Page 7 of Confession
I hate what happened to Roman, but at least he’s alive. At least he’s here now. I won’t let anything happen to this family again.
When I turn away from the body, Quinn hands me a handkerchief. I scrub brusquely at my face and hands. I clean the knife and return it to Quinn, then I wrap the finger in the kerchief.
I tell Joe and the others, “Dispose of the body and whatever vehicle he had. Make them vanish. Fix the window, so it looks like nothing happened. And no one says anything. DiMaggio will be expecting either a report or a body. He doesn’t get either. Let him stew.”
FOUR
Vitali
Given the household makeup, our basement-level gym is a popular place, so I’m not surprised to hear thuds as I approach. The intensity of the hits tells me it’s Roman, but he’s not hitting a punching bag. That would be a deeper sound. He’s hitting pads. He’s sparring with someone.
It has to be Quinn because there’s no way Sasha could handle that. Her strength lies in evasion, agility, and speed, not brute force. And Roman would never spar like that with Lucas, even if Lucas could handle it.
God, it’s powerful. My brother was always so damn strong and so fucking aggressive even before four years of hell reshaped him, inside and out. The scars on his body mark years of brutality, and his eyes still have the predatory look that shows why he survived it.
He’s been home almost two months, and I still don’t know what to do about him. He doesn’t respond well to me. We’re doing okay, but shit gets tense way too easily between us. Sometimes I think I’m too impatient—which, yeah, I am—and that he just needs time—which, yeah, he does. But then I hear this, him sparring with Quinn, or I hear the low hum of his voice as he talks to Lucas in their bedroom, and I know the problem is me.
That’s why I’m stalled here in the hallway. My presence will change the dynamic, andI want to hear them both, unfiltered. So I guess I’m kind of eavesdropping too.
For a while, it’s just grunts and thuds, all of it from Roman. Then I start to hear Quinn. He huffs and grunts as the onslaught intensifies. His vocalizations get harsher and sharper until he calls, “Break!”
The thuds continue, telling me that neither of them is disengaging. Why doesn’t Quinn step out if he needs a break? The grunts from both of them get louder.
When Quinn shouts, “Fuckingbreak!” I almost step into the room, but the impacts end abruptly.
“Fuck!” Quinn barks. I hear his breath sawing, Roman’s too. Something light gets thrown, probably the pads. I hear two sets of footsteps as they both walk it off.
There’s a huge, deep inhalation, then a moment later, Roman’s rough voice asks, “Are you okay?” When Quinn doesn’t answer, Roman growls, “Quinn.”
“I just need a fucking second.” Quinn’s breath is still sawing but his footsteps stop.
“Did I hurt your shoulder?” As I register the concern in Roman’s voice, it strikes me that he cares about Quinn. Roman has been so strongly in survival mode that I haven’t really heard this from him except with Lucas.
“It’s not that,” Quinn snaps.
“Then what—”
“I’m losing my fucking temper, Jesus fucking Christ, just give me a goddamn second.”
“Oh,” Roman replies.
So that’s why Quinn didn’t disengage. He does have a temper. He’s got generally good control of it. I think it’s part of why he’s so reserved. He’s self-controlling all the time. But certain things trigger him.
I hear footsteps again. Quinn’s, I suspect. His breathing is loud but forced into a steady rhythm. After a minute, he says evenly, “Okay. We can restart.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“You wanna hit back?” Roman offers.
Quinn huffs. “Fuck no.” I hear the rustle of him putting the blocking pads back on. “I don’t trust either of us that much, and I’ll be on the fucking floor.” The pads clap. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll try to hear you better. It just … didn’t get through at first.”
“We’re good. Come on.” The pads clap again, then the pounding starts up as they resume.
That was a lot of communication from Roman. I should be glad. Iamglad, but fuck. Why can’t he interact like that with me?
