Opening the door, a heavy stench of cloves and vermouth swirled around me. The familiar stench made my insides crawl, but I pushed forward. I wasn't that little boy anymore. I killed him and rose from his ashes.
My father was standing, looking down at his large marble desk, his eyes darting around as he whispered, “I found you. I fucking found you, my ticket.” Picking up a piece of paper, he closed his eyes and kissed it reverently. Not a second later, he crushed the paper in his hands, balling it up and smashing it onto his desk, making the room erupt with a loud slap.
Since he acted more ludicrous than usual, we kept our mouths shut, waiting for his command.
Stomping around the table, he sat on his desk and looked up. His eyes widened for a second, bouncing between us like he forgot we were even here, before they settled, narrowing his gaze with his hand folding on the table. “Boys, I have a special job for you. One that I’ve been working on for so long.” His smile widened, showing all his teeth, “one that I can shove in those Zakarian and Hovsepian’s faces!”
Slamming his hands on the table, I noticed one of his pens rolling off to the left; a familiar itch to move it back crawled in the back of my mind. Clenching my hands behind my back, I made sure not to move, knowing it would only cause more trouble than it was worth.
Grabbing the ball of paper he had just crushed, he cradled it in his hand, gazing at it in adoration before his eyes slid to us, narrowing like we were interrupting his daydream by just standing here. “I need you to fly to America and find the woman named Margaret Jones. Fashime has your tickets. You grab her and bring her here, no questions asked, no matter what. She is the key to my success.” He grabbed a different sheet of paper and slid it toward me. ‘I found her here,’ he said, pointing so hard his finger whitened with the force of it.
Stepping forward, I swooped to grab the paper, ensuring the tip of my pinky nudged the pen on his desk back into place before lifting the paper. The feeling of ants in my head calmed down, and I looked at a picture of an attractive woman around my father's age posing for a group picture. It was taken from an online newspaper, and the caption had her name as the vice chair for a local festival.
He got up slowly, reminding me of a snake about to strike as he stepped around his desk. “Find her. Bring her to me, and I’ll take care of the rest.” His voice rattled with violence and death, a warning of what we would greet if we came home empty-handed.
Nodding, I turned to take our leave when Ion stepped forward, and my jaw clenched. “What does this bitch have to do with us?”
I blinked. That was all it took for my father to grab him by the collar and smash his head against the white marbled desk.
“You are my fucking soldier. Soldiers don’t talk, question, or speak unless spoken to.” Ion gasped for air, his face red as my father squeezed harder. The urge to push him off my brother came surging forward, but deep down, I knew he wouldn't kill him. He could’ve done that to any of us long ago if he wanted to. He was keeping us alive for a purpose.
He leaned down into Ion's ear, talking low and slow, “Even as my son, you’re still only half mine, having that cowardly woman's blood in you. So do yourself a favor, shut up, and march when I tell you to.” He let go of him. Ion gasped for breath as he dropped to the floor, and I finally took a breath.
“This goes for all of you.” He stepped over Ion's body and looked at Cezar, who lifted his hands in surrender and then switched his gaze to me. “And you, myheir,” he pointed, “You’ll need to keep your brothers under your thumb. They’re your right and left hands. I bred them for that purpose.” He stepped up to me, an inch from my face, looking me up and down before he scowled, “From now on, if they disappoint me, it will be on you. Understood?”
Staring him into his dead eyes, I curtly nodded, “Yes. I understand.”
It was how I preferred it.
2
KAZIA
Where the fuck is it?!
Looking around the room, throwing the last shred of clothing over my head, I had to admit it looked like a tornado ran through here. My heart squeezed as I thought of her. She would never have let her room get like this. She would’ve popped up behind me with the items, saying she knew where they were the whole time.
I was lost without her.
A shaky hand combed through my hair, eyes watering for the tenth time today. I needed to get a grip. I knew I needed to grieve logically, but I didn’t have time for that. Taking a few deep breaths, reminding myself that she wouldn’t want me to be this way. She would tell me not to worry, that she was returning to where she belonged. That she was at peace.
A gentle breeze floats through my hair, smelling of flowers and sage.As long as you destroy my two items.
Her voice echoed in my head. My mind conjured her leaning against the door, her bright honey eyes sparkling as her dark hair was pulled up and wrapped with a scarf around it, flicking her hands at me to hurry up and collect the items. Her smile lit the dark room like the moon, elusive and mysterious. I had to make this right for her.
Wiping at the tracking on my cheeks, I went back to work. After another session of throwing things around the room, I finally found the small box peeking out from behind her dresser that had her headscarf. I opened the box, and my fingers hesitated to touch it because it meant so much to her. It was the gift her grandmother, the Puri Dai of her tribe, gave her when she told her she was to follow in her footsteps when she was ten years old. This scrap of fabric was the only tie she had to the family she left behind when she got pregnant with me and fled Armenia to the United States.
Handling it carefully, I lifted the silk red scarf, golden thread laced between the fabric, making an intricate pattern that matched the ever-changing night sky, giving it a luxurious look and feel. Leaning down, I closed my eyes and sniffed it. Her sweet floral and pine needle scent still clung to it. Filling my lungs so full and deep, it was like I was getting high off of it, just wanting to be close to her one more time.
Tears welled up again, and I scoffed at myself, reminding myself that she had raised me to be stronger than that for the millionth time. I needed to be the Romani daughter again and make sure she passed onto the Otherworld without fail, not the psych grad student who devoted her time to science and studies over learning the old ways. It was something my mom and I always fought about, even on the day she passed.
Today was not the day to wallow. Today was the day that I needed to get shit done, whether I believed in it or not. She did, with all her soul, and that's what mattered.
Kicking at the mess at my feet to get through the room, I went to the kitchen and opened the cabinet, ready to search for it. It didn’t take long. Right before me was the mug she used daily since we came to Los Angeles. It sat front and center, the queen among the others in its oversized multi-colored way, with a sizable wonky handle. It was the mug she made in a free nighttime pottery class while pregnant with me and was the second item that represented the essence of my mother.
Staring at that mug, I knew I didn't want to break it, didn't want to say goodbye, but this was what she wanted. Tears welled, and I picked it up, feeling its weight in my hands. I pictured her drinking from it, holding it across the kitchen as she gave me a small, knowing smile. Putting it back down, I shook my head. I didn’t want to destroy those memories.
Her voice floated around me like she was here and could see my dilemma.This is our way, little Kazia.Like her hand guided my own, it lifted, hesitating every inch before my fingers curled around the handle. My resolve solidified. This was for her, not for me.
