancy glow, but right now I just feel terrible. It doesn’t help that I’m trapped in a van while Ivan gets to do all the exciting stuff.
I place my hand on my belly, rubbing it as I imagine what the triplets will be like. I suppose I’d better get used to staying home, because it’s not like I’m going to be able to go on any crazy adventures when they’re babies. They’ll need me, and I’m not going to abandon or neglect them.
My parents often left me home alone, and they didn’t care much for my needs as a child. I won’t be putting my precious triplets through that same treatment. I’m determined to be a good mother for them.
A bit of guilt creeps into my mind as I realize I was too quick to defy Ivan when he said it wasn’t safe. Not only was it a mistake to challenge him when he obviously knows best in these situations, but I also wouldn’t put our children in danger.
He was right, though it’s too late to tell him now. He’s already gone, and I’ll just have to wait for his return to tell him that I’m sorry.
Until then, I’m forced to sit here in silence, considering what my future is going to be like once everything comes together. I have confidence that Project G will be recovered, and after that we should have more free time to spend together. Sure, the first few months might be a bit more taxing, but once the triplets are born, I’m sure we’ll both shift our focus to them.
I can’t wait to see what kind of father Ivan will be. His arms are strong enough to hold all three of our children high in the air, and his legs are powerful enough to walk with them wrapped around his ankles.
I think a man has to be as fit as Ivan is to handle that many toddlers all at once. Anyone else wouldn’t be able to keep up, and that includes me! I can’t imagine doing something like this without him.
My mind is stuck on how great Ivan is, even as I hear shouting from inside Carson’s house. As long as there aren’t any gunshots, I know things haven’t gone sour. Besides, with as many men as Ivan brought to this surprise visit, I’m surprised Carson even had the opportunity to scream before he was gagged and subjected to their methods of persuasion.
While I don’t especially like the idea of torturing another human being, no matter how wicked they are, I understand that a lot hangs in the balance, and it’s not always possible to take the pacifist’s way out.
And so, as the time ticks by and the night grows colder, all I can do is wait. I’m lost in my thoughts, drifting in and out of reason mixed with a healthy dose of fantasy. I have faith in Ivan, but the future isn’t quite as clear as it used to be.
The unknown dwells on the horizon like a cloud threatening to cover the sun.
And I’m just a little flower, praying my only hope for survival doesn’t vanish forever.
30
Ivan
I don’t enjoy getting my hands dirty like this anyway. When I was younger, I used to revel in cruelty, but now I’m disgusted that I even have to get close to people like Carson.
“You can make this easy for yourself and everyone in this room if you just comply,” I say, standing in front of him with three people to either side of me. We’re in his basement, a dingy little place with only one light hanging from the ceiling.
Carson shakes his head, unable to speak because of the dirty rag we stuffed in his mouth. He tried to bite one of my men when he did it, and he was backhanded so hard I was almost certain we had killed him.
But he’s awake again, and not as easy to crack as we first assumed. The Red Hitters must have a strong hold on him, preventing him from speaking freely without fearing for his life or possibly the lives of people he cares for.
But he hasn’t experienced a Bratva interrogation. We don’t stop until we get the truth, and we don’t let people go as a reward. Their reward is death, and by the time we get finished with them, they’re begging for it.
“Carson,” I say, stepping closer to him. I can smell the fear clinging to his skin, a mix of sweat, body odor, and something sour. Scared people always stink, and I want to cut his throat just to replace the stench with blood.
Carson is trembling, but there’s not much he can do to soothe himself when he’s hanging from the ceiling by his wrists. I don’t know why he’s trying to draw this out. It’s not going to change anything for him.
“You’re going to give us the location that the Red Hitters use for their meetings,” I say, grabbing his face and forcing him to look into my eyes. “If you don’t, I’m going to pry it out of your head after I cut your fucking skull open.”
I see fear in his eyes, but he’s still not screaming through the rag in his mouth for mercy.
I turn to one of my men, holding out my hand. “Find anything useful in the kitchen?” I ask.
He smirks, laying a butcher knife in my palm. My fingers curl around the wooden handle, and I turn back to Carson with a grin. “Have you considered what a lobotomy would do to your willingness to talk?”
He shakes his head, trying to pull back from me.
“I think we’re just going to skip the interrogation, actually. Let’s get to the fun part,” I growl, grabbing his head and pressing the blade into his forehead.
I’m not just doing this to scare him without doing any harm. I fully intend to kill him in the process, but he must be alive long enough to tell us what we want to know.
I slice into his forehead, cutting a line across his skin until I feel the blade connect with his skull. I’m not going to be able to saw through it with a butcher knife because it lacks serration, but I want him to believe I’m doing it. He’ll be able to feel the blade scraping against his bone.
