No, this hurt was different.
He grabbed her arm, yanking Buster from her grasp.
She gasped, trying to snatch him back, but the Tin Man was too strong. He clutched Buster, hand wrapped around the bear’s neck, and stormed away without another word.
“No!” The little girl jumped out of bed, chasing him. “Please, Daddy! No! Please! I’m sorry!”
She tried to shove around him, to get Buster back, grabbing ahold of his shirt, clutching it tightly as she tried to stop him, but he just dragged her along.
The little girl begged the whole way down the stairs. He headed for the den, still utterly silent, on a mission, she realized, as he neared the fireplace with Buster.
“No!” she screamed, collapsing to the floor. “Please, Daddy! I don’t hate you! Please, can I keep him? I’m sorry!”
He walked straight to the fireplace, ignoring her words, acting as if she were invisible. He held Buster out, over the fire, the flames lapping at the bear, a spark setting his foot on fire.
She screeched. “I don’t hate you! No! Please! I love you, Daddy!”
He pulled Buster back when she said those words, beating the bear against the wall, extinguishing the small flame on his singed paw. He turned to her as she hyperventilated, her vision blurry but she could see Buster was okay.
He wasn’t in the fire.
The Tin Man approached, crouching down, holding the bear up in her face, but the second she reached for it, he pulled it away. “You love me, kitten?”
She nodded frantically.
“Use your words.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
His eyes scanned her face before he leaned over, pressing a kiss to her forehead, whispering, “You lie just like her.”
Standing up, still carrying Buster, he walked back over to the fireplace, but instead of tossing him into the flames, he set him on the mantle.
“You touch him, I burn him, and I will burn you, too, kitten. You will get him back when I say you get him back. Until then, he will sit right here as a reminder.”
The Tin Man walked out, and the little girl just sat there, staring at the mantle, rocking, sobbing, as she whispered, “I’m so sorry, Buster.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Boss?”
“Yes, Seven?”
“Are you sure about this?”
Whoever said there were no such things as stupid questions was wrong. I’ve heard some stupid questions in my life. Usually they come in clusters: Why do you have that gun? What are you doing? Are you going to kill me? Uh, duh. I’m sure as hell not going to shoot myself. The fear of death, you know, it tends to override common sense, which makes the end, for some, pretty damn pathetic. Oh God, why are you doing this? How could you? BANG.
Certainly not the kind of ‘last words’ I want to have.
And Seven, well, I have respect for the guy, but he’s notorious for asking stupid questions.
“Do I look sure about this?”
“Yes,” he says right away.
“Well, there you go, then.”
Truthfully, I’m not sure at all, but I’d never let anyone know that, not even Seven.
And before you say shit, I’m well aware that I just told you, but you don’t count so stop trying to inject yourself into the damn story. This is an important moment.
The house before me is pretty damn big. Three stories tall, wide and square in shape, isolated from the other houses in the neighborhood, off toward the waterfront just along the outskirts of Brighton Beach. It’s dark out, a pitch-black night where the clouds overshadow everything, but the front of the house is illuminated.
The top two floors are completely blacked out, but downstairs I see some dim lights on through the blinds in some of the windows. He’s home. I know he is. He invited me over. And he’s not alone, like I knew he wouldn’t be, so that doesn’t bother me.
What does bother me, though, is that it all looks so normal. Just once I want to show up somewhere and the place be a dungeon, with guillotines and torture chambers. Hell, give me a fucking dragon. I’ll slay it. But no, it’s always this, always a mask of normalcy they wear with ease.
I get it, you know. I’m a hypocrite. Look at where I live. But we can’t all be soccer moms driving mini-vans, downing prescription pills with entire bottles of Merlot. Some of us are just crack whores swigging fifths of vodka on street corners.
If it walks like a duck, if it quacks like a duck, it’s a fucking duck, you know what I’m saying? And just once I want to shoot a goddamn duck.
Figuratively speaking.
Yeah, we’ve swung back around to the animal metaphors. What can I say? My life is exhausting.
“Come on,” I tell Seven. “Can’t be late for our date with the Stepford wife.”
Seven trails me as I walk the path straight to the front door of the mansion. A doormat lies there, something written in Russian on it. Might say ‘fuck off’ but it probably says ‘welcome’, since he’s in the business of pretending to be accommodating.
I try the knob out of habit. It’s locked up tight. The peephole, I can tell it’s a camera, which tells me the whole place is probably wired. A chime echoes through the house when I press the doorbell, loud enough that I can hear it, and it takes damn near a minute for whoever’s answering to undo all of the locks on the door and disarm an alarm system.
That’s a hell of a lot of security.
The door opens.
Brother Bear is standing there. Markel.
He’s squinting, his right eyelid swollen, the eye horribly bloodshot. Laughter bursts out of me, making him grow rigid.
“Condolences on the eye,” I say, pointing at his face. “You’re just a step away from being me, buddy. You ought to be more careful.”
“You think this is funny?” he growls, coming at me when a voice shouts out from inside the house.
“Markel! Where are your manners?”
“My manners?” Markel asks, stepping back, out of the way, as Aristov approaches the door.
“Yes,” Aristov says. “Mister Scar is our guest.”
“He laughed at me!”
“I laughed at your eye,” I correct him. “I don’t really find you funny, Baloo.”
He looks as if he wants to attack me, but Aristov grabs his shoulder, pulling him away from the door. “Now is not the time, Markel.”
Markel grumbles to himself, storming off.
“You will have to excuse my brother,” Aristov says. “He is usually our voice of reason, but he is a little upset tonight. A certain little pussycat clawed him when he tried to bring her home.”
Seven clears his throat behind me, saying, “Morgan.”
“Morgan,” Aristov repeats with a dry laugh. “Such a plain name for someone so… colorful.”
The way he words that makes my muscles twitch. It was deliberate, without a doubt.
“Anyway, join me,” Aristov says, moving aside, motioning into the house.
I step past him, right inside.
I know what you’re thinking. Idiot, right? Walking into another lion’s den, like it’s nothing. But something you ought to know is this isn’t the first time I’ve done it. A lion is more comfortable in his home, surrounded by his pride, and when he gets comfortable, his guard goes down. He’s confident, which becomes cocky, because he thinks he can’t be touched, and cocky turns into careless, which works to my advantage.
Besides, what’s the worst that can happen?
He shoots me, BANG, dead?
I’ll just come back and haunt the son of a bitch.
Seven follows me inside, and I see him visibly tense when Aristov shuts the door, taking the time to secure all the locks and rearm the alarm system.
“Join me in the den,” Aristov says, glancing at me. “We can speak privately there.”
I follow him with Seven on my heels the entire way.
As soon as we step inside, Aristov’s gaze flickers to Seven. “I will not harm your boss. Promise. So you can relax, help yourself to a drink in the kitchen, make yourself at home.”
“I’ll pass,” Seven says, a hard edge to his voice.
Aristov smiles. “Suit yourself, Mister Pratt.”