“But he had two children?”
“That was about fulfilling his duty. He needed at least one son to take over as Pakhan someday. But we live a dangerous life, so I believe he had a second child just in case something ever happened to me.”
“Like a spare tire in the trunk of a car?”
I chuckled dryly. “Pretty much. He certainly didn’t think of us as people. The only thing that mattered to him was whether or not we were useful to him. And even then, it didn’t keep him from turning me into his personal punching bag.”
Sarah winced, and I felt the need to comfort her, despite this being my own dark story. I pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she relaxed against me again. Her head returned to my shoulder, and she traced random patterns on the skin of my chest with her fingertips. The light touch made tension drain out of my body, and I let out a long breath.
“When you say you were useful to him, what does that mean?”
Her voice was tentative, as if she already knew the answer wasn’t a good one.
I thought about trying to avoid the question, but I still felt like she deserved to know the ugly truth. I hadn’t been completely honest with her yet.
“My father thought I needed to learn the harsh realities of mafia life at a young age. He started taking me along when he had businessto handle. I’m not talking about just giving orders and making tough decisions. The first time he took me with himto deal with a problem, I watched him beat a man half to death. I was eight.”
Sarah gasped. Lifting her head again, she let me see her outrage. “Eight years old? What the hell was wrong with him?”
“I’m guessing he was a narcissist. Maybe a psychopath. Of course, I didn’t have any concept of that at the time. All I knew was that my dad was a cruel bastard. He was violent at homeandin his work. And the man might not have loved his wife or sons, but he did love hurting people. That’s what I remember the most about him from those early days. Heenjoyedwhat he was doing.”
“I’m so sorry you went through that.”
There was more to the story, so much fucked up shit that I’d never talked about with anyone. The first time I saw a man killed, I was twelve years old. Hearing my father order his crying mistress to end her pregnancy when I was fifteen. Shielding Maxim from my father’s fists as much as possible my entire life.
But the pain pills I took had kicked in, and I was suddenly fighting to stay awake. The words got trapped in my throat as my eyelids grew heavy. My hand stilled with my fingers tangled in her hair, and my breathing grew deep and even.
Sarah leaned over to turn off the lamp on the nightstand beside us, plunging us into darkness. As she curled up next to me, I felt my mind drifting away, and despite everything that happened today, I couldn’t bring myself to worry about anything. It wasn’t just the drugs. It was Sarah. Something about having her in my arms made me feel at peace in a way I’d longed for my entire life.
“Are you still awake?” she asked softly. “I-I need to tell you something.”
I tried to respond, to let her know that she could tell me anything. But I was barely conscious; my mind was slipping into blackness. Just before I was completely under, I heard her speak again.
“Please don’t hate me for keeping this secret…”
There was no chance to even consider what that meant because sleep took me away.