Page 42 of Capo
I push my fingers through my hair and spin the chair around, looking out into the garden. “Let her use the whole wing.”
He inhales. Exhales. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s all,” I say, my back still toward him.
Ivan doesn’t speak. The door falls closed and I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe I should just grant her wish and do her in? Loathing builds in me, a darkness I haven’t felt since I was a child, since I lost both my parents in a senseless fucking work accident. A fire consuming the textile fabric, no escape routes, no repercussions for the management. I lost my sister Bianca too, only for a year, but to me it was an eternity. She was no more than fifteen when she went and married a ten-year older man. She’s always been calculating, always known what she wants out of life.
Jackie Russo turned out to be a good person, a rock she could cling to. I ended up in the system. Five-year-old Luciano–a foster kid–hungry, dirty, abused, subject to leery hands between my legs, harsh slaps, belts across my back, words of disgust. I remember each and every one of the assaults.
Bianca saved me as soon as she could and took me in as if I was her kid, but the damage was done. I had closed off everything. I know I died there. In the hands of strangers. Not in flesh, but in soul. The sins I’ve committed since, the lives I’ve destroyed, it’s all on them, on the original monsters.
Obviously, I took my revenge. But torturing someone to their dying breath feels only fleetingly good. There’s no sense of completion after. No peace. There’s never peace. The war is never won, every victory temporary until the next disaster strikes.
And it always does. I’m on the road to Hell, one mayhem at a time, paving the path I travel with suffering and blood, with crushed hopes and bodies.
There’s never peace. There’s no escaping.
I should just kill her and get this over with. I’m worse of a fuck-up than I ever knew and there are exactly three people in the world who see this as clearly as I do in this moment.
Luciano Salvatore, Ivan Sokolov, and Chloe Becker.
I’m not doing Ivan in. He’s been my most loyal man for the last twenty years. I need him more than I care to admit.
But Chloe, she has got to go.
Chloe
My memories of that night are fuzzy when the sun shines, but in the dark night, in my dreams, they are mercilessly clear and I’ve woken up crying time and time again, my heart slamming against my ribcage, afraid to listen in the dark, to open my eyes and see if he has returned.
My entire backside was on fire. Everything hurt. Even my teeth hurt from my jaw having been clenched so hard. Tears, snot and saliva had wet my cheeks, my chin and my chest. It felt as if I’d been cut open. I had nothing left but a wish for death. Killing yourself isn’t easy when you’re shackled and I hoped I bled enough, that I’d bleed out and die.
Then Ivan came and carefully let me loose. I fell and he caught me, hauling me up over his shoulder, carrying me to bed. Neither of us spoke. We shared a profound knowledge that what Salvatore had done to me had passed a line that shouldn’t be crossed. But what was there to say on the matter?
The doctor came. For the first time I felt truly sorry for him. With my eyes squeezed shut, gritting my teeth to breathe through the pulsating waves of agony, I listened to the two men.
Ivan’s deep growl. “Give her something for the pain.”
The doctor’s stutter. “I-I don’t think I should. It didn’t go down well last time.”
“I’ll fucking beat you to a pulp if you don’t, you little weasel!”
Ivan’s roar made me flinch, and wrought sobs out of the doctor. Then a prick of a needle, and I soared. For a little while free of all shackles.
It’s been three days. Tall, blonde Rose returns. She washes me, changes the bandages.
Her fingers trace my shoulder, her touch lighter than a feather.
“You’re going to scar,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry he did this to you. You had such beautiful, smooth skin.”
The realization makes my stomach clench. I’ll forever see the signs of his brutality every time I look in the mirror. I’ll always be reminded. I bury my face in the pillow and mumble the eternal question that has no answer, “Why does he do this?”
Rose doesn’t answer. The answer is in the silence between us, the silence in this house. No one but the monster knows.
On the fourth day, it’s Ivan who comes instead of Rose. I greet him with a faint smile. It’s been a long time since I tensed up when I saw the bulky blond man. He’s carrying a large bag that he drops on the floor, then he disappears and returns with a giant TV that he rolls in on a bench with wheels. I cross my legs, perched in the middle of the bed, and take in this new development. A little seed of excitement tries to set root in my chest, but I quell it. I don’t dare to hope for anything.
He pushes it to the wall opposite the bed and fiddles with the cords before he drops two remotes by my feet. I look at them and then up at Ivan.
“He’s trying to say he’s sorry,” he mutters. “There are books.” He gestures toward the bag. “An iPad. Down the hallway to the left is a gym you can use. You’ll be free to move around this wing of the house.”