The sun was nearly set, and the lights were beginning to flash to life across the Brooklyn bridge’s metal structure.
I beelined for the steel and glass half wall that separated the rooftop from open air and I gripped it fiercely. I was in an isolated spot, next to the building and nearly hidden by a trellis of climbing ivy. I willed the steel and glass to hold me together as I clenched it. I begged it to lift me up and keep me from my breaking point, the same way it kept people from falling over the edge.
Falling over the edge.
To plummet to the ground below.
And die.
I leaned over the wall, breath coming in little gasps now.
The man I’d just faced, the man who loathed everything I represented, was a murderer. A sociopath who sentenced my parents to death…who would have killed me too. Death by association. Death by bad blood. Death, death, death! A sob caught in my throat, but I squashed it down.
He was a murderer, as so many of the Bratva men were, yet, I was the damned one. It seemed so unfair that I should be punished, and he should be free to do as he wished.
There was a little ledge at my feet which held back a half-foot wide line of planter. The flowers living there were sprays of tiny purple blossoms crowning spring green stems and leaves. I lifted my feet and balanced my gold heels on the lip of the mini retainer wall.
And I leaned further out, closing my eyes and feeling the way the breeze gently brushed against my cheeks and eyelashes.
How would it feel to fall?I wondered bleakly.
Would it be like flying? Would it be peaceful?
I could escape that way. There wouldn’t be any more nights of giving in, of stripping myself down to the bone so that I could dissociate as he took my body for his pleasure. I licked my lips and remembered how sore they’d been last month after he forced himself inside my mouth.
A little higher. I could put my knees on the half wall.
And then it would only take a seconds’ decision. To shift my weight. To lean forward.
I didn’t realize that I was crying until the hot, salty tears touched my lips and I tasted them. I hated crying. Hated it to my very core. Yet, I found myself hiding away more and more to keep Ivan from taunting my grief.
I missed my old life—the freedom I had had. I mourned it almost as much as I did my parents. My parents weren’t bad people. They weren’t.
Just like I, they were born into Bratva service. It was never a choice to leave. They worked hard, so that I could go to college. But even then, looking back, I would have been pulled into the world. If I had finished my degree and then gotten a job in social work, I might have been of use to the family. And I couldn’t have said no. There was never any escape, not while you were still alive. I was a fool to think so in the first place. And so were they.
This wasn’t the place for tears, and I was glad that there were only a few partygoers roaming the large rooftop space. No one came near me. They were all caught in their own conversations, the outside world a blur.
If I only lifted myself to kneel on the top of the railing… The dress had a slit nearly to mid-thigh. I wouldn’t have to rip it to climb. The breeze on my face dried the tears in salt tracks. I stopped crying. I was on the cusp of a choice.
I heard the doors to the lounge open with a slight whine, but I ignored the sound. Someone was entering, someone was exiting.
Exiting.
I could exit.
Now.
So easily.
New voices filtered to me.
Whoever they were sounded happy.
Rich, booming male voices. Followed by sweet, flirtatious giggles.
Swallowing, I did not let myself start crying again, even though the sound of the happy people sent pangs through my chest. Desperately, I wanted real companionship. But that would never happen, unless I could leave Ivan. And leaving him felt impossible. Not felt. Itwasimpossible. Seeing Eduard Vasiliev reminded me of that. The only way to leave the Bratva was in a body bag.
So that was what would happen.
