Because right now, the man in front of me isn't the head of the Polish mafia. He's not the playful man, not the one who threatened to burn down two churches if the priest delayed our ceremony. He's that twelve-year-old boy with the bandage on his hand, so utterly lost.
I don't remember everything from that night, but I know what I noticed first. How lost he seemed when he looked at me. And something in me knew I wanted to see him smile. Wanted to see his face light up, even for a few seconds, because he looked like a ghost. No child should look so haunted by their own existence.
"Would you get on your knees for her?" she asks.
Before Damien can answer, I cut in.
"NO! Damien, look at me. You will not kneel before her. Trust that I can endure whatever she does the way I trust you can stand to watch." I try to smile.
"I can't," he says weakly.
"Yes, you can, baby. For me."
Marzena moves in front of me and, bending down, grabs my chin between her fingers.
"I see you have the same sorcery as your slut of a mother, who simply drove men crazy with her presence."
I still have heels on, and since there's not much I can do from this position with blood continuously pouring from my wound, I lift my foot and drive the heel as hard as I can into her shoe.
I see the moment the pain registers, and her gaze electrocutes me.
"All the fingers then," she hisses through her teeth.
"HOW DID YOU KNOW MY MOTHER?"
She turns with pliers in hand and signals the soldier to come closer.
Don't look at the tool in her hand. You'll survive this, Roxy.
If not for yourself, then for the man in front of you, whose eyes fill with tears as he struggles against that chair.
"She came that night looking for your father, but I made sure they never met. Actually, I promised to pass along her message if I saw him."
She smiles, dark lipstick on her lips, and my stomach turns.
"And I kept my word. Sort of. Because I passed along the message, just not to him."
It takes me a few moments to understand, and then fury in its purest form floods my veins.
"You know who The Bloody Dahlia is! You told him my mother wanted to leave!"
Her smile spreads across her entire face, but my mind can only conceive the desire to make her suffer. Because of her, my mother died. Because of her, I was left with Dad and Ivette. Because of her, that man continued killing innocent people.
"How could you do that?" I scream.
"Because she needed to learn a lesson! Let me tell you a story. Twenty-eight years ago, I visited a cousin who'd moved to Naples. Left my husband and kids in Warsaw for a few days because this cousin ran in particular circles and I knew there was information to be obtained. The first party I attended was where I saw him. Your father." She pauses. "Tall, dark-haired, broad shoulders, eyes like ink dropped in water—the moment I saw him, I knew I wanted that man. Until then, I don’t think my heart understood the concept of feelings. But when I approached, his eyes were fixed on her. On Elena. No matter how I intervened, how I tried to make him realize your mother was a weakness in our world, he didn't get it. The only blessing was his wedding because then Elena disappeared from the scene. But she didn't disappear alone, did she? She had you in her belly, an eternal connection to him. Six years later, I came to America specifically for him, heard he'd be at this party, but at the last minute one of his associates stole some money, and he had to handle it. I figured since I was already at the party, I'd gather some information even though Damien was with me. He was a beautiful boy, tall for his age, and if someone had good information but wanted something different, I had him as currency."
The second she finishes that sentence, I can't hold back. My body convulses and I vomit on the cement beside my chair. How can she be so heartless? What kind of monster sells their children like that?
"Ugh, a saint, just like your mother. This is the world we live in, Roxanne. Everything has a price; you just have to be willing to pay it."
"ROXY. The only one who calls me Roxanne is my husband," I spit through gritted teeth, trying to wipe my mouth on my shoulder, but pain from the other side stops me.
"Anyway, to finish the story, I told your mother I'd pass the information to Marco then made a call to The Bloody Dahlia, as you call him. What a name he chose for himself." She laughs.
But my mind freezes on the name she just spoke.Marco.
I look at Damien, whose gaze is gentle, full of compassion, and I realize he knows. He's known for so long that Marco Agostiwas my father and never told me. And now all those moments with Marco come flooding back, when I felt him looking at me strangely, when I thought he looked at me with adoration and fascination. Now I understand why.
