Translucent (23 page)

Unable to sit around and do nothing, I get back in my car and drive to the nearby suburb where she lives, my eyes studying the roadways throughout the entire drive, making sure she’s not broken down somewhere. Three hours later, I return home empty-handed and broken-spirited. I trudge up the stairs to my room, where I strip and lie in bed staring at the blank ceiling. Keeping my phone close to me, I eventually drift off into a restless sleep.

I arrive at my parents’ later than normal for Sunday morning brunch, surprised to see Easton’s car already there. I’ve barely slept a wink, and I still haven’t heard from Blake. Dragging myself through the familiar front door, the smell of Mom’s homemade cinnamon rolls doesn’t even excite me, and I physically stop and grimace when I hear Emerson’s fake laugh echoing through the house. I’d forgotten about inviting her over too.

Slowly, I make my way into the dining room, where the four of them are seated around the large oak table engaged in casual conversation. Mom lurches out of her chair the moment she sees me to give me a big hug.

“Madden, darling, we’re so glad you’re here. Oh my,” she comments as she gets closer, “it looks like both my boys had rough nights last night. First, Easton shows up with a knot on his forehead from a freak accident, and now you’re here, unshaven and with black circles under your eyes. You two both need some of Momma’s treatment today.”

I embrace her tightly, glowering at Easton over her shoulder, a look that doesn’t go unnoticed by our dad, who gives me a silent warning. “I’m just feeling a little under the weather,” I tell her. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Come sit down so I can feed you properly, and then you can go upstairs to your old room and take a nap,” she replies as we walk back to the table.

I slide onto the chair across the table from my brother and Emerson, still pissed off at him and not trusting her to try and molest me under the table.

“I appreciate the offer, Mom, but I’m almost thirty-five, not fifteen. I’ll go to my own home if I want to take a nap.”

“Oh, yes, that reminds me; your birthday is coming up soon,” she says with a wide smile, completely ignoring the part where I’m no longer a child. “Your father and I thought it’d be nice if we had a small, backyard get-together here in a couple of weeks. We’ll have it catered with whatever you’d like, have a small band play live music, and everyone can swim; it will be a great time.”

My dad finally chimes in. “Mom’s already sent out invitations, so I hope you’re free two weeks from today.”

As usual, I smile and nod, not wanting to upset my parents, even though the last thing on my mind right now is my fucking birthday or having a party. If I don’t find Blake today, I may lose my damn mind.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” I respond with a forced smile.

Conversation over brunch turns to Decker Enterprises, as Dad is curious about the new projects and the Diebold contract. Even though he doesn’t come into the office any longer, he likes to stay abridged with how things are going and any new ventures we take on. Easton talks about various deals as if he has any idea what’s really happening, with Emerson helping him each time he stumbles on his facts. I don’t even care enough to correct him; I’m too busy scarfing down the food and checking my phone every thirty seconds to see if Blake’s tried to call or texted. Mom tells me to stop working long enough for a meal, and I contemplate telling her I’m dating someone, but with the present company, I decide against it. Let them all think I’m working.

The minute I can politely escape my parents’ house, I do. The frustration of not knowing where she is consumes me. I told myself not to get emotional attached, but with her, that’s impossible, and if I’m honest with myself, I knew that from the first time I held her in my arms. I’m desperate to break through the darkness she cloaks herself in, to show her the light of freedom and happiness, the light I can provide her. Last night, she told me she was mine, but in reality, she owns me.

N
OT
ONE
TEAR
IS
SHED
the entire drive home from Madden’s house. I enter my apartment, turn my phone off and toss it on my nightstand, and go directly to bed, not even bothering to remove my clothes. My thoughts and feeling are so frazzled and chaotic that I don’t even know how to react. The day spent at the beach and pier with Madden was one of the best days I’ve ever had, and hands-down the best since I was a small child. Forgetting about all the bad shit that’s ever happened and the past I’m hiding from, I genuinely had the time of my life with him, something I’d hoped would be repeated again and again. Then, when we were together in his bed, I thought, “This is it. This is what I’ve been searching for. I want to give myself to him; I trust him.” In an instant, none of it mattered, everything changed.

One phone call.

Two words.

Russian mob.

Ish and I sat in silence, eating the dinner the way we did almost every night. I knew as soon as he finished eating, he’d leave again, and I only prayed he wouldn’t bring anyone home. A loud banging on the front door, followed by his father’s voice yelling his name startled us both.

“Go hide in the closet. Now,” he ordered as he jumped up and threw our plates of food away.

I sat there and stared at him, unsure of what was going on. “I said GO! Unless you want to die today, don’t make a fucking sound,” he growled fiercely, “and don’t come out until I come get you.”

Bolting from my chair to the closet, I crawled to the back far corner and hid behind some clothes as I waited for him to come get me. Little did I know, the conversation about to take place between Ish and his dad would open my eyes to so many things I’d been wondering.

“How’s my favorite bastard son?” Vincent’s booming voice carried through our apartment.

“I’m fine, Father. What did I do to deserve your presence at my home?” Ish replied.

The older Italian man laughed heartily. “Yes, I try to stay away from here and your little white bitch. Where is she anyway?”

“She’s at the grocery store. You really should give her a chance; she’s a good wife—she takes orders and doesn’t ask questions.”

