Ghost (Boston Underworld #3) - A. Zavarelli Page 0,24

made me his wife. Sometimes, I venture outside of my room. Not very far. Only the level I’m on so far. The house is large, and inside it looks like a castle. Stone floors and walls and rich colors and furnishings. There are three bedrooms on the second floor as well as Alexei’s office. And when I pass him, or even linger just outside the doorway, he doesn’t seem to notice me. I’m like an apparition in this house. Moving around unseen.

But I notice him. I’m starting to notice more about him the longer I am here. The blue of his gaze when he settles his eyes on me. The line of his jaw. The scent that seems to linger around the house even when he isn’t in the room. The ever present reminder of him.

I am curious.

He is mafia. But he never leaves his house. There are computer screens that take up an entire wall in his office. I don’t know what he does. Something with computers. He is smart. I can tell by the way he examines the numbers and makes notes. Often, he and Franco can be found playing chess in his office too.

Magda takes care of all of us. She cooks and cleans and keeps the household running. Franco does as Alexei bids I gather as he leaves the house more frequently. They all have their jobs. Their reasons for being. All except me.

I pretend to read. And contemplate my own plans. Sometimes, the urge isn’t there anymore. To hurt myself. To free myself. And that worries me.

I need to bring it back. I can’t get too comfortable. This is not reality.

So when I step out of the shower, I do something I haven’t done before. I move to the mirror above the sink. The one still covered with a towel.

With a trembling hand, I reach up and pull it down. And staring back at me, is the stark cold reminder of my true reality. I don’t recognize that woman. She is gaunt, with protruding bones and pale skin. Covered in scars and fading bruises.

I touch my cheeks, and so does she. And I hate her. I hate her so much I wish she would just disappear. I ball my hand into a fist and slam it into her reflection. The glass shatters, and blood drips from my knuckles when I stumble back a step. But it isn’t enough. It’s not enough for the rage that’s bubbling up inside.

So I lean down and scoop up one of the fragments and drag it over my arm seven times. Before I can count eight, Alexei is in the doorway, his expression horrified and angry.

His eyes flicker down to the shard of glass now aimed at my wrist.

“Don’t,” I warn him as he takes a step.

He ignores me. I dig the tip into my skin, but I am weak. Because he pries it from me easily and tosses it to the floor. When I look up at him, my lip trembles. The veil of numbness is gone now, and my knees are about to buckle. He senses it and grabs me just before I fall.

I’m pulled against his chest, smearing my blood all over his shirt. He holds me tighter, and his hand comes up to smooth over my hair. His touch is gentle and kind even though his eyes were angrier than I’d ever seen them. And it’s all that it takes to send me over the edge.

I cry. I cry hard, clinging to his chest for support. In the tiny part of my rational mind, a voice is whispering to me. Don’t get too close. Don’t let him see you like this.

But the emotions are too strong. He holds me and whispers in my ear. It’s in Russian, so I have no idea what he’s saying. His voice is soothing. And it scares me. Magda comes into the room and gasps at the sight before her, and I am grateful for the interruption.

“Talia,” she says. “Come, come. I will tend to your wounds.”

“I will take care of it, Magda,” Alexei informs her.

She glances at him, and something passes between them.

“Are you sure?” she asks carefully.

He nods, and she seems hesitant, but she goes. And I wish it was her staying instead of him. It’s dangerous to be alone with this man who right now feels like a source of comfort. Like he could be the remedy for the chaos inside of my head. My calm in the