There’s just something that keeps playing on my mind.
If I’m being honest, I’ll admit I’m still jealous, just not the way she would think.
I’m jealous of the closeness she has with him. I don’t want her to be that way with anyone who isn’t me.
Herein lies the problem.
I shouldn’t be thinking like that about a woman I took as a pawn in my game.
A pawn she will become in three weeks from now when I give her my name.
Every time I’m with her, though, she reaches a place inside me I never thought could be reached. She went there last night.
I specifically didn’t want her in that room. The hall where memories of my loved ones are now stored because I didn’t want the presence of anyone connected to Raul to taint it. But her presence didn’t do that. She calmed my pain and my rage.
I don’t know what the fuck I planned to do, but chances were in the state I was in, I would have probably destroyed everything in that room.
And then I would have hated myself for it after.
My father did all the paintings and sculptures of my mother. They’re all of her. He was obsessed with her, and that was how he showed it.
All the ones the princess would have seen. The one she saw me desecrate was mine. As well as all the others under the sheets.
My father gave me the paintings and sculptures when I bought this house because he knew I’d be the only person to appreciate them. I did and still do.
He gave them to me because like him, at one point in my life, I used to paint.
My father stopped painting when his arthritis he hides very well got the better of him. But I stopped because of Ivan.
I stopped just before college, and my reasons were foolish when I think of it.
Ivan thought I was less of a man because of my art. His taunts played on my mind, which eventually made me stop.
I’ve never wanted my brother to have anything to hold over on me, no matter how big or small. So, I was willing to get rid of something that balanced me for a greater cause. I knew one day, I’d have to go up against him, like I am now, and being the best Bratva leader was the only thing that mattered to me.
Sometimes, my heart goes back to that place, probably seeking peace. It did last night. Right back to the painting of my sister I never finished.
I went for it because there was no fucking point in finishing it.
A tap on the door has my head turning.
It’s Eric, and he looks concerned.
It’s understandable after the way I lost my shit the other night.
“Have you cooled off?” he asks.
“No.” I’ve only calmed down a little, but I’m still ready to kill.
After meeting with Tony, Eric got the names of the men who’d bought my sister, names I didn’t have before. Our team was able to find an address in Chicago, and a few witnesses.
The key witness was a woman who worked in the house who’d fed Talia and gave her water. It was her who told us Talia had to beg for death, and she also confirmed Felipe was there and took part in the torture and rape. She said there were others, but she didn’t have names.
At that house we found parts of Talia. Literal parts. Her head and an arm and a leg.
That was what I buried the other week. Pieces of my sister.
I lean against the wall, while Eric sits and regards me.
