Page 105 of Violent Pawn

Maybe that’s his endgame. To crack and shatter my soul, breaking through every other barrier formed over the past couple of months. Then, when I’m a ghost of my old self, and he’s taken everything, he assumes anger will have nothing to attach to, so I’ll forgive him. He’s cheating, essentially.

Without another word, I leave, gripping the notebook. Walking away is easier than facing the truth.

52

NERO

The bottle sits in one hand, my phone in the other.

Neither is encouraging.

Neither is giving me the much-needed escape.

My thumb pulls the image to the right, to the first picture I took of Petrov’s ledgers. At this point, nothing in the old bank transactions and deals will benefit Zeno, but it felt right to take a copy.

I swipe until reaching the page from the notebook that made me pause. Labelled with an L and a list of dates, I quickly put together that it’s about Lev. Anastasia alluded to their father tossing him in prison for short bursts of time for a fucked-up form of punishment, so I took the list of dates to be that.

For Lev, for the kid he was when in prison, the bottle inches closer to my mouth. When I swipe to the next picture, temptation dies at the sight of the A marked for Anastasia.

For her, their padre’s death needed to be drawn out for longer. The list of names was pretty simple for me to figure out after her screamed disclosure in Rome. Standing within his office, inside his island home and gripping the edge of his desk as I studied the book—it broke something inside me.

Exactly as predicted, he recorded names, keeping the memory of his daughter’s pain alive. All names except five are crossed out. Reading them again—zooming in the photo because I’m a special kind of moron—inches the bottle closer to my mouth, my hand tightening around the neck.

But I don’t take the swig my body aches for.

By now, she’d have gotten my package. If she approves and wants me to finish the task, I happily will, but sobriety will be the best possible means to make that work. So drinking now isn’t wise when I’m anticipating her phone call.

I rest the bottle onto the floor and lean back, gripping my cell with two hands, reading the page yet again.

Beside the names are attached notes:

Political favour

$1M USD

Weapons

Blackmail

Political advantage

The name marked beside blackmail was whom I murdered and sent the heart off.

She’ll rise from the ashes of my actions because that’s who she is. This time, she’ll go after them. All I’ve done was stack the wood for the pyre. She’ll be the one to light the match.

So after the one, I left the other four despite the urge to go hunting. Their lives are in her hand now, thus no longer my responsibility.

I sit straight again, reaching for the bottle for a sip. Just a little one. One to erase the list from my mind. Instead of bringing the bottle to my mouth, I hover over the trash can button that’d send the image elsewhere.

I can’t. Drinking would be easier, tastier, and mind-numbing. It’ll erase the pain of not only fucking everything up, but not being able to help her in all the ways I long to.

Envisioning my ballerina, my Petrov, I lower the bottle. Her voice admonishes me for the unhealthiness of addiction, right before she takes my hand and pulls me away. Maybe to a gym, where we work out the ever-tightening nerves. Maybe to her studio, where she’d prove why alcohol and exercise don’t go together.

I kill the images, twisting my eyes at the sight of them, and instead open my latest message to her. My explanation with only the read label beneath it. Two months later and no reply. Every day, I hope it’ll be the day she’ll respond.

My lips wrap the bottle, the faint flavour tempting me to tip it back and swallow more.

Instead, I lower it.