Chapter 14

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

Saverio

I t's early when I arrive at Livy's building on Monday morning, but Anya is already gone. After looking forward to seeing my new toy all week, the disappointment at finding her apartment empty is natural, but the intensity of my dejection surprises me. So does the worry. She usually leaves for work later. I only relax marginally when the man who's following her tells me via a text message she just entered a gynecologist's consultation room in Brooklyn.

Anya and I are going to have a serious talk about her medical checkups. From now on, Nicole will take over, not only because she's the best ob-gyn in the city but also because she's a friend who's familiar with my history. Anya can't tell her anything about me she doesn't already know, save for the finer details about Lewis's death. Nicole may not know who my victims are, but she has no illusions about how I make my money or what the job entails.

As I have an hour to spare, I inspect Anya's apartment, shamelessly going through her closet and dresser. She doesn't own a lot of clothes. The brands are low quality, but everything is neatly folded and smells of that flowery detergent scent I came to associate with her. The underwear drawer holds a selection of cotton sets in pastel colors with cute ribbons and a few lacy but modest matching pieces. A purple vibrator is pushed under her pajamas.

What really catches my attention is the gel designed to stimulate her trigger buttons. My perfect little good girl is adventurous. I would've been disappointed if I didn't find anything kinky in her possession. I'd love to try it on her. Her body is beautifully responsive. I bet I can make her come so hard she'll forget there was anyone else before me. She won't even remember the asshole who made her pregnant was ever inside her.

For some reason, the thought of that man makes my blood boil with savage fury. I'm not unreasonably violent. At least, not usually. When I pull the trigger or use my knife, I do it for a well-deliberated reason. To balance the scales. The motive may be personal, but my feelings never are. It's purely business.

Yet with Anya, the rage comes naturally. I can't control it. There's a very good reason I never asked Rachele about her ex-lovers. With how diligently Luigi protected her chastity, I was surprised to discover that she wasn't a virgin when I took her to bed. That's not the way things work in those families. Until this day, I haven't asked her who her first was even though her father promised it to me. By contract, that was what she owed me, what they owed me. I paid for it in blood, doing Luigi's killings from the age he taught me how to handle a gun. Yet for the whole five years we were together, I never demanded an explanation. I simply ignored it, believing what mattered was the present.

And here I am, going through the most intimate belongings of a woman who should've been my victim but became my ticket to freedom, finding that it's not so easy to push that question down like before. It all comes back to ownership. Anya's life belongs to me, and I don't like to share. I have a crazed urge to purge her of the touch of any other and to brand her with my own possession. The depravity of that odd, carnal desire isn't lost on me. But I don't want to force her. I'm many things, but that's not who I am. Somehow, I'll earn her consent. When I'm done with her, I want her crawling and begging. I want her to look at me and me alone, knowing only I am her salvation.

It's fucked up, but I've fantasized about owning her from the moment I pressed her against a wall and discovered my body's greedy, almost violent reaction to her just when I was starting to think that perhaps there was something wrong with the mechanics down there. Maybe I just want to revenge myself on womankind. Maybe she's the substitute I'm punishing for Rachele's betrayal, the representation of the fickle sins of all Eves. Whatever my motivation, I don't examine it too deeply as I lock the door and take the stairs to Livy's apartment.

The old lady opens her door wearing a silk Kimono and an intricate hair comb that keeps her gray curls up.

"Right on time." She steps aside. "Come in."

When she's locked the door, I give her the flowers I brought.

"Oh." She presses a hand over her heart as she accepts the pink carnations and roses. "You're such a gentleman."

It's not the term I'd use to describe myself, but I let her carry on about my charming manners as she puts the flowers in a vase that she fills with water.

When the business of finding the perfect spot for the bouquet is settled, she shows me to a low table in the lounge. A tray with a Kyushu and cups is set in the center.

"Have a seat," she says, motioning at the cushions scattered around the table.

Once I'm sat on the floor with one leg bent, she goes down onto her knees with surprising agility, considering her age.

She lifts the Kyushu. "Tea? It's jasmine."

She pours without waiting for my reply and hands me a minuscule porcelain cup that looks as if it will crack if I grip it too hard.

"Thanks."

I bring the cup to my nose and inhale. Being a coffee drinker myself, I can't say the fragrance is appetizing.

After serving herself a cup, she sits back on her heels. "How are things going between you and Anya?"

"Great," I say, measuring her. "Why do you ask?"

She watches me with shrewd eyes, sizing me up in turn. "Are you serious about her, or is she just a fleeting amusement?"

Her boldness surprises me. "That's a very personal question."

"That young lady endured more hardships in her life than any person should have to bear. If your intentions aren't pure, it's best you walk away now."

"That's not going to happen," I say honestly.

She nods, approval sparking in her perceptive gaze. "In that case, there are a few things you need to know about Anya that she'll never tell you herself."

My curiosity is piqued. The report my investigator sent still sits in an encrypted file on my phone. I didn't get much shuteye in Boston. After arriving home last night, I crashed and slept for nine hours straight. I haven't read the information yet, but if there's anything to know about Anya, he would've noted it. However, Anya and Livy seem to be friends from a long time back. Perhaps the old lady can shed light on matters that go deeper than facts.

"Like what?" I ask.

She sighs. "Oh, where to begin."

I remain silent, giving her time to gather her thoughts. A part of me is obsessively curious about Anya's past.

"She had a difficult childhood," Livy starts. "Anya was always the parent, taking care of her mother instead of the other way around, already at the age of five when I met her."

"How did you meet?" I ask, lifting the cup to my lips.

A fond smile transforms her features. "I was her grade one teacher."

I think I understand. "So you took it upon yourself to watch out for her."