“There are lots of Italian women who make good wives, Ismael. Don’t fucking start with me on this. You went against my direct orders and married her anyway. If you weren’t already doomed with a life of being nothing but an errand boy with your whore of a Brazilian mother, you certainly didn’t win any of the underbosses’ approval by marrying a non-Italian.”

“Father, I loved—”

Something shattered against the wall I was tucked up next to, which scared the shit out of me and caused me to flinch. Thankfully, I remained quiet and wasn’t discovered. “Shut your fucking mouth, boy. I don’t give a fuck about love, and I didn’t come here to talk about your old lady. We’ve got a serious problem, and I need you to take care of it. The Russians are moving in our territory in the south part of the city. They’re starting to pump a good deal of weapons and ammo into the smaller gangs—not to mention ungodly amounts snow—who are causing an issue during our runs.”

“How can I help?” Ish asked, eager to please his piece-of-shit dad.

“Our ears on the streets tell us tomorrow night Alexei Kabinov, the grandson of the infamous West Coast boss Anatoli Kabinov, will be delivering a shipment to a warehouse. Here’s the address. You can take two others with you, but you better not fuck this up. I’m giving you a chance to prove yourself to our capos.”

“Thank you so much, Father. I’m honored you’d give me this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

“Good, now I’ve got to get home for dinner.”

“I was just leaving as well. Let me walk you out.”

He never came home that night. It wasn’t until the following morning, when he returned to change for work that he found me in the closet. Acting like it wasn’t a big deal, he ordered me to go make him breakfast, because he had a big day ahead of him.

Ish killing Alexei that night had been the spark that finally ignited an all-out war for control of the illegal gun trade in Chicago between the Italians and Russians, a hatred that had ran deep for many generations, but was never acted on until Ish was ordered to do so. I used to pray at night someone in the Kabinov family would find and kill him. Unfortunately, they never did, so I helped them out nearly two years later.

I wake up sometime Sunday feeling like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck. My entire body is sore and aches with a dull pain; my left ankle and foot are completely numb, but nothing compares to the excruciating throbbing inside my head. My eyelids feel weighted, and with purposeful force, I open them ever-so-slightly into tiny slits. Blinding light floods my retinas, intensifying the agony, and I immediately snap them shut again. Rolling over on my side, I reach for the pillow to cover my face in an attempt to conceal myself from the light pouring through the window, when I realize I’m lying on the hardwood floor.
What the fuck happened?

With my outstretched hands, I feel around my surroundings, trying to figure out where I’m at exactly. The bed is an arm’s length to my right, so with my eyes still tightly closed, I use the minimal amount of energy I have to hold onto the sheets and haul myself up to a sitting position. Once I’m upright, dizziness and nausea sets in, and I realize I’ve got two choices: throw up on my bedroom floor, or get myself to the bathroom, stat. I rock my weight forward to my knees and then unfold to stand for a brief second before I collapse back onto the floor, vomiting all over myself. I’m in trouble.

Once the heaving stops, I crawl blindly over to the nightstand and pat around until I find my phone. Thankfully, I can turn it on without looking at it, and once I hear the noise indicating it’s powered up, I squint through my extremely blurry vision to call the one person who I trust to take care of me.

“Blake, oh thank God, you’re okay,” he says into the phone after the first ring. “Where did you go? I’ve been worried sick.”

“I’m not okay. I need you here fast,” I rasp with labored breaths through the pain.

I know something’s really wrong with me, and despite whatever happened with his brother, I trust Madden. Promising to tell him more when he arrives, I give him my address and the gate code to my apartment complex. He insists I stay on the phone with him the entire drive from his house to mine, but I explain it hurts too badly to talk or hear noise; so instead, we sit and listen to each other breathe until I hear him knock on the front door. Somehow, I manage to crawl to the door to unlock it, collapsing on the floor as soon as I turn the knob.

“Oh, fuck,” he sighs as he walks in and kneels down next to me. “What happened? What’s wrong, sweet girl?”

“I-I’m not sure. I had a nightmare, and I woke up on the floor in a lot of pain. I guess I fell off the bed and hit my head on either the nightstand or the hard floor,” I whisper. “I tried to stand, but fell, and my head feels like it’s gonna explode. My vision is blurred and I’m really nauseous.”

“We need to get you to the hospital; let me help you get cleaned up a little,” he says softly. “I’m going to go get a warm, wet rag and a change of clothes for you. Is it okay if I search around for them?”

I nod in agreement, then hear him walk away to my room and begin to open drawers and cabinets. Hoping he finds everything quickly, I try to remember if there’s anything special I need to do or know about going to the hospital with my new identity, but my thoughts are fuzzy, and I can’t focus on anything except the pounding inside of my skull.

“I’m right here, Blake. I found everything I need. I’m going to move you to the bathroom, strip you out of these clothes, and clean you up and dress you in there.”

“But the mess—” I start to argue.

“We can clean up the mess later.
You’re
what I’m worried about.” His voice quivers with concern, and I’m scared of how bad-off I must look.

Lifting me cautiously into his arms, he cradles me to his chest and walks the few excruciating feet into my bathroom, each step jarring me despite his attempt to be careful, and then places me on the bathroom floor. He gingerly removes my shirt over my head and pulls my shorts down my legs until I’m only in my bra—which I hadn’t bothered taking off last night—and panties. I press my cheek to the cold tile, a welcomed sensation as he uses the rag to clean my face and neck. Somehow he manages to dress me while I remain lying down, and he then picks me up again to leave.