Page 93 of Kept in the Dark
“A man should know how many times he has been shot.”
He’s been shot a dozen times?! 13 now? “Yeah, it’s kind of just more concerning to me that it’s happened enough times that you were afraid you’d lose track—and that a tattoo is the best way you could think of to keep that count. What about good old-fashioned pen and paper?”
“In a past life…” he eyes me as he trails off, evidently rethinking telling me the sordid details.
But my curiosity is piqued now.
“Keep going. I want to know,” I say, giving him some space to speak by shoving another bite of my breakfast into my mouth.
“In a pastjob, I was supposed to inspire fear, and my boss believed this tattoo was visible proof to show to others that I am difficult to kill. It was meant to be a sign of strength and an intimidation tactic. It was not often visible, but everyone knew your number.”
I swallow a bitter thickness that rises in the back of my throat despite the delicious sauce. “When you were in aBratva?” I guess.
He nods. I don’t want to know how old he was when the first tally mark was made. It’s super faded and wavy, like it stretched as he grew.
“How did you get out of theBratva? You put in for a transfer or something?” My joke feels feeble, but it makes the corners of his mouth twitch, which feels like a win.
“My father used to say that being in aBratvais like a marriage—you are parted only by death.” The faraway look shutters in an instant, morphing back to neutral, but not before I catch a glimpse of happy nostalgia. “I promised to earn your trust, so I will not lie to you. I will tell you if you wish, but it is not a nice story. It will not make you think well of me, Nicole.”
Yeah, I knew that. But I’m done tiptoeing around it. “I’ve always thought that the past designs us, but it doesn’t define us. What happens to you is the full story, and you get to decide which parts of it you carry with you.”
“Useful words, poetically put,” he says, with a faint smile, some of the rigid tension leeching from his posture. It sounds almost as if he’s reciting something.
I smile, because it feels like praise, but it freezes on my lips as he begins, “I told you of my childhood—of Aleksandr. Do you remember this?”
“I don’t think I could forget,” I confess. Frankly, I’m haunted by the thought of a man evil enough to put a gun in the hand of a child and use that child’s love for his mother to control him.
“I told you that my father worked for him, then upon his death, Aleksandr took my mother for a mistress. I believe I mentioned she died, but I did not tell you that he killed her.”
I can’t contain a gasp.
“Not with guns or knives. He killed her with words. He killed her spirit and beat her body and stole her light until only darkness remained. It was declared a suicide, but I knew better. Aleksandr killed her. So, I vowed to take everything from him.”
He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, and I use the opportunity to wipe away a tear on the back of my arm so he doesn’t see me do it. I’ve seen the effects of domestic abuse firsthand in the emergency room too many times. What he’s describing is heartbreaking and far, far too common.
“It took me many years to rise to a position where I was considered a trusted man of the inner circle. Once I was close enough, I made my move. I killed him and every single member of his elite group—a dozen men, maybe more. I remember little of that night, but I woke, stained head to toe with blood. It was a massacre.”
A shocked noise slips out of me, and it makes him flinch. But he continues, eyes remaining locked on the other side of the room.
“But every man I killed had sons and brothers, and there is no way for one man to destroy an entireBratva, no matter how motivated by rage. Word spread of what I had done, and I knew it was only a matter of time before someone found me and killed me to avenge theirPakhan.I fled Russia. I landed here. Wesley and the man we answer to—our handler—helped me disappear.”
I can see why he was hesitant to tell me. He was right; it’s not a nice story. Full of murder and death and betrayal.
And even so, I want so badly to comfort him, but I feel like I know him well enough at this point to anticipate his reaction. Sure, he likes touch—welcomes mine, even—but the memory of pain is a solitary experience, and not everyone appreciates a pat on the shoulder while in the throes of emotional turmoil. Dimitri is a deeply pragmatic person, like me, and sympathy only goes so far. It can’t change the past.
“So, Aleksandr had you make these marks?” I ask, gesturing to his pec. He nods, and I ask, “Why keep it up?”
“I suppose I think… that it is not possible to erase what made you into the person you are. That man is dead, but his impact persists; they are not good memories, but I carry this with me as a reminder of the things I have done.”
Chills climb my arms and torso. “Seems to me you wear your reminders, even without a tattoo,” I say, jerking my chin at his collection of scars. “How did this all happen to you?”
His chin comes down, but since I’m staring at his abdomen, I can’t tell if he’s looking down at me or at the scars littering his skin. “Knife, shank, pistol, shotgun, uh… fireplace poker,” he starts rattling off, pointing to each scar.
After a grimace at the last one, I shake my head. “After everything you went through with Aleksandr… I’m surprised you chose this life. You could have started over when you got here—done something else, or been someone else.”
His chest expands with a noisy inhale through his nose, and I can hear the rasping of short hairs as he runs his hand across his head. It’s hisI’muncomfortabletell. “As you said, the past designs us. I was raised in blood. I watched my schoolmates become carpenters or doctors or accountants, but I was always told this was not for me. Killing men is all I have ever known. I am very good at it.”
I have no words for that. He doesn’t even sound proud of the fact; he sounds like he’s reciting a truth he’s told himself enough times that his belief in it is unquestionable.