She waves a hand. "All that is unimportant. What matters is that Anya had a pretty bad time growing up. Her mother is unstable, you see."

"Unstable?"

"Mary has been addicted to pills and alcohol for as long as I can remember. I don't think I've ever seen her sober. It grew worse over the years until finally, it became uncontrollable. I stopped counting the number of times Anya had to call an ambulance after coming home from school to find her mother lying on the floor, blue in the face."

I grit my teeth when I imagine the scene.

"I don't think those times were intentional," Livy muses. "But then Anya started hiding her mother's pills. Right in the middle of Anya's final exams, her mother cut her wrists."

Lowering the cup, I let that sink in.

"Anya was a promising student, so I helped her to apply for a bursary at the University of New York City. At the night of her prom, Mary tried to suffocate herself with a plastic bag taped around her neck. On the day the letter arrived informing Anya the scholarship had been granted, Mary climbed onto the roof of their house after downing a bottle of vodka and shouted for all the neighborhood to hear that she was jumping to her death." Livy scoffs. "All she achieved was a broken leg."

"She sabotaged her daughter's future."

"That's not the worst. The final straw was when she lit a candle, opened the gas in the kitchen, and nearly blew both of them to pieces. I still don't know how Anya got them out in time. Mary was fighting her like a wild animal, scratching Anya's arms and face as Anya tried to calm her while their house burned to the ground."

Fuck. And I thought I had it bad.

"Anya had to give up the scholarship and get a job. She found them a small apartment in Brooklyn. Mary always refused to see a psychologist, but this time, Anya didn't take no for an answer." Livy takes a deep breath. "For a while, Mary seemed to be getting better, but that only lasted until she started drinking again. Then the whole cycle repeated." Sighing again, she continues, "Anya resorted to searching the apartment for alcohol and pills on a daily basis. She had no choice but to declare her mother incompetent and limit her access to money. As long as Mary had a few pennies in her pocket, she'd always spend it on liquor and pills."

I'm a mean motherfucker, but the sound of that does something to me. Without having met Mary Brennan, I already feel like killing her.

"Where was her father in all of this?" I ask as my gut twists with anger.

"I don't think Mary knows who Anya's father is. Anyway, there was never a paternal figure in Anya's life. She had no one to rely on but herself." She takes a sip of tea and frames the cup between her palms. "What was I saying? Yes, the money. Mary accused Anya of stealing her money and abusing her. The psychologist suggested a rehabilitation center, saying it was the only possibility Anya had left. These centers are expensive, and Anya barely made ends meet. She took care of her mother until she was forced to admit that she couldn't keep her or her mother safe. She knew she had to take drastic measures when Mary set her bed on fire while she was sleeping in it."

I squeeze the cup so hard it's a wonder it doesn't break. "She did what?"

"While Anya was putting out the fire, Mary stole her purse from her bag, walked to the gas station wearing nothing but a flimsy nightgown, and spent every last penny on liquor." She pauses to look at me. "How's your tea? Do you like it?"

I take a sip and barely stop myself from pulling a face. The brew is bitter and heavy with oxalic acid, making it feel as if my teeth sprouted hair. "Very nice."

"Good." Her mouth pulls into an O. "Oh no. I forgot to pour it like they do in the ritual. That's what you get for being old. This forgetfulness creeps up on me when I expect it the least." Leaning over the table, she grabs the cup from my hands. "I'll have to throw this out and start over."

"It's perfectly fine," I say with a grimace.

"Nonsense." She gives me a chastising look. "Never do anything in half measures."

Jumping to her feet, she swiftly carries the cups to the kitchen and dumps the tea in the sink.

When she's settled opposite me again, she lifts the pot high in the air and serves the infusion in clean cups.

"It's not only to let the tea cool," she explains as she hands me a cup. "It changes the energy, you see."

"You were talking about Anya," I remind her.

Her smile is patient. "I know. Drink your tea. Do you taste the difference?"

To appease her, I take a sip. Surprisingly, it tastes less bitter. "It's great, thanks."

"Good." She picks up her cup. "Where was I? Oh yes. The fire. Mary vanished. Anya and I searched for her all night. The police finally found her badly beaten in a park. While she recovered in hospital, I convinced Anya to move in here so that she could use the rent money to pay for the rehabilitation center."

"I'm glad she had you."

"To make a long story short, that girl endured enough. She deserves happiness, and if you're going to break her heart, I will personally rid the earth of your pleasant-looking face."

Despite the seriousness of the discussion, her words make me grin. "Don't worry. I'm here to stay."

If she picks up on the sinister darkness of that promise, she doesn't show it. A bright smile lights up her face. "In that case, we're going to see a lot of each other."

I raise my cup. "I'll drink to that."

My phone pings in my pocket with the notification tone I use for the man tailing Anya.

I put down my cup and pull my phone from my pocket. As I read the message, I clench my jaw.

"Work trouble?" Livy asks.

"I'm sorry." I push to my feet. "I'm afraid I have to cut our visit short."

"Don't worry about that. You're a breadwinner. You have priorities."

Yes, and no priority is more important than this one.

She scrunches up her face. "What exactly do you do for living again?"

"I own a few software companies," I say with a tight smile as I give her a hand to help her up.

"That's good. That's the way of the future."

"Thanks again for the tea."

"Thank you for the flowers," she says with a lady-like nod.

In a few long strides, I'm out of the door, clutching the phone in a death grip as I reread the message.

Anya is at the Supreme Court, and there's only one reason she'd visit one of the highest powers in the state.

She's going to tell on me.

Anger drives my steps as I make my way to the car.

"Supreme Court," I tell Kevin when I get inside. "And step on the gas."