Page 5 of Tide of Treason
“Efficient.”
“Impulsive.”
I dropped the duffel on the chaise. “Adaptable.”
“A liability.”
Step one: breathe.
Step two: spine of spite.
Step three?
Yeah, I’d just found step three.
Her name was Kayla Sforza. And from this moment forward, peace was off the table.
2 | Lucius
20 yearsold
November 2015
“You’re bipolar.”
I thought I was experiencing a strange high at first—I’d never heard of anyone fainting like a delicate damsel in a Jane Austen novel, and certainly not from rage-induced shock. Regardless, my gaze remained unfazed by that statement. I held eye contact with Elara Fujikawa of New York State Health Institution. She held up a folder labeled Andrade, L. in her hands.
“You suffer from violent mood swings, impulsivity, emotional outbursts, a lack of empathy or regard for other people’s emotions. And you just experienced a major event in your life so intense it caused you to not only blackout, but injure yourself severely.”
“And you’re a quack,” I replied calmly, leaning back in the plush leather chair. “Tell me, doctor, have you ever been on the receiving end of a double barrel shotgun at point blank range? Or watched your mother be gang raped in front of you as a reward for snitching on the wrong people?”
She cleared her throat. Unpleasant memories were part of her job description, but the mention of a weapon made her a bit jumpy.
That neutrality cracked as two nurses passed by the window, pausing to look at me through the gap between the blinds. I didn’t even bother turning my head to acknowledge their perusal, instead allowing my thumb to wander across the still-healing scar on my left temple. The skin there was tender, a dozen stitches where I’d opened a cut from smashing my head on the van door. Such a lovely, permanent souvenir I’d gotten as a result offainting.
I hated that word. It was more complicated than that, but doctors refused to see the nuance. A concussion, Elara Fujikawa had told me. Temporary amnesia and the side effects of head trauma.
Waking up on a hospital bed with tubes taped to my arms certainly hadn’t been temporary. The headache that left me puking into a bedpan after regaining my senses had been permanent.
The nurses had asked questions about my non-existent family, a few details about my life before I’d been admitted. They’d called in psychiatrists, asked why I’d gone into such a deep stupor at the mention of marriage.
I kept my mouth shut.
I hadn’t always been good at that.
I was twelve when I’d discovered the Brazilian Cartel siphoning product from the local port. Stupid, naïve kid I was, I’d reported it to the authorities, trying to do the right thing. But it didn’t take them long to hunt me down. The price they made me pay was my mother, pinned beneath half a dozen men until her screams died in her throat. I still remember that cold gun pressed against the back of my skull. The threats: do as you’re told or you’re next.
The ship had been my first proper home since leaving Rio de Janeiro—a floating prison cell that reeked of saltwater and mold. They’d kept me locked up most of the way, only letting me out to eat. First time I was brought up to the deck, I’d been smacked in the side of the head and ordered to scrub the rust from the rails. The metal cut into my palms, slick with brine and blood, and every time I thought about throwing myself over the side, the butt of a rifle reminded me how far hope could sink when you weren’t strong enough to hold it.
Still, the fact remained.
I was a lunatic. The “son” of a maniac. It was a stain on my blood line, and I’d been trying hard to wipe it clean. And now, I was a bipolar one too.
Elara waited a moment for the passing staff to hurry down the hallway, then focused on the file in her lap, a look that almost resembled guilt crossing her face. I had to admit, I was a tad too cruel in my comparison. In theory, psychiatrists were used to hearing dark, twisted, criminal confessions on adaily basis. But there was something about the way my mind ticked that seemed to get under their skin. That made themrelateto some part, even if they didn’t want to.
“How often do you get this angry?” she asked, her pen poised over a fresh page.
“Often enough.”
