Ghost (Boston Underworld #3) - A. Zavarelli Page 0,25
storm.
He told me himself that this marriage is for the sake of tradition without any of the complications. This is a complication. The wife he married is damaged and broken. Unrepairable.
How could he not know that?
He leads me over to the same chair that Magda sat me in when I arrived. I focus on the tiny rivers of red on my arm. Alexei returns and cleans the wounds thoroughly and harshly. He wants to punish me, I think. When I peek up at him from beneath my hair, I notice the anger has returned to his eyes.
His thoughts are faraway. And I wonder what it is about this that reminds him of something else. He stitches the wounds next, with a steady and practiced hand. It sparks my curiosity further, but I don’t ask him about it.
When he is finished, he leads me to the closet and chooses a set of pajamas for me.
“Put those on,” he instructs me.
I do as I’m told and he doesn’t watch. I wonder if there is any part of him that finds any part of me attractive. He is handsome. With strong cheekbones and a prominent jaw. Pale blue eyes that fascinate me at times and annoy me at others. But at times he seems as dead as I am. Like right now. In a closet with the half-naked woman before him. He does not flaunt his good looks, but he does seem to hide something else behind them.
When I am dressed, he puts me back to bed like a child. The disappointed expression on his face irks me. He has no right to be disappointed in me.
He calls out for Magda, and she appears in the doorway as though she were waiting just outside. He speaks to her in more Russian. Words I don’t understand, but get the gist of anyway.
She’s not to let me out of her sight.
12
Alexei
I tip the bottle of cognac towards my glass, but nothing comes out. Through unfocused eyes, there’s a vague understanding in my mind that I drank it all.
Both of their files are laid out on my desk. Like a puzzle I cannot figure out. I’ve studied each of them closely, and the only conclusion I have reached is that I need more cognac. Part of my brain tells me this is the process. That it will be worse before it gets better. The other part, the logical one, tells me that I have failed already.
A shadow falls over my door, blocking out the light from the hall. When I look up, Magda is standing in front of my desk.
“Alyoshka.”
There is pain in her eyes. For me. From anyone else, I would not tolerate it. But Magda knows me better than anyone else. She reaches for the empty bottle on my desk and shakes her head in disappointment. And then her eyes move to the files, side by side.
She takes a seat across the desk and appraises me. “They are not computer data,” she says. “You cannot analyze these files and find an answer.”
“I already have the answer,” is my drunken reply.
She looks at me with disgust and maternal outrage. “The answer is not you.”
The photos from my past tell me otherwise. My gaze moves to the drawing inside the first folder. In my childlike brain, I believed that some pencils and paper could make up for the damage I had caused. The scratchy lines compose a house, in a field of purple flowers. Her favorite color. I told her I would buy her that house someday. And she rejected my gift. My last gift to her.
Magda reaches over and closes the file, obscuring my past behind thick brown paper.
“They are not the same,” she tells me.
When I look at the woman across from me, with the kind eyes, I wonder how I have not failed her too. She took me in. She cared for me in my darkest hour. And still, here she is. The only person in my life I have not tainted.
“You need to keep her alive,” I order.
This only angers her further.
“You know better than anyone that you simply cannot force someone to have the will to live. Especially not after what she has been through.”
Her words frustrate me too. If anyone can save her, I know Magda can.
“I worry about you,” Magda tells me. “This girl is bringing your past back. You believe you can save her with material things. But this is not the way.”