Page 47 of Dangerous Beginnings

Staring at myself in the mirror I gape at my neck, a big bruise formed its way around my neck. Looking at it I imagine his hand there, like last night. Pressing against my raw skin, as his inked hands kept me in place. Fuck, I am going to need to wear aturtleneck.

I take a hot shower, washing my sins away. After the shower, I put on a skinny, black turtleneck and black high heels. Staring at myself in the mirror I decide I need some concealer and mascara.

Brushing my hair and adding perfume, ready. Hoping the perfume overpowers his scent. I brace myself while looking in the mirror. I have invited him in, myself. I don’t know yet what that means but I’m afraid it won’t take long for me to be met with him yet again.

But this time it’s completely different. It’s more intimidating, more personal, and more complicated. I sigh as I grab my keys while throwing my bag over my shoulder. I stare at the door; I don’t need to lock it for him. He’ll let himself in any way.

Aslanov

I should have distanced myself from her. I should have never agreed to touch her. Her sweet scent still sits in myfuckingfingers.

She has invited me in, she has stepped into the ring with a man she doesn’t even know. With a monster. Yet, she let me touch her. Not only that, but she also kneels at my feet. And even though she is kneeling at my feet—she controls me just as much. I have crossed my boundaries for her and have broken two of my rules for her. One: doesn’t show empathy and feelings, two: do not forgive. I don’t pleasure women. I only pleasure myself, yet I only pleasured her last night. And it awoke a feeling inside of me.

Will she become the first person that I will grant my forgiveness?

My usual stoicism begins to crack, giving way to an unsettling undercurrent of anger. I’m accustomed to a life devoid of emotional attachments, a carefully crafted existence where love is an alien concept and caring for others is a luxury Icannot afford. The anger within me simmers, a result of my vulnerability. I resent the fact that she’s managed to breach my well-guarded fortress, unraveling the layers of detachment I meticulously maintained. The anger isn’t directed at her, but at the unfamiliar emotions I find stirring within me. And with one swift motion, I swipe everything from the bar I am sitting at. My hand is covered in glass and blood.

Every interaction with her peels away another layer of my self-imposed indifference, and this gradual unveiling sparks frustration. I need to make up my mind about what to do with her. Whether that is to get rid of her for good, leave her alone, or take herin.

I am needed back in Moscow; my men need me and I have been gone far too long. There are meetings and business to be made. The Russian mafia never stands still and my alliance in New York has been settled. That has been my cover for being here, now it’s time to make a decision.

Isabella

The whole workday was uneasy. He is everywhere and his actions linger everywhere. The horrific actions he undertakes. That same man made me climax yesterday.

I swallow with every bad thought entering me. I’m an imposter, I’m a liar. What will happen to me if they find out? To be honest I don’t care, I know it’s not going to be as bad as disobeyinghim.

I work only mornings on Wednesdays, and therefore I’m extremely grateful today. Pushing my way through the heavy doors I feel relieved once the cold air hits my face.

My phone buzzes and the caller is someone I did not expect it from, my mother. I haven’t spoken to her in weeks, months even now. We didn’t end things on good terms last time all because of him—my stepfather. He is a manipulative piece of shit andpushes my mom in the wrong direction. It has always been like that, ever since I was little. Memories of the abuse enter my mind.

My mother never said anything. She was scared, but I was just a child, and she did nothing to protect me. There was not a week where he had not been hitting me, kicking me, or locking me up in the basement.

Contemplating whether to answer, I sigh and finally press the phone to my ear. “Mom?” There’s a long pause before her voice, filled with uncertainty, reaches me.

“Hey, sweetie.” She pauses before adding, “I was wondering if you could come over for dinner tonight. We could talk it out.” My mind races as I grapple with the decision. The wounds of the past are still fresh, but a flicker of hope sparks within me—a chance to confront the past and, perhaps, pave the way for healing.

Maybe she changed, and maybe this would do me good. I would lie if I said I have not been missing her. “Okay, Mom,” I respond, my voice betraying a mix of apprehension and determination.

“I’ll come over for dinner. But he isn’t home, right?”

“No, no he works the night shift.”

I nod. “Okay, I’ll be there at 5, okay?” I can feel her smile through the phone as she excitedly thanks me. Guess I’m eating somewhere else tonight.

It’s 5 PM sharp and I’m outside my old childhood home. Bad memories can’t seem to stay away as I knock on the door. My mother opens not a couple of seconds later. I smile, a little awkward. As the door creaks open, I muster a smile,my awkwardness barely concealed. The air seems heavy with unspoken tension, a silent echo of the past that lingered within those familiar walls. My mother greets me with a tight hug, her eyes reflecting a mixture of remorse and anticipation. “Isabella, it’s so good to see you,” she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. I nod, my gaze briefly meeting hers.

“Yeah, it’s been a while.”

The ambiance of the house feels strange, a blend of nostalgia and apprehension. As we settle into the living room, the remnants of my childhood surround me—the faded family photos and the worn-out furniture. Yet, an unspoken truth hangs in the air, a truth that had shattered the illusion of a happy family long ago. The strained atmosphere hangs over the dinner table like a heavy cloud, each bite accompanied by the unspoken tension that lingered in the air. My mother attempts to steer the conversation into safer waters.

“So, darling, how’s work been?” she asks, her voice carrying a forced cheerfulness.

I glance at her, a silent acknowledgment of the delicacy of the situation. “It’s fine, Mom. Just the usual routine.” A lie. The facade of normalcy shattered when my mother, sensing the growing discomfort, took a deep breath and addressed the elephant in the room.

“I know things haven’t been great between us. I want to make amends, to rebuild our relationship.”

Her words hang in the air, a fragile bridge attempting to span the chasm that had widened over the years. I sigh, my gaze meeting hers.

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